Page 12 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

ZEB

The door slams shut behind me, and for a split second, it echoes louder than the wind cutting through the pines. My shoulders tense. Every instinct roars to life, demanding space—distance between me and whatever threat might be close. Between me and her.

I push that thought down, focusing on the unnatural stillness settling over the landscape. The ridge is too quiet... too still... too unmarred by anything. There should be elk prints, broken underbrush, maybe a rabbit trail or two. But nothing. Something is off. Something is definitely off.

I pull on my gloves and move off the porch, crouching low.

I brush the snow-packed earth with my gloved fingers.

The cold bites through the leather and into my skin, grounding me.

There—just at the tree line, half obscured by windblown powder.

Boot prints. Smaller than mine, larger than hers.

Male most likely and fresh. The instant I see them, an ancient snarl rises inside me. Not fear—sharper. Hungrier.

A trespasser on my mountain—not just some lost hiker or hunter straying too close. No, this was intentional. A violation.

I can feel it like a splinter under my skin, aggravating something primal that refuses to settle. The need to act buzzes beneath my surface—tight, relentless, dangerous. Whoever left those tracks didn't just wander into my territory. He challenged me.

A shudder of rage rolls through me, and I go still. My fingers flex once, twice, before curling into fists so tight my knuckles crack. Not from fear—this is something deeper, darker. The leashed violence of a predator denied its kill.

My breath cuts sharp through my nose, and I force it to steady, pulse drumming in my ears like war drums. A muscle ticks in my jaw as my eyes sweep the tree line, the need to punish tightening like a noose around my spine.

My breath saws through clenched teeth as I sweep the woods again, every sense sharpened to a blade's edge.

I can already see it: how I'll flush him out like vermin, run him to ground, make him feel the weight of every wrong step.

I want him to hear the crunch of boots behind him and know too late he should have never set foot on this ridge.

I'll carve a message into the snow with his fear, one no one will mistake.

If he's here for her, if he even looked at her, I'll do worse.

I'll make sure he remembers the pain before he goes under.

No one touches what's mine and lives to regret it.

My pulse spikes with the cold, clinical clarity of a predator locking onto prey. Muscles tense like drawn wire, breath slows, and the world narrows to a single, lethal focus. Rage simmers in my blood, not wild but weaponized—razor-honed by years of killing from the shadows.

Someone has dared to stalk this ridge—my ridge. Someone has dared to come this close to what's mine.

The instinct to protect flares fast, but it's quickly drowned by something darker.

I don't just want to find whoever it is—I want him to realize his mistake and run.

I want to feel the weight of my rifle settle in my hands as he understands, too late, what kind of animal they've provoked.

Sniper calm bleeds into a deeper impulse—to dominate, to own, to erase.

The bastard didn't just stumble onto this ridge—he wanted to be seen. Left his tracks bold and deliberate, like a gauntlet thrown at my feet. Like a dare. Like he was counting on me finding them, knowing exactly what it would provoke.

I lean closer. The tracks are too light to belong to any of the old loggers or trappers still hanging around this part of the mountain. These are newer than the last snowfall, and they're headed straight toward the northern bluff.

Toward my cabin. Toward her.

A low, guttural sound slips from my chest before I can stop it—something between a growl and a vow. The predator inside doesn't just want to protect. It wants to show her. Wants to stake a claim so thoroughly that no other man will dare leave a print in this snow again.

My jaw tightens. A low growl rumbles in my throat before I silence it. The animal inside wants blood. Wants to hunt. I rise slowly, settling the rifle strap more securely over my shoulder.

Poachers, maybe. Or worse—calculated. Cartel scouts, checking for vulnerabilities.

A rival from a past job, back to settle a score.

Or maybe someone watching Caryn, tracking her movements long before she ended up in my cabin.

The idea sears through me, rage flaring hot and sharp.

If this is personal, if they laid eyes on her with intent, then I'll make sure the last thing they ever see is the muzzle flash before their world goes black. Doesn't matter.

He's invaded my territory, and every cell in my body howls with the need to claim what's mine—to remind her, and any bastard watching, exactly who she belongs to.

The thought hits me harder than the wind, slicing cold and clean through my skull.

I don't question it anymore. Not since last night.

Not since the moment I tasted her moan against my tongue, her surrender drawn out with every calculated flick and press.

It wasn't just hunger. It was a fucking claim.

And now, knowing someone else might be sniffing around what belongs to me?

Unacceptable.

I follow the tracks to the ravine, where the snow deepens and the pines crowd close like sentinels. No more prints. No sound but wind. Whoever it was, they knew to cover their trail. But they made one mistake:

Whoever it is, he came here to my territory.

I make it back to the cabin just before dusk, the temperature dropping fast. Smoke curls from the chimney.

Inside, I know she's still burning. Not from the fire—she's burning because of me.

Because of what I awakened in her. The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, and the memory of her breaking apart under my mouth plays like a visceral echo.

I branded her with pleasure, carved my claim into her flesh with every stroke of my tongue.

Now, she can't sleep, can't breathe, can't move without feeling me.

And that's exactly how I want her—haunted, trembling beneath the surface, coming undone in a way that leaves her raw and aching, as though her very nerve endings are being stripped bare by the memory of my mouth, my grip, my claim that makes her pulse thrum and breath catch.

The proof was in what I showed her, the way her breath stuttered and her body tensed like she'd seen a ghost from her own past. The look in her eyes said she recognized something—maybe not the full truth, but enough to keep her awake tonight.

I shed my gear and step inside. The smell hits me first—cedar, embers, and her.

She doesn't hear me at first. She's curled up in the armchair, legs tucked under her, wearing nothing but one of my flannels.

It dwarfs her frame, sleeves bunched around her fists, collar open just enough to tease the slope of her throat.

Her head turns. Her eyes meet mine. The silence stretches, tight and wired, my control held together by sheer force of will.

"Someone was here," I say.

Her brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"Footprints. Just north of the bluff. Covered by snow, but I tracked them as far as the ravine. They're gone now, but they were watching."

She pales, eyes flicking toward the window. "Who would even know I was up here?"

I don't answer. My jaw clenches instead, a muscle ticking as frustration coils tight in my gut.

Because I don't know—and the not knowing makes me feel unmoored, like the ground under my boots has turned to ice.

That kind of uncertainty is a weakness I can't afford.

Not with her safety at stake. Not with something hunting on my mountain.

I walk past her to the hearth, strip off my jacket and let the heat wash over my skin.

I feel her eyes on me. Tension crackles in the air, sharp as lightning before a storm.

It snakes between us, coiling like a live wire—dangerous, electric, alive.

I can feel the heat of her body from across the room, the shallow pull of her breath, the flicker of something primal in her gaze.

Every nerve hums with anticipation, a collision waiting to happen.

Her pupils dilate, chest rising with shallow breaths, as if she's bracing for impact.

Her knuckles whiten where they grip the chair's armrests, and her lips part like she's caught between denial and surrender.

Every breath she takes sounds like it's scraped from the bottom of her lungs, tight with anticipation or dread—maybe both.

Her spine stays rigid, but there's a slight tremble in her thighs, a visible war between the instinct to bolt and the craving to stay exactly where she is and see what comes next.

I can see it: her fists clenching tighter around the sleeves of my flannel, her thighs pressing together in a futile effort to disguise the pulse of need throbbing through her.

My gaze drops, dragging over the lines of her body like a caress, and when I meet her eyes again, the challenge is there—burning, breathless, defiant.

She wants to fight it, but her body has already betrayed her.

"Do you think it's someone connected to your past? Or mine?" she asks, her voice quiet, uncertain.

"Doesn't matter who it is. They're a problem. I don't tolerate problems; I eliminate them."

Her lips press into a line, but she doesn't challenge me. Smart girl.

I turn slowly, letting the silence thicken between us.

Her breath stutters—a short, sharp hitch I catch before I even see her face.

Then it hits me, subtle but unmistakable: the spike of adrenaline, laced with something darker, sweeter.

Arousal. It's tangled in her fear like barbed wire wrapped in silk.

She's trying to hide it, to sit still and unaffected, but her body is a traitor.

Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat.

Her knees press together, then spread again, caught between retreat and reckless invitation.

I inhale slowly, letting the scent settle inside me, igniting possession and primal hunger.

She doesn't speak, doesn't move, but I don't need her words.

Her body tells the truth—and it's screaming for mine.

"You're scared," I murmur.

She lifts her chin. "Of course I am. You brought me up here and told me no one would come looking until spring."

"That's not what you're afraid of."

She stiffens and snorts. "Don't flatter yourself."

I cross the room in three deliberate strides, each one a silent declaration of intent.

I stop just inches from her, close enough that the heat between us has nowhere to go but inward.

I lean down until our noses nearly touch, her breath tangling with mine, shallow and sharp.

Her eyes go wide, pupils blown, the flush of anticipation staining her cheeks.

My fingers lift slowly, knuckles grazing her skin before my hand cups her jaw.

My thumb slides along the delicate edge of her throat, not rough yet, but possessive. A silent warning. A promise.

"I felt it last night," I whisper, low and lethal. "How close you were to begging. How deep you sank."

Her lips part as if to deny me, to hurl some sharp retort—but nothing comes.

Her breath catches instead, trembling on the edge of sound, eyes locked on mine like prey caught between defiance and surrender.

That silence? It's not refusal. It's capitulation, raw and unspoken, burning with a heat she refuses to name.

"You don't need to lie, Caryn. Not to me. Not to yourself."

A shiver starts low in her belly and ripples outward, barely visible—but I see it.

The tremble in her thighs, the catch in her breath, the way her fingers curl tighter in the folds of my flannel like she's holding on to the last thread of control.

Not much. Just enough to let me know I've cracked her wide open.

My hand slides into her hair, fingers threading through the silky strands before fisting at the nape. Not yanking—just anchoring her to me with a grip that says she's not going anywhere. Possession hums in every knuckle.

My body surges forward, pressing into hers until the chair becomes her only refuge and her prison.

Her breath hitches, sharp and shaky, as my frame boxes her in, heat bleeding from my skin to hers.

She can't look away, can't even blink, and I don't let her—not when every part of me is screaming to show her exactly what it means to be claimed.

"Do you think anyone else will touch you like I did? Know you like I do?"

"You don't know me," she says, voice brittle.

I lower my head, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"I know what your moans sound like when you come with my tongue in you. I know how you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. I know your body wants what your pride won't let you say."

She shivers, the tremor rippling down her spine like a current she can't control.

My gaze locks on the delicate flutter at her throat, the rapid thrum of her pulse betraying everything her lips won't say.

It leaps beneath my fingers like a trapped bird, wild and wanting, and I swear I can feel its rhythm sync with the dark hunger rising in me, demanding more, daring me to push until she breaks again.

"You're demented," she whispers.

"No. I'm certain."

I draw back just enough to meet her gaze head-on.

Her pupils are blown wide, shimmering with unshed questions—fear tangled with need, resistance laced with longing.

Her breath catches, and in that fragile pause, I see it all: the war inside her, the flicker of submission she can't quite smother.

Her eyes, dark and shining, tear through me with their beautiful contradiction.

My voice drops to a graveled purr, thick with command and carnal promise. Each word vibrates with possessive heat, like smoke coiling over iron—seductive, lethal, impossible to escape.

"Next time, I'll make you beg."

I lift her from the chair in one fluid, claiming motion, the raw strength in my arms forcing a gasp from her lips as I toss her over my shoulder.

Her fists slam against my back, not in resistance, but in protest laced with arousal.

The impact is a staccato rhythm that does nothing to deter me, only deepens the growl rumbling in my chest. Her heat seeps into me, scorching through the thin barrier of my clothes as I stalk forward with her caged in my grip, every step a promise of what's coming next.

"Put me down!"

"Not until you understand what it means to be mine."