Page 17 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty at all—it presses in, heavy and charged, thick with unasked questions and words hovering unsaid, like a storm held just beyond the horizon.
And when his gaze locks on me—dark eyes unyielding, jaw carved tight—it pins me harder than any threat outside these walls. The air thickens, as if predator and prey are circling each other without moving. And I can’t decide which of us is which. The pull coils low in my belly, dangerous as an exposed current, raw and lethal.
I don’t know which chills me more—the menace pressing in from the wilderness... or the way he makes me feel like the real danger is sitting across this room, staring straight through me.
6
NATE
The wind hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s turned predatory—knifing down the chimney like it’s hunting for a way in. The snow falls against the stone, metal and glass of the cottage in a muffled, smothering shroud, thick enough now that I can’t see the edge of the tree line from the front windows. Visibility has dropped to a wall of white. We’re socked in.
Fine by me. The storm builds the walls higher—no one crosses in this whiteout without leaving a trail. It forces them to wait—and gives us room to breathe, to plan, to regroup. And maybe, if I’m honest, it gives me more time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about the woman pacing my floors and invading my thoughts.
Wren is pacing again. Third lap since sunrise. Each one scrapes my nerves raw—not because of the noise, but because I know exactly what’s driving her. She tries to disguise the restlessness, but her body betrays her. The way her hands flex, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the half-glances at the door like it's whispering her name. Like if she could just get outside, get her boots in the snow, she might outrun the sense of beingtrapped. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself. And the worst part? I understand it and her all too well.
"You’re going to wear a groove in my floor," I say, but my eyes catch on the way her hips move, all tense rhythm and restless fire. I don't look up from the rifle I’m reassembling.
She carries the faint spice of cedar soap from my shower, layered over the sharper wild scent that’s hers alone. It hits harder than it should. It scrapes against the edge of my control, leaves me wondering what else she tastes like when she thinks no one’s watching.
"You’d probably mark it with tape and assign it a serial number."
I glance over. She flashes a grin, thin and frayed, more mask than mirth. Her eyes are shadowed, ringed with exhaustion, and her shoulders haven’t loosened an inch despite the warmth in the room. She’s upright, alert, vibrating with the kind of taut, barely-leashed tension that simmers just beneath the surface, refusing to dissipate with rest. She hasn’t let herself truly exhale since we found the arrow embedded in my door. And I don’t think she will until she’s sure there isn’t another one coming.
"Want to help with the comms?" I ask.
The room changes when she’s near, less like a bunker and more like a fuse waiting for the strike. The air hardens, tightens something in my chest, and I know she’s there before I even look.
It starts subtly: the low brush of her movement, the soft rustle of fabric as she leans closer. Heat rolls off her in a quiet wave, carrying the faint trace of fire’s warmth and the crisp bite of wind-dried cloth—clean, grounded, unmistakably hers.
That warmth bridges the space between us, a steady pulse that finds its way under my skin. It’s not just heat—it’s gravity, a pull I can’t shake, binding me to the moment and to her. Every nerve sharpens, awareness humming, coiled tight as if thesmallest spark could set it off. I tell myself to focus elsewhere, to keep the distance I need.
But I can’t. And worse—I don’t want to.
She tilts her head. "Thought you had a system."
"I do. You’re smart enough not to screw it up."
That gets me a little blink of surprise before she moves over to the table where the sat-link rig sits looped in a careful spiral next to a backup battery bank. I’ve been rationing transmissions—too much traffic draws ears I don’t want listening. Tomorrow’s window is narrow. If the storm breaks, I push a message. If it doesn’t, we sit blind.
Wren’s fingers move with practiced precision, her hands steady as she mirrors the method she’s seen me use. She’s been paying attention, and it shows—no wasted motion, no hesitation. I let her settle in beside me, watching the sure flex of her knuckles, the focused line of her mouth. It’s more than competence—it’s connection. My eyes track every move, not just because I want to be sure she’s getting it right, but because I like the way she moves in my space, like she belongs there.
"You always run solo on these assignments?" she asks after a beat.
"Usually."
"Because you don’t play well with others or because no one else keeps up?"
"Little of both."
She hums under her breath. "Figures."
The silence deepens, broken only by the occasional hiss of the fire and the eerie moan of wind curling through the eaves. The sound is too thin, too harsh, as if something were clawing for a way in. The kind of quiet that feels loaded, suspended, as if the walls themselves are bracing for what comes next.
"Why’d you leave Anchorage PD?" she asks, not looking up from the comm board.
I don’t answer right away. She doesn’t push, which I respect. I watch the way her brows pull together as she studies the antenna output, the way her mouth tugs to one side when she finds something off.
"Dead kid," I say finally. The memory flashes behind my eyes—red sirens, wet pavement, the hollow silence that follows a scream too late. I still hear the echo when it’s quiet like this, still feel the weight of the badge I handed in.
