Page 9 of Beast of Misty Mountain

That shouldn’t hit the way it does. There’s a war in my head of wanting her here and wanting her gone. But I knew she was in here, and still, I came in. I didn’t need to, but I’m like a moth to a flame.

Right. This is temporary.

But still—there’s something in her voice, in that half smile, that makes my chest go tight.

She refills her cup and glances over. “You want one?”

“Sure.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.

A minute later, we’re out on the porch, side by side, coffee in hand, sun on our faces. The heat’s not strong yet, but it’s enough to chase off the morning chill. A breeze rustles through the trees, carrying pine, soil, and the faintest trace of lavender from the open bathroom window.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s looking out at the trees, eyes soft, mouth relaxed. Her guard’s down. For the first time since she got here, I’m not braced for a smart remark or a jab. She’s natural and peaceful.

And so am I. “Look. About last night…”

“That asshole at the bar? I deal with that all the time. It’s part of the job.” She sighs, and I can see how weary she is. “No one likes it, but…part of the job.”

I turn toward her.

She doesn’t look at me. Just sips her coffee.

“How did you come to take the job for Hank?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Marilee looks at me and takes her time answering. “I had a bad breakup and needed a change of scenery. I heard about the job through a friend of a friend, and Hank gave me the job.” She lifts her mug. “This place seemed as good as any for somewhere to spend the summer.”

“It’s a good place,” I say.

She finally looks at me. “What about you?”

I lean back in my chair, running my thumb around the rim of my mug.

“I came here after I got out. Army discharge. Medical.”

She glances at my arms. I don’t flinch, but I feel the shift.

“I was a Ranger,” I say. “My team caught in an IED blast overseas. Vehicle ambush. We lost two guys in my unit. A third barely made it. I got off lucky.”

Her brows knit together. “That’s what this is?” she asks, nodding toward the tattoos covering my right arm.

“Covers the scarring.” I flex my hand, watching the movement of tendons and ink. “Mostly cosmetic now. But for a while...it was all I could see. I have scars on my back, too.”

And somehow, it’s easier to talk about this with her than anyone else.

I don’t generally talk about the guys who didn’t make it. Not to anyone. But I remember them every damn day. In the crack of an axe, in the silence between words, in the smell of diesel and desert permanently etched on my skin.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, and her simple statement genuine. Most people I’ve talked to about my scars, they get uncomfortable or throw worthless platitudes at me. Not Marilee—she sits with me and listens.

“Me, too.”

She sets her coffee down beside her and leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How you can start over somewhere and still carry everything with you.”

I nod. “Doesn’t matter how quiet the place is. You still hear the echo.”

She glances over, and something in her softens. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

She grins. “More grunting. Fewer full sentences. Someone in town told me that you’re Beast—and I’ve heard stories about the man they call Beast. Aside from that first night, you don’t seem like the reputation you have.”

---