Page 8 of Daddy of the Mountain

A slip of paper caught my eye as I turned the page. Not paper, I realized. Thicker than that. A photograph, folded neatly in half and tucked between two entries.

I hesitated, swallowing hard. This felt different. More personal. But my hand moved on its own, pulling it free.

The fold came undone easily, the creases worn soft with time.

A young woman smiled up at me from the photo. She was beautiful—bright eyes, wild hair tumbling over her shoulders, her face glowing with something I couldn’t quite name. Joy,maybe. Or freedom. She stood against a backdrop of jagged peaks that looked eerily familiar.

But it wasn’t her that made my breath catch.

It was him.

Silas.

Younger, lighter somehow. Not just in years, but in the way he carried himself. His face was softer, his smile easy and open. Like the weight he wore now hadn’t yet settled onto his broad shoulders. He stood beside the woman, his arm slung around her waist, his expression practically radiating warmth.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. This wasn’t the man who barked orders at me by the fire or loomed silently over the stove. This was someone else entirely, someone who knew how to laugh, how to love.

Before I could fold it back into place, the cabin door rattled hard in its frame, the wind howling against the seams. My head snapped up, heart lurching to my throat.

Then it slammed open.

Silas filled the doorway like a storm himself, broad shoulders dusted with fresh snow and cold air curling around him. His eyes cut through the room, sharp and dark, locking on me instantly.

Panic shot through me.

"Shit," I hissed under my breath.

My fingers fumbled with the journal, clumsy and frantic, trying to shove the photo back where it belonged. My hands shook too much, and the journal flopped shut, the edges of the picture sticking out in betrayal.

"Silas," I stammered, his name thick in my throat. My legs instinctively tried to backpedal, but my injured ankle screamed in protest.

The next second hit like slow motion.

My foot slipped, sending a bolt of pain up my leg, and I went down hard. The journal tumbled out of my grasp, the photo fluttering free as I hit the floor with a yelp.

Silas was on me before I could even attempt to scramble up. One second, the journal and photo were splayed out like damning evidence on the floor in front of me; the next, his hands were under my arms, hauling me upright like I weighed nothing.

"I told you to stay put." His voice was low, rough, but not loud. He didn’t need volume to make me feel small.

I opened my mouth to explain, but his eyes pinned me in place. Dark, unyielding, and sharp enough to slice through whatever excuse I thought about offering. My stomach dropped. "I—"

"Save it." His tone left no room for argument as he lifted me off the ground in one smooth motion, his arms locking around me like steel.

"Wait!" I squirmed, heat rushing to my face. Being cradled like a child wasn’t doing my pride any favors. "I was just—"

"Just what?" His brow furrowed, his jaw tight. He glanced down at the journal lying on the floor, the photo sticking out like a scarlet letter. Something flickered in his eyes—something raw and closed-off—and then vanished as quickly as it came. "You went diggin’ where you shouldn’t."

I winced. "Okay, yeah, but I wasn’t—"

"Not a word," he growled, cutting me off again as he carried me back toward the bed. The muscles in his arms flexed under my weight, his strength so effortless it made me shiver.

"Silas, I’m fine. Put me down." I hated how breathless I sounded.

"Fine? You’re on the damn floor, clutchin’ your ankle like it’s hangin’ by a thread," he shot back, not even breaking stride.

"That’s dramatic. It’snothanging by a thread."

"Could’ve fooled me, hobblin’ around here like you got somethin’ to prove." He stopped short at the edge of the bed, his gaze hard and unreadable. "What part of ‘stay put’ don’t you understand?"

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