Page 29 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
Nate hauls the man inside, sits him hard on a milk crate, and zip-ties his wrists and ankles to a bolted pipe against the back wall. The man grunts, slumping slightly. Nate double-checks the Toyo stove’s setting, nodding in grim satisfaction when the warmth brushes his skin.
"He won’t die out here," he says quietly, flicking a glance at me. "But he won’t like it either."
I don’t answer. I’m watching the man’s eyes—glassier now, his bravado melted down to exhaustion and something close to fear. Whatever story he thought he was part of, he knows now it’s changed.
We step back into the cold. I shut the door, flipping the external lock into place. Nate doesn’t speak until we’re nearly to the porch.
"It’s not just a timeout," he mutters. "It’s a message."
I nod, throat tight. "Let’s hope he hears it before we have to get louder."
We step inside and I lean my rifle against the wall, the metal cool against my fingers. My shoulders ache from the tension I’ve been holding for hours, and I roll them back with a harsh exhale. My hands flex at my sides, restless and tight, still echoing the bite of the night. I should be coming down from the high, but every nerve feels like it’s still waiting for the next hit.
"Did he say anything?"
"No," I answer with a nod of my head. "Do you think he will?"
"Eventually."
His voice is low, but there’s a heat under it, something that curls into my chest and sets my breath just a little off-rhythm. It’s not just what he says—it’s how it lands, like the brush of a match along the edge of something flammable. His control doesn’t make him cold—it makes him dangerous. And right now, every cell in my body is humming with the memory of that danger pressed tight to my back in the woods, his weight, his strength, the heat of his breath as we moved as one.
Residual adrenaline lingers, vibrating subtly through my veins—not a scream for action, but a quiet insistence. It sharpens everything, heightens the edges of sensation, pools lowin my belly like a quiet ache, an electric readiness that hums with promise instead of panic.
"I’ll keep watch," I murmur, moving toward the back of the house.
"He's not going anywhere, and I set the perimeter alarms before I came in. If anyone tries to get to him or us, we'll have plenty of notice."
His voice cuts through the quiet, low and steady, wrapping around my spine like a hand closing slowly. I stop mid-step, heart giving a hard thump as I turn—uncertain whether to brace for confrontation or something far more dangerous. There’s dominance there, but layered under it, is a darker note. Possession. Heat. And buried deep beneath that, something unexpected. Something almost vulnerable, like the echo of restraint stretched thin.
It’s want, deep and low, like a steady current pulling me under. Not harsh or consuming, but persistent. Grounded. Real.
My breath hitches, tight and shallow, like my lungs are trying to brace for impact before it hits. A low hum vibrates at the base of my skull, warning and want braided together so tightly I can’t tell them apart.
He closes the distance between us in three measured steps. Doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Just watches, his gaze roaming like a man memorizing the shape of a choice he’s already made.
"That could’ve gone badly," he says. "But you held your ground. Held mine, too."
His voice is a rasp, something worn and true. My throat tightens, but I lift my chin.
"I am not fragile, Nate."
His mouth twists, not quite a smile, not amusement either. It is something rougher, a spark that feels closer to hunger than humor.
"No," he agrees at last. "You are not fragile."
Then he reaches. Not with his hands—not yet. But with the weight of focus that feels like a slow burning fuse. His gaze flicks to my mouth, lingers, then rises again to lock on mine. The air thickens, charged and unsteady, like a still current just before lightning strikes. The moment does not snap but stretches tighter, drawn to its limit. It hums not with fragility but with inevitability, each heartbeat winding the coil until release is the only possible outcome.
And when he finally touches me, it’s slow and deliberate—like a prayer said with his hands. Each brush of his skin over mine feels like a vow, unspoken but undeniable, as if he's learning the shape of my soul by tracing it across my body.
Fingertips graze my jaw, featherlight, barely more than a whisper against my skin. They trail slowly down the slope of my neck, each inch igniting a deeper ache. My pulse stutters, then races, a drumbeat echoing in the hollow beneath my ear. His thumb follows the edge of my collarbone with reverence, tracing it like a path he's memorizing—not just to touch, but to claim, to understand.
"You don’t have to prove anything to me," he says, voice low.
"I’m not trying to," I whisper.
His other hand slides around my waist, fingers splaying with quiet certainty, grounding me like a pulse point, daring me to test the tension between us. The warmth of his touch radiates through the thin fabric, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
We stay like that for a breath. Then another. The world condensing to skin and stillness, each second drawn tight with heat and anticipation. What lies between us isn’t sudden or savage—it’s mounting, patient, and inevitable. The kind of tension that doesn’t break, but surrenders.
