Page 34 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
Wren’s door opens a few inches. She does not speak. Neither do I. She stands there for two breaths and then steps into the room and crosses to the other chair. She sits with her feet curled under her and her eyes on the window.
“I will not sleep either,” she says.
“I did not ask you to,” I say.
We sit like that until the lamp hum becomes a sound I do not hear, until the lines of the table and the stove and the window settle into their places and stay there. Outside, the forest holds. The mountain waits. Somewhere out there, a man with a phone looks at a number that means he could buy a car outright if he put a bullet in the right place. He weighs his odds. He thinksabout the cold. He thinks about the dark. He thinks about the fact that the last man who tried to collect is on a helicopter with his wrists tied and a blanket he does not deserve.
Good. Let him think.
Because if there is a contract on her life, then what we have done so far is nothing but the opening move, and every move after this gets more expensive. Let them come and spend it. Let them make noise and leave footprints and show me what they value when their plan starts to loosen around the edges.
If they step into my clearing again, they will find a different night than the one they left. They will find me awake. They will find her behind me, not because she needs hiding, but because that is where the sight line is cleanest. They will find that the mountain is not a thing you cross. It is a thing that decides whether to let you pass.
And if they push again, I will burn every inch of ground they stand on, every path they try to walk, before I ever let them take her from me.
13
WREN
The chair creaks when I move, my spine crackling in tandem. I roll my shoulder against a knot of tension that’s been lodged there since sundown, a nervous tic I haven’t indulged in years. Nate doesn’t glance over. He has not stirred in half an hour, but I know better than to mistake stillness for rest. Every inch of him is tuned like a bowstring, waiting for the right moment to snap forward. He’s watching the window, eyes narrowed like the trees might try something.
The soft glow of the lamp turns his profile into a living charcoal etching, all hard angles and lean shadows, the suggestion of quiet menace etched into every line. His stillness hums with restrained power, and it hits me how easily that calm could become violence if the need arose.
I sip the last of my now-lukewarm coffee, the bitterness clinging to my tongue. My fingers tighten around the ceramic before I set the mug down with a hard thunk, the sound harsher than it needs to be. The movement jerks my elbow, sending a jolt up my arm. I press my lips together, annoyed by the flare of tension I can't quite explain. It's not just the conversation or lack thereof. It's the weight of being watched, of being seen too clearly.
"You planning to sit there and burn holes through the glass until sunrise?" I ask in a slightly teasing tone of voice.
He doesn’t blink. "I might."
I blow out a breath and curl my legs tighter under me, making myself comfortable. "We both know this is a pressure cooker."
Nate finally turns his head, his voice low and steady. "Then stop pretending it’s not bothering you."
My jaw tightens, and I shift in my seat again, a tremor running from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck. The words land harder than they should, scraping over nerves that haven’t stopped buzzing since the ambush and all that followed. I swallow against the dryness in my throat, trying to decide whether to snap back or retreat behind silence.
I brace my elbow on the arm of the chair and rest my chin in my palm. My voice stays casual. "You always this good at after sex conversation and interrogation of prisoners, or is this a special blend just for me?"
He levels me with a look. "You think I care about being polite right now? You could have been killed. There's a bounty on your head. I don't know what made you head for me instead of trying to play Alaskan Amazon, but I thank God for it. Shit, Wren, what that guy, and trust me he's an amateur, told us changes all the rules."
"It doesn’t mean I surrender my choices."
His jaw tightens. "I’m not asking for surrender. I’m asking for truth and cooperation."
The air between us pulls taut. I could shatter it with a breath too deep. My spine locks straight, but it doesn’t stop the words that scrape up my throat.
“Mason didn’t die in silence. He screamed, ragged and desperate, a sound that tore through the night like shrapnel and lodged itself inside me, gut-wrenching and unforgettable. Thatsound has lived inside my head ever since, echoing in every still moment, a brutal reminder I could never outrun.” I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath. “You should know, you're the first person I ever told."
"Caleb..."
"Caleb is my big brother and if he knows I have night terrors, he'll be perched up in a tree watching over me every night."
The words hit like a body blow, harsh and bruising. Nate’s jaw flexes, eyes darkening with something deeper than sympathy, a flash of raw understanding that tightens his features. His shoulders curve inward, like he’s absorbing the blow for both of us, like the truth I just gave him roots somewhere he’s been bleeding too.
A beat passes before I register what I’ve just done—what I’ve just said. I’ve never spoken those words aloud, not to anyone. Never let the sound of Mason’s scream exist outside my skull. But now it’s out there between us, naked and trembling. And Nate doesn't look away. He absorbs it like it matters. Like I matter.
"The review board called it an act of God. The terrain, the storm, the timing. Nothing I could’ve done differently, they said. But his wife didn’t buy it."
Nate stays silent, but his gaze sharpens, fixed and unwavering. He doesn’t push, doesn’t prompt—he just holds the space between us like a vow, steady and unrelenting, giving me room to keep going without ever letting me forget he’s listening.
