Page 65 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like he remembers how to be happy." She hands me a dish. "Don't break his heart, okay? He's been through enough."
"I won't."
"Good. Because I like you, and I'd hate to have to kick your ass."
I laugh. "Fair enough."
We eat pasta and garlic bread and drink wine. The townspeople are curious but respectful, asking questions about where he's been, offering support rather than prying. Caleb contributes little to the conversation, but his presence is steady and protective—making sure no one pushes too hard, that Chris has space to breathe.
I learn that Bryn came to Glacier Hollow searching for Chris, that she refused to give up even when everyone else did. That Caleb helped her search, and somewhere along the way they fell in love. That this town took her in when she had nowhere else to go.
When we finally leave, it's late and I'm exhausted. Chris drives us back to the cabin in Barrett's loaned truck, his hand on my knee the whole way.
Inside, the fire has burned down to embers. Chris adds wood, coaxes it back to life while I collapse on the couch we assembled earlier.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Exhausted." I pat the space beside me. "Come sit."
He does, pulling me against his side. We sit in comfortable silence, watching the fire, listening to wood pop and settle.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For reminding me I had a life worth fighting for."
I shift to look at him. "You did that yourself."
He kisses me then, and it's different from every kiss before. Not desperate like the cave, not grateful like the ranger station. This is promise. This is choice.
When we break apart, his eyes are dark with want. "Come to bed with me."
I stand, take his hand, lead him to the bedroom. The space is small, just enough room for the bed and a dresser, but the sheets smell like fabric softener and the pillows are new and soft.
We undress each other without urgency. My fingers work the buttons of his flannel shirt, revealing the taped ribs, the healing scars, the lean muscle beneath. His hands peel away my layers—sweater, thermal shirt, the sports bra underneath—until I'm bare to his gaze.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his palm sliding up my side.
"Damaged," I correct, touching the bandage on my shoulder.
"Survived." He kisses the wound through the gauze. "Just like me."
We finish undressing and fall onto the bed together. The sheets are cool against my heated skin. Chris's weight presses me into the mattress, solid and real and mine.
His mouth finds mine, kissing me thoroughly while his hands explore. Every touch is deliberate—fingers tracing the curve of my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens. When he lowers his head to taste what his hands mapped, I arch into him with a gasp.
"Chris." His name escapes on a moan.
He takes his time, his tongue working my flesh until I'm trembling beneath him. The scratch of his beard against my sensitive skin sends shivers through me. His teeth graze lightly, drawing a whimper from my throat.
His hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs. When his fingers find me slick and ready, he groans against my breast. "God, Sierra."
He strokes me with maddening slowness—circling, teasing, building pressure that coils tight in my belly. I rock against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more everything.
"Please."
