Page 24 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
We clear the tree line on the far side without incident. My lungs burn, but not from exertion. It’s him—his steady breathing, the lethal calm that clings to him like another layer of gear.
I catch myself watching the way he holds himself, the way he feels like the only stable thing in a world that keeps slipping under my feet. And that stability? It terrifies me as much as it draws me in. The way his breath stays calm even after a sprint, the way his eyes never stop scanning. Laser focus, like he was made for moments like this. It should be reassuring. Instead, it ties my stomach into a tight, aching knot.
He slows as we reach a slope peppered with boulders and half-buried logs. "Take five. Stay low."
I crouch against a rock, unshouldering my pack. The surface is cold and rough beneath my palms, anchoring me with itsfamiliar bite. Damp earth presses through the knees of my pants, the scent of lichen and stone filling the air.
My fingers move by rote, checking the med kit, adjusting the straps, but every muscle stays taut—too aware of Nate’s presence and the silence pressing in around us. But my mind won’t stay still. Not with this kind of quiet. Not with the kind of man who sees too much.
"You keep twitching," he says without looking over. "Something you want to say?"
I force a laugh. "Not unless you want a full rundown of all the ways I hate open ground."
He gives me a look—flat, amused. "I already know that."
The wind shifts and brings a bite of cold harsher than before. I zip my jacket halfway, then stop.
I could tell him, and that’s the part that scares me—the fact that I even consider it. That some part of me, tired and bruised and craving something steadier than solitude, thinks maybe he could handle it. Maybe he could handleme.
The urge claws up, sudden and fierce, catching me off guard. My pulse stutters. The story presses against my throat—snow’s weight, Mason’s rope going slack, the messages colder than the avalanche. I picture Nate hearing it all, the way his jaw would set, how he’d carry it like one more weight he insists on bearing alone.
I almost want that. But wanting him is dangerous—because if I let myself want him, I might start needing him. And needing someone? That’s where it all starts to fall apart.
I stand, brushing snow from my knees. "We moving or nesting?"
His mouth quirks. "You call this nesting?"
"I’ve had worse."
He straightens, scans the treetops. "Yeah. I believe that."
We push forward. The ridge looms ahead, steep and scattered with shale. My boots press softly over the broken rock, each step sending a harsh bite of sound into the brittle quiet. I scan the slope automatically, but my focus splinters.
My breath quickens—not from exertion, but from something tighter, deeper. My heart skips, then thuds harder, as if trying to keep pace with a warning I haven’t fully registered yet. My lungs pull fast and shallow, the way they do when adrenaline spikes and there’s no clean target to aim at.
It’s not fear exactly. It’s him. And the way the air feels different now—charged, tense, like it’s carrying more than cold. Like it’s carrying him. The kind of awareness that knots in my gut, hot and wrong and real. I don't like the way it feels—like something's about to snap. Like I'm already bracing for the sound.
From the corner of my eye, Nate moves with fluid control. Efficient. Silent. His body reads the terrain with the ease of someone who’s lived too long in combat silence—every angle calculated, every shadow assessed. It should ground me. Instead, it sends another surge of tension up my spine, sudden and instinctive, like the forest itself is reacting to him.
He signals me down and gestures—two fingers, then a point. Movement. Upper right quadrant.
My heart kicks hard, a sudden, pounding jolt that echoes in my ribs like a warning shot. A whisper of motion at the edge of my vision sets off a cascade of instinct, tight breath, ears straining, the crunch of brittle snow magnified like a crack of gunfire in the stillness. The air thickens, cold and electric with the bite of frozen moss and anticipation. I flatten to the earth beside him. Nate moves fluidly, rifle up, scope locked in. Every line of him tense but composed.
I should be terrified. Instead, I’m watching the flex of his hands, the subtle tension in his forearms, the steady control ineach movement. The way his fingers adjust with confident ease, like he’s done this a thousand times, like the rifle is just an extension of his will.
My gaze betrays me, drawn to his hands on the rifle stock. Every movement is measured, steady, unhurried—as if nothing in this world could shake his control. That kind of composure shouldn’t belong out here, not with danger pressing in from every shadow. It makes him look carved from something older, steadier than flesh, and it leaves a shiver racing down my spine.
I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat, unsettled by the calm rolling off him in waves. It’s not normal—not when the air itself feels wound tight with threat. My breath catches low, chest refusing to rise all the way, caught between fear and something else I don’t want to name. Because beneath the unease, there’s heat twisting in my gut, fierce and intrusive, tugging at me in ways I can’t afford to notice.
I drag my focus away, eyes fixed uphill, but the imprint of him refuses to fade. It lingers at the edges of my vision, vivid as flame and just as distracting. My heart stumbles, an uneven beat thudding hard against my ribs. The silence presses in heavier, as if the forest itself knows I’m fraying at the edges. Compelling. Disquieting. And more dangerous than the threat I came here to face.
I squint uphill. Nothing obvious. Just a shadow moving ever so slightly. A trick of light... or not.
"You see it again?" I whisper.
"Not yet. Hold."
Time stretches. My pulse pounds behind my ears. And then—movement. Definitely not wind.
