Page 9 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
“You’re not leaving. Not until I say it’s safe,” he says in a tone that brooks no refusal.
The audacity of the man. Anger sparks behind my ribs but crashes against the memory of bark exploding at my shoulder and fizzles into something colder… a fear I refuse to name. “You can’t...”
“I can.” No raise in volume, no swagger. Just certainty. “Sit down, warm up, and let me keep the roof over us while the weather does its worst.”
“I’m not cold.” I hear the defensive bite and hate it.
“Your hands are shaking.” He doesn’t look at them; he looks at me. “Sit.”
I want to hurl something heavy at his head, if only to wipe that infuriating calm off his face. But instead, I snap my shoulders back, turn away from the door, and stalk deeper into the cottage. Every step is edged with defiance so I don’t have to see the quiet, possessive victory I know is glinting in his eyes.
The place is a study in control. Hooks by the door hold neatly looped rope, micro spikes, a trauma kit with shears that have been sharpened recently. The stove ticks and breathes, throwing steady heat. A row of labeled tins—coffee, black tea, chamomile, salt—stands on the shelf like soldiers at attention for a parade inspection.
A rifle lies disassembled on the table—every piece laid out like bones in a body, neat and unyielding. Blankets folded to regulation corners. Military precision married to mountain grit.
“Cozy,” I mutter, dragging bare fingers over the back of a leather chair. The hide is cool and smooth, the kind that will warm fast. “If you’re into prison chic.”
“Better than bleeding out in the snow.” His reply is clipped but amused. He moves into my periphery, a presence more than a silhouette. “Sit.”
“Bossy.” I drop into the chair anyway because the room tilts if I don’t. The cushion gives, and I try not to sigh with relief.
He steps into his kitchen and makes a mug of coffee. I'm surprised to see it's one of those fancy pod machines. He sets it on the table—aromatic, rich and dark. Steam curls against my face, absurdly ordinary in a night carved open by sniper sights. I wrap my hands around the pottery like I’m holding the throat of my temper.
“Always this controlling, or is it just me that brings out your inner tyrant?”
“Some would say the best, and some people like to take structure as insult. I think of it as providing a framework for safety and efficiency.” He leans a hip against the table, arms folded, watching me without blinking. “I don’t have time to figure out which you need tonight.”
“Try neither.” I drink. It’s strong enough to restart a dead heart. Good.
The storm presses harder. The cottage answers with a tired groan, like old bones settling. I catalog it automatically—the way the wind combs at the eaves, the way the stove hum deepens when the gusts hit right. The ritual calms me. Counting always has.
“Why do I feel like we’ve done this dance before?” I say, more to fill the quiet than anything else.
His eyebrow twitches. “We did during that op we had with the organ poachers, and then there was the incident at Denali.”
My stomach goes tight. “You read the report?”
“I read the reports,” he says. “And I passed through the Base Camp on a joint case the day you brought in a guide with frostbit fingertips and refused to let anyone rewarm him too fast.”
I stare. “We didn’t meet.”
“No.” He doesn’t give me an inch. “But I heard you argue with a med tech about dry heat versus water bath, and you were right. You were loud about it.”
“I was not loud.”
“You were not quiet,” he chuckles and then waits a beat. “You saved that guy's hand.”
The memory flashes quick and mean—ice-burned skin, the woman with the guy crying, the sting of being second-guessed when seconds mattered. “So you had a front-row seat to my greatest hits and didn’t bother to introduce yourself.”
“I had a job,” he says. “So did you.”
We look at each other across the table. There’s heat in it, but not the kind either of us will admit to. Not when there’s a shooter outside and a storm thickening.
“You think you know me, Barrett?” I say, because picking a fight is easier than admitting the way my shoulders lower when he stands between me and a door. “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t fit into your neat little case notes.”
“You’re right.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re far messier. And that makes you harder to keep alive.”
The words‘keep alive’sting—part insult, part balm. A piece of me bristles, another folds like it’s been starving to hear exactly that. I tip the mug, burn my tongue a little just to feel something I can name.
