Page 22 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
"I think you’ve got a habit of disappearing when you decide you don’t need backup," I counter, keeping my tone even but letting my eyes hold hers.
Heat rises in her face. Whether it’s defiance, indignation, or something fiercer, I can’t tell, but she holds my gaze without flinching, her silence more telling than denial.
"You’re not wrong," she admits. "But if I wanted to run, I’d already be gone."
There’s a beat of silence where neither of us looks away, the air stretched taut between us. My breath slows, not because I’m calm, but because something about the way she holds my gaze makes everything else fade. Her pupils dilate just enough to notice, and I swear I feel heat crawl up my spine.
I don’t reach for her, but the urge thrums low and constant in my bloodstream, winding through me like a live current just under the skin. The air grows dense with the unsaid. Every withheld truth, every jagged-edged feeling presses in close, saturating the space between us with tension neither of us is ready to name.
She’s close enough to feel in my bones, her presence threading through me like heat through metal. Not just memory, but need, aching and immediate as breath. And whatever this isbetween us, neither of us is ready to define it, but that doesn’t stop it from pulling tighter.
"You still think they’re after me specifically?" she asks, quieter now.
I pause. "I think you saw something you weren’t supposed to. And someone doesn’t want you alive to explain it."
She doesn’t flinch, but her jaw tightens, the muscle ticking once. Wren doesn’t scare easily. She's steel under pressure, but she doesn’t dive into danger without purpose either. Her silence isn't fear; it's calculation, and I can almost see the mental gears turning behind her eyes, parsing threats, outcomes, and next moves with the kind of focus that would’ve made her lethal on any op.
"Do we hold here, or move while we’ve still got the cover of snow?" she asks.
"No. Not yet. If they’re sweeping this area, moving right now makes us more visible. For the moment, we keep quiet, stay inside, watch the perimeter. If they close the gap, we bolt north."
She nods, slow and deliberate, but her eyes cut toward the window and stay there, cold and distant. Her jaw tightens, unease flashing through her expression before it's buried beneath calculation. One hand rises to rest against the windowsill, fingertips just brushing the glass, as if she’s reading something in the storm’s quiet retreat. Behind the stillness, I see it—her mind already several steps ahead, measuring distance, threat, and time.
She shifts her weight slightly, barely perceptible, but it sends another ripple of awareness through me. She’s beautiful when she’s like this, fierce, alert, utterly focused. And even now, part of me aches to touch her, to feel that tension snap between us like a live wire. Her jaw locks tight, the muscle flexing once—an unconscious tell that she’s already strategizing. Whatever thoughts are running through her head, they’re fast and focused,and I’d bet money she’s mapping routes and exit options without even realizing it.
Her mind’s already cycling through contingencies—routes, exits, worst-case projections. It’s the way she runs her hands down her thighs, slow and steady, grounding herself. The way she glances at her pack and back to me.
I angle a look at her, watching the tension still riding her shoulders, the way her fingers flex restlessly like they need something to do. "First, we lock it down—every window, every door. Then I get into dry clothes and we fix food that sticks."
Her eyes flick toward mine, wary and piercing.
"After that," I add, tone softening just enough to cut beneath her defenses, "you rest. Even steel needs a pause before the next hit."
The words hang between us, heavy with more than logistics—an offering of care wrapped in command. Her chin lifts a fraction, not in defiance this time, but in reluctant understanding.
"You ordering me to take a nap now?"
"You need sleep. You won’t be any good to either of us if you burn out."
"Spoken like a man who doesn’t have night terrors."
My jaw tightens, frustration pulsing beneath the surface. She’s right, and we both know it—but the truth doesn’t quiet the instinct to keep her safe. That need digs in deeper, heavy and unrelenting, refusing to ease just because the logic doesn't favor it.
"You take the front," I say, changing my focus. "I’ll double-check the back locks and window bars."
She moves past me, close enough to brush my arm, but neither of us acknowledges it. That tether between us—the one we crossed in the shed—is still there, still humming. But for now, we don’t touch it.
The perimeter check takes under fifteen minutes, but every step feels weighted.
I move with purpose, eyes keen, senses stretched to their limits.
The snow has eased to a steady drift, visibility better than before, but that only makes the silence more unnerving. No wind, no wildlife, just the creak of ice settling and the faint whisper of snow sliding from pine boughs.
Every window I pass reflects back a muted image of tension and unfinished questions. I circle the cottage with methodical precision, checking the locks twice. Not because I doubt them, but because a part of me needs the motion to contain the storm building inside. By the time I step back in, boots heavy with slush and shoulders tight with anticipation, I’ve cataloged every weak point and reinforced it in my mind. But even with the walls secure, the real threat feels closer than ever.
The storm’s easing, but the hush it leaves in its wake feels thick and unnatural. The air clings to my skin like a warning—cool, damp, and strangely still. In the quiet, even the soft creak of timber feels jarring, too loud against the weight of silence settling over the world like a held breath.
Distant branches creak under the weight of fresh snow, but even that sounds muted—too measured, too contained. It isn’t peace. It’s the hush before something snaps. The sky’s lighter, but the snowdrifts are deep and soft, ready to swallow noise and signs both. Visibility improves, but so do the odds they’re watching back.
