Page 16 of Keeper of Talon Mountain
Mara walks them to the door, and I hear the low murmur of their conversation—Zeke warning her, probably, telling her to be careful. When she comes back to the kitchen, she finds me standing at the window, watching the empty road.
"They're really gone," she says quietly, coming to stand beside me.
I nod, studying my reflection in the glass. My knuckles are bruised and swollen, my ribs ache from movements I don't remember learning, and there's dried blood on my borrowed shirt from the cut on my cheek. But we're alive. Mara's alive. That's all that matters.
Behind me, I hear her moving around the kitchen, the familiar sounds of her making tea.
"They'll be back," I say without turning around.
"I know." Mara's voice is steady, but I can hear the exhaustion underneath. "Zeke knows too. He's putting together some kind of watch rotation with Nate, Caleb, and some of the others."
I finally turn to face her. She's leaning against the counter, holding two mugs of tea, and the sight of her—whole, unharmed, here—makes my chest tight. "You should have stayed inside."
"We've had this argument already." She crosses to me and holds out one of the mugs. "You lost."
"Mara...”
"No." She sets both mugs down on the windowsill and steps closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo and see the determination in her eyes. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to protect me and then tell me I can't do the same for you."
"It's different."
"Why? Because you're trained to fight and I'm not?" Her laugh is sharp. "Gabe, I watched you take down three armed men like it was nothing. You don't need my protection. But I'm going to give it anyway, because that's what people do for each other."
The words hit me harder than any punch I took today. People do for each other. Like it's simple. Like it's not the most complicated thing in the world.
"What if I'd failed?" The question comes out rougher than I intended. "What if they'd gotten past me and hurt you because I brought them here?"
"But they didn't." She reaches up and touches my face, her fingers gentle against the bandage Dr. Sage applied to my cheek. "You didn't fail. You protected me, and I'm grateful. But you're also hurt and exhausted, and you need to let someone take care of you for once."
Her touch is doing things to my ability to think clearly. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through your shirt." She tugs at the flannel, revealing the dark stain spreading across my side where I took an elbow to the ribs. "When were you going to mention this?"
"It's not that bad."
"Gabe." Her voice drops, becomes softer. "Please. Let me help."
I want to argue, to maintain some kind of distance, but the truth is I'm tired of being alone inside my own head. Tired of not knowing who I am or what I'm capable of beyond violence. When I look at Mara, I see something I can't name but desperately want—acceptance, maybe, or understanding. The certainty that whoever I was before doesn't matter as much as who I choose to be now.
"Okay," I say quietly.
She leads me to the bathroom, where the light is bright and unforgiving. I strip off the ruined flannel while she gets the first aid kit, trying not to look at myself in the mirror. The bruises are worse than I thought—purple and black spreading across my ribs where the attacker landed his hits.
"Sit," Mara instructs, pointing to the closed toilet lid.
I sit.
She works in silence at first, cleaning the scrapes and cuts with gentle efficiency. Her hands are warm against my skin, and I find myself hyper-aware of every point of contact. When she reaches the worst of it—a gash along my ribs that's still seeping blood—I hiss through my teeth.
"Sorry." Her fingers pause. "This needs stitches, but I can butterfly it closed for now. Dr. Sage can look at it tomorrow."
"Whatever you think is best."
She glances up at me, and something in her expression makes my breath catch. "What I think is best is for you to stop acting like you have to handle everything alone."
"I don't know how to be any other way." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Everything I know about myself comes from watching my body react to threats. I don't remember learning to fight, but I can recognize and take apart a tactical team. I don't remember my past, but apparently it's dangerous enough that professional killers want me dead."
"Or want you back." Mara applies the butterfly bandages with careful precision. "Those men today—they were trying to capture you, not kill you. There's a difference."
