Page 11 of Branded Mountain Man
"Don't I? You're so busy playing the tragic hero that you can't see how insulting this is."
"Insulting?"
"To Marcus. To his memory. To me." Sloan's eyes were blazing now, all professional composure forgotten. "You think Marcus would want this? Want you hiding up here, punishing yourself for the rest of your life?"
"He's dead. What he wants doesn't matter."
"It's the only thing that matters." She moved closer, and despite himself, Colt found his hand moving instinctively tocover the brand beneath his shirt. "You're using his death as an excuse to avoid living. You're dishonoring everything he died for."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Colt felt something crack open in his chest, three years of carefully controlled grief threatening to spill out.
"He died for nothing," he said quietly.
"He died for you. And you're throwing that gift away."
"It wasn't a gift."
"Then what was it?"
Colt stared at her, this woman who'd walked into his carefully constructed exile and torn it apart in two days. Who'd touched his scars like they were beautiful and called him on his bullshit when no one else would.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"Then maybe it's time to figure it out."
The storm outside intensified, shaking the tower and sending sheets of rain against the windows. But inside, something had shifted between them. The careful distance Sloan had been maintaining was gone, replaced by something rawer, more honest.
More dangerous.
"Why do you care?" Colt asked quietly. "You don't know me."
"I know enough." She reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and placed her hand flat against his chest where the brand lay hidden beneath his shirt. "I know you're a good man who's been hurt. I know you've been carrying guilt that isn't yours to carry. And I know that whatever happened to Marcus, it wasn't your fault."
"You don't understand?—"
"Then help me understand."
The simple request broke something loose inside him. Without fully realizing what he was doing, Colt found himselfpulling off his shirt, exposing the twisted mass of scar tissue that covered his left side.
In the firelight, the brand was clearly visible—a deliberate pattern burned deep into his flesh, then torn through by the fire that had nearly killed him. It was ugly, brutal, a map of his failures carved into his skin.
But when Sloan looked at it, there was no revulsion in her eyes. No pity. Just a deep, quiet acceptance that made his chest tight with something he couldn't name.
"It's not ugly," she said softly, her fingers tracing the raised edges of the scarring. "It's survival."
And for the first time in three years, Colt began to believe that might be true.
The radio crackled to life, Nash's familiar voice cutting through the static. "Tower Four, you copy?"
Colt moved to the radio, jaw tight. "Copy."
"Weather clearing your way? Heard that system was a beast."
"We're fine." Colt's response was clipped, professional.
"We?"
A pause. Colt glanced at Sloan, who was pretending not to listen. "Assessment's still in progress."
