Page 26 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
"We set the hook tonight," I murmur, low and sure. "If they’re pushing south, we force a reveal."
Wren doesn’t answer with words. Her eyes lock onto mine, flinty and unyielding, a current of unspoken defiance sparking behind her lashes. She gives a single, deliberate nod, and in that breathless beat, I feel the change, our silent agreement forged in tension and trust. Then we move, smooth and silent, two shadows slipping back into the wild.
Back at the cottage perimeter, we double-time it into position. No lights. No chatter. We sweep the outer edge of the ridge, circling low and staying inside the tree cover. I lead her to the stand of split rock that juts up like broken teeth. It’s the natural choke point I mapped earlier, one of two ways in and out without scaling sheer shale. Perfect for forcing a confrontation.
I pause behind cover and gesture her in beside me. She drops to a crouch, her movements smooth and purposeful as she adjusts her pack. The air is cold, laced with the faint scent of damp earth and the tang of cold iron—like blood on snow, or a blade left out in winter air. Every motion deliberate, the weight of what we're doing pressing against my shoulders like a second pack.
I won’t use her as bait. Not even to end this. We’ll make them think she’s exposed, but I’ll never risk her body to shield this operation. They want to play predator—fine. Let them chase a ghost, not the woman I can’t afford to lose.
We’re staging the scene to suggest she returned alone—worn down, unfocused, and an easy target. Just enough vulnerability to draw them in without risking the real thing.
In reality, she’s tucked behind a screen of mountain laurel, thermal blanket reflecting just enough heat to give them a false signal through cheap gear. The decoy’s a heat signature built to pass for her, right down to the worn fleece I grabbed off the arm of her chair. Its familiar weight feels uncomfortably personal, but it makes the illusion believable. Holding it now, there's a flicker of memory—her leaning into that chair, exhausted but upright, jaw set against something heavy she wasn’t ready to name.
The fleece still carries her faint warmth as if it’s baked into fabric, a trace of skin, soap, smoke, and something unmistakably her. I hesitate a fraction longer than I should, not because I doubt the tactic—I know the plan is solid—but because the weight of it twists something raw in my chest. It isn’t strategy tightening my grip. It’s the fact that holding this scrap of fabric feels like holding the ghost of her body, as if her presence lingers in the weave itself. Like the simple weight of the fabric carries more than strategy. Not just duty. Not just protection. Something older, heavier, impossible to walk away from.
I adjust my stance, crouching low as I spread the fleece across the far side of the bluff. The wind snaps cold against my cheeks, carrying grit that stings my eyes. My fingers work with practiced precision, movements drilled into me through years of missions, but touching what still holds her warmth drags something raw and protective to the surface.
Behind me, her voice threads through the silence. “You sure that’ll work?”
“Positive,” I answer, my tone clipped, steadier than I feel. My gaze tracks the slope, the ridge where visibility narrows. Acareless sniper might take the bait. That’s the point. But I won’t let it get that far.
She edges closer, boots scuffing against stone, and I catch her scent again, fainter now, clinging to the fleece instead of her body. It makes my chest ache in a way bullets never managed to do.
“You don’t like using me for this,” she says quietly, like she’s testing a suspicion.
I look at her then, with enough intensity enough to make her inhale. “I’m not using you. I’ll never use you.” My voice comes out rough, ground down by conviction. “This is about drawing fire away, not putting you in it.”
Her lips part, eyes searching mine. The air between us feels thinner, tighter, threaded with a charge I don’t want to name but can’t ignore. My hands flex against the fleece, gripping it harder than necessary, because the softness reminds me she’s not bait, she’s the reason I’m still breathing steady.
She folds her arms, chin lifting, but there’s a tremor in her voice. “Then why does it feel like you’re tying me to the outcome?”
“Because the only outcome that matters—the one line I refuse to let break—is you breathing, Wren. Every tactic, every ounce of patience, every trap I lay down comes back to that one truth.”
The words tear out before I can stop them, heavier than intended, but truer than I’ve admitted even to myself. Her breath catches, and her expression tells me she heard more than I meant to give.
For a second, the mountain and the dangers it holds fall away. It’s just her and me, the echo of her heat in my hands, the knowledge that losing her would gut me in ways a mission never could.
Then the wind turns, carrying a new current, silence honed into warning. I force my focus back to the ridge, scanning the rocks, every nerve ready. My body knows what’s at stake, even if I pretend otherwise.
Back in position, I slide in next to her. "Stay low. We wait."
"Your favorite thing," she mutters, but her eyes stay forward.
"Patience wins fights. Patience keeps you breathing when rushing would bleed you out."
"Patience also gets people killed when they mistake the silence for safety, when they sit too still and forget that waiting can be just as dangerous as moving."
I glance over, surprised by the grit in her voice. She’s not wrong.
It’s the most she’s said about her past since I met her. I file that tone, cold and cutting, like she’s not ready to touch what’s behind it. Fine. I’ll wait. But I’m learning the terrain, same as I do with any mission.
We go quiet again. The wind carries a faint scent that somehow feels harsh and wrong. It whispers through the branches with a dry, rattling sound that scrapes along the nerves. I ease my weight slightly, senses straining. Something about this current feels different, intentional, like it knows we’re here and wants to remind us who holds the upper hand.
Her profile catches in the low light, cheekbones defined, mouth set, eyes always scanning. The same damn instinct that makes me good at what I do is telling me something about her is different. She’s not just smart. She’s tuned. Like a frequency I didn’t know I’d been waiting to find.
We sit for thirty minutes. The cold presses in, harsh against skin, biting at every exposed inch. The silence stretches, thick and charged.
Then forty. Every minute that passes grinds slow and taut, nerves humming beneath the stillness like a tripwire waitingfor a footfall. The wait isn't passive, it’s wound with purpose, eyes scanning, ears tuned to every change in the wind, every unnatural pause in the forest's breath.
