Page 15 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

ZEB

The knock isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Just three raps against the cabin door, deliberate and wrong.

I'm on my feet before the last one lands. Caryn freezes, blanket slipping from her shoulders as she turns toward me. Her eyes widen, instinct warning her the same thing mine already knows.

We don't get knocks up here. My pulse flattens.

No fear. Just the deep, clenched stillness that settles in the bones of a man who's lived too long with death stalking the borders of his every breath.

A twitch jumps in my right hand, the one that used to squeeze a trigger without hesitation. Every nerve goes quiet, waiting.

The storm hasn't lifted. Snow churns outside in blinding sheets. No one should be on this ridge but us.

Or the kind of man who thinks he can challenge me.

"Get behind the bathroom door and lock it," I say, my voice cold and flat. "Don't come out unless I say so."

She hesitates for a second too long.

"Now, Caryn."

The cold precision in my voice makes her pause, spine taut and breath shallow.

Then she moves, quietly and deliberately, disappearing behind the bathroom door without a word.

A moment later, the bolt clicks softly into place, slicing through the tension with the clean finality of a period at the end of a command. Good girl.

She listens better than most men I've commanded. In the field, obedience meant survival. It was fast, detached, and stripped of anything personal. Men followed my orders because their lives depended on it, because mine did too. No connection. No satisfaction. Just execution.

But Caryn... when she moves on my word, it's not fear nor blind obedience.

It's something else. And that feels different.

Potent. Dangerous. Like I've claimed something I didn't realize I needed.

Not that I should enjoy it, but something in me settles when she obeys.

Like the world's spinning in the right direction again.

I cross the room and lift the rifle from the rack beside the hearth. Not to use. Not yet. Just to remind whoever's on the other side that they knocked on the wrong goddamn door.

When I open the door, the wind knifes through the cabin, shrieking like a wounded animal.

Cold slices across my skin, sharp enough to sting, but it's not the chill that holds my focus.

My eyes lock on the two silhouettes standing just beyond the threshold, shapes cut from shadow and steel.

The storm claws at them, but they don't flinch.

It's not the weather that brought them here.

And it sure as hell isn't the weather that makes my spine go tight and my fingers itch for blood.

Two men. One stands with false ease, shoulders relaxed and stance spread like he owns the ground he's standing on.

The other lingers behind, deliberate in every careful step, eyes scanning the cabin like he's already mapping exits.

There's nothing casual about him. He's a predator watching another predator, and he knows it's not a bluff on either side.

They're military or they used to be. It's there in the scuffed boots laced with muscle memory, in the way their shoulders hold tension like armor, in the discipline baked into every step.

They don't just carry themselves like soldiers.

They embody it completely, the life etched into their posture and presence like a brand that never faded.

But only one of them I recognize, and that recognition lands like a bullet between my ribs.

My blood goes quiet. Just like it did in the Hindu Kush, the night everything turned.

Snow falling like ash, my rifle gone, Brenner's silhouette blotting out the stars above me.

That smirk. The betrayal in his eyes. It crashes into me now, cold and sharp, threading ice through my veins.

Last I saw him, he was standing over my half-frozen body.

"Zebulon Cross?" the first one asks.

I don't answer.

"We're looking for a missing journalist. Caryn Stevens. Went off-grid a few days ago. Word is she was headed toward Solace Ridge. Folks in Hollow Ridge said if anyone could help find her, it'd be you."

That lie rolls off his tongue with the ease of long practice, slick and deliberate. It's too smooth, too rehearsed, and I could kill him just for thinking I'd fall for it.

The other one doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

The second our eyes meet, the years fall away.

That jawline, the scar under his left eye, the deliberate stillness of a man who's waiting to kill or be killed—it's all burned into memory.

I know him. I remember the night he walked away while I bled into the snow.

I never expected to see that face again unless it was in the crosshairs of my scope.

He left me to die. And now he's here.

"Come inside," I say, stepping back. "Storm's not gonna let up. You'll freeze out here."

The talker smiles, teeth white against his wind-chapped skin. He thinks I'm stupid. Thinks I'm the beast the locals whisper about, not a man who once buried a team of insurgents in a ravine with a single round each.

He'll learn.

They step inside. I shut the door and bolt it.

The latch clicks into place like a trigger resetting.

The air changes. It feels denser now, charged with threat and anticipation.

The two men exchange a brief glance, subtle and cutting, the kind that speaks volumes in silence.

My spine stiffens. Every muscle tightens, poised for violence.

I register the way the talker's boots squeak slightly against the hardwood, how Brenner's eyes flick toward the corner where I keep my weapons.

They know they've stepped into a den—but they have no idea what kind of animal they just disturbed.

"Appreciate the hospitality," the talker says, brushing snow off his shoulders. "Name's Weber. My buddy here's quiet. Just here to watch my six."

"Sure he is," I say.

My voice hasn't changed. Cold. Measured.

I set the rifle down gently beside the fire. Show of good faith.

Weber glances around the cabin. Clocking exits, layout, potential weapons.

"Nice setup. Cozy. You live up here alone?"

"Better that way."

"That so?"

He steps closer, dropping the good-ole-boy routine in favor of something more calculated. His hand dips toward his jacket. A threat. A test.

He fails it.

I move. Weight rolls through my hips as I lean forward, controlled and lethal.

The knife slides from my belt with a metallic whisper, low and final.

The air between us snaps tight, like a tripwire about to sing.

My shoulders square, every movement precise.

Trained. Deadly. Weber's eyes don't even track fast enough to catch what's coming.

My elbow slams into Weber's throat and I pivot, grabbing his arm as he stumbles. I twist it behind him, turn him into a human shield.

Brenner draws his weapon. Too late. He can’t fire without hitting Weber.

"Drop it," I growl.

He hesitates.

"Do it."

Brenner lowers the weapon. Smart. Still breathing.

I strip the gun from his hand and toss it across the cabin. Then I slam Weber into the wall hard enough to crack one of the logs.

"Sit," I order. "Both of you. Hands where I can see them."

Weber coughs, his throat already bruising. Brenner obeys in silence.

I pace in front of them, blood ice-cold and steady. The Beast they came for? He's awake now. And he remembers.

"Didn't think you made it out," Brenner finally says.

"Clearly."

"That op wasn't personal, Cross. We were ordered to leave."

"You pointed your rifle at me. That felt pretty fucking personal."

He doesn't flinch. He's still got that dead-souled stare.

"Orders are orders," says Brenner with a shrug.

"And consequences are consequences."

Weber fidgets. "Look, man, we're not here to stir shit. We just want the girl."

"Why do you want her?"

"Because someone paid us to find her."

"Who?"

"We don't ask names."

I press the blade lightly to Weber's collarbone. Just enough to draw a line of red, a bead of warning. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't flinch. I watch the change behind his eyes as defiance curdles into calculation. Good. Pain makes men honest.

"Then I suggest you start asking better questions," I say, voice a low growl. "Because if I don't get answers, I'll start carving them out of your skin."

Brenner's gaze adjusts slightly, a quick glance to the side that gives him away. Tells me where the nerves are. That's where I'll dig next.

I crouch in front of him, the knife still in my hand.

"Let me explain how this works. You came into my home. Lied to my face. Tried to make me think this was about concern. I don't take kindly to that."

Weber gulps.

"Now. One of you tells me the truth. Or both of you stop breathing."

They both know I mean it.

Brenner speaks first. "She was hired to find you."

I go still.

"Didn't know it until we saw her name on the job file. Someone wants you found, Zeb. Real bad. Sent her in first. We were the follow-up."

Rage flashes behind my eyes, but I force it down.

"So she's the bait."

"No," Brenner says. "She doesn't know. That's not how she came in. She was chasing a myth. But someone used her."

That should've made it simple. Tactical. A loose end to cut and forget. But it doesn't feel simple now. Not when I've watched her sleep in my bed. Not when I've heard the breath hitch in her throat when I touch her. If she was a trap, she's mine now. And I don't let go of what belongs to me.

Someone sent her into the storm. They maneuvered her and targeted me with precision. They gave her my legend, made sure she followed the trail straight into my arms. They leaked the location with just enough truth to lure her in and let the rest unravel on instinct.

She walked right into my territory, not knowing she was bait. But she didn't stay that way. She became a pulse in my blood, a heat I can't strip out even in the coldest snow.

And if they used her to get to me, then they gave me a reason to torch the entire operation and watch it go up in flames. Starting with them. Fed her the story. Leaked the location.

And I walked straight into the snare. Opened the door and welcomed her inside. Let her settle too close, slip beneath my guard, warm the spaces no one had touched in years.

The way she looked curled in my bed, lashes heavy with sleep, lips parted like she'd dreamed of my hands.

The sound she made when I first pressed her down, caught between resistance and a need she hadn't named yet, still reverberates in the silence of these walls.

It lingers like a memory etched into the grain of the floorboards, undeniable and permanent.

She doesn't even know what she gave me. And I'll never give it back.

"You're going to write down everything you know.

Names. Files. Drop sites. Then you're going to stay real quiet until I decide what happens next.

Unless you think I should've slit your throat already.

Keep in mind I didn't. That should tell you something.

I want you awake. I want you to feel every second.

I want you to understand exactly what line you crossed when they dragged her into this.

Fear teaches better than death ever could, and I intend for both of you to learn before I decide how deep this lesson goes. "

Weber opens his mouth. I slam the hilt of my knife against his jaw. He falls back, momentarily stunned with a dribble of blood leaking from his mouth. Brenner watches without moving.

"Still a good shot?" I ask.

He nods once.

"Still got your gear?"

"Outside."

I stare at him for a beat too long, weighing the risk. Letting him anywhere near weapons again should feel like returning venom to a serpent, but I want him squirming. I want him useful. And I want him knowing exactly who's pulling his strings now.

"One wrong move," I say, voice low. "And I'll finish what I should have in the Kush. You're going to help me find out who sent you and everything else I need to know. Or you'll never make it off this mountain."

Weber lunges, wild desperation in his eyes. I twist, drive the knife home, feel him crumple. I drag his body outside and let the snowdrift swallow it.

I bind Brenner's hands and drag him to the woodshed. The Toyo stove hums with heat—he won't freeze. I wrap Weber's body in tarps and pack it in snow. When spring comes, someone else can deal with the mess.

I step back into the storm. Cold slices through me, but my blood runs colder. They thought they could hunt me. They were wrong.