Page 4 of Mountain Storm (Mountain Shadows #1)

ZEB

The storm moves fast up here. Too fast for someone who doesn't belong... someone like her.

She doesn't belong.

The mountain knows it. I know it. Hell, even she probably knows it somewhere beneath all that stubborn bravado and overpriced gear.

This place doesn't forgive mistakes. Doesn't tolerate weakness.

And it sure as hell doesn't welcome outsiders with curious eyes and journalist pens.

She's a spark in a powder keg. One misstep and the whole thing goes up.

Her presence stirs what I thought I'd silenced. The ache. The hunger I promised I'd buried. She's not just out of place—she's a provocation. A reminder that even the mountain can't drown out everything I am.

Not just because she's soft or unprepared. But because she represents everything I left behind in the world. A world I've buried. A world that would destroy this place if it could. People like her ask questions. Questions turn into stories. Stories bring attention. And attention gets people killed.

I see her before she sees the drop-off. Rookie mistake. Her posture is all bravado, but her center of gravity is wrong. She leans into the slope like she's in control, like the mountain gives a damn. It doesn't.

Neither do I... and yet, I watch.

Through the scope, I track her descent—her snowmobile fighting the grade, engine whining louder than the wind, straining under the weight of poor judgment.

The machine bucks against a patch of ice, fishtailing.

The woman on board is wearing one of those bright rental helmets with a scratched visor and fraying straps—cheap protection in a place that offers none.

And still she pushes forward, as if she believes she'll make it out the other side untouched. It's surreal seeing her here.

Real. Moving. Vulnerable.

Part of me thought she might be a ghost—that memory of her in the snow, eyes wide and lips blue, warped by time and isolation into something half-myth.

But no, she's flesh and bone, bold and reckless, barreling straight into the heart of the storm like it's hers to conquer, like the mountain won't swallow her whole just for the audacity of trying.

She has no idea she's stepped into mine—my terrain, my rules, my darkness.

Out here, I'm not bound by laws or civility.

The mountain answers to no one, and neither do I.

She thinks she's chasing a story, but she doesn't realize she's already part of mine—caught in the snare of a man who never truly let her go.

The old pull in my gut is sharp and immediate.

Not warmth. Not nostalgia. Darker—possession.

Hunger. Told myself I let her go once because it was the right thing to do.

But watching her now, foolish and beautiful and still drawn to danger like a moth to the flame—I'm not sure I did it for her. Think I did it to keep myself in check.

And now she's here. Again.

The part of me that's been dormant for too long stirs in my chest, stretching awake like a predator from hibernation. It paces inside me, restless and sharp, drawn to her recklessness like blood in the water.

She's not local. Not built for this. Thin. Confident. Familiar.

The last time I saw her, she was wrapped in one of my old coats, which was too big for her shoulders, and snow had crusted in her lashes while blood had dried at the corner of her mouth.

She looked at me like I was a monster and a miracle all at once.

She didn't speak then, just stared, wide-eyed, lips blue and barely breathing.

Now, even bundled and helmeted, I'd know that posture anywhere. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The way she leans into the unknown like it owes her something.

And the scarf.

Red, fraying at the ends. She wore it the day I pulled her out of the ravine.

My jaw clenches.

That night haunts me in splinters: her lips blue and trembling. My coat engulfed her tiny frame. Her eyes blinked up at me like I wasn't a man, but a phantom clawed out of the snow. I still remember the way she smelled—crushed pine, copper, and something warm I couldn't place.

Caryn Stevens.

I knew she'd come back, eventually. I've seen the signs—quiet chatter down in Hollow Ridge, strange men asking about the old trailheads. Then her name slipped through at the gas station two days ago. Journalists always leave a scent. Paper and nerves. She left more than that.

I lower the scope and adjust my position on the ridge, boots biting into the crusted snow.

She's close to the ravine now. Too close.

I don't move. I just watch as the inevitable happens.

The front track hits a patch of windblown powder, and the sled skids sideways, momentum ripping her off the seat and sending her tumbling.

A flash of limbs. Then silence.

The mountain has a way of ending curiosity.

It doesn't just demand respect—it punishes the lack of it.

Every tree, every ledge, every drifting mound of snow is a trap for the unwary, a test for the bold.

I've seen what happens to those who come here thinking it's just scenery.

The mountain doesn't forgive. It consumes.

And right now, it's sizing her up, wondering if she's worth sparing—or if it should finish what it started years ago.

I should leave her.

Let the storm do what it does best. Let nature correct the mistake curiosity made. But I'm already moving, each step more betrayal than the last. I don't owe her anything. Except maybe the truth. Maybe it was the part of me she never knew she took.

I don't.

By the time I reach her, she's half-buried in the snow, lips tinged blue, hands stiff. She's breathing, but it's shallow, rattling like dry leaves. Her face is pale beneath the bruises blooming across her cheek.

She's smaller than I remember.

Or maybe I've just gotten used to being alone.

I strip off my glove and press two fingers to the pulse in her throat. Weak, but there. She mutters something—my name, maybe. Or just a ghost. I scoop her up and sling her over my shoulder, her limbs limp as thawing meat.

The cabin's a half-mile downhill. Not far. But in this storm, every step feels longer.

The place isn't much to look at from the outside—just logs and snowdrift, masked by time and overgrowth. But inside, it's something else. Too quiet. Too clean. No photos. No clutter. The kind of place built for disappearing.

She's barely conscious, but I can tell she notices things as her eyes flutter open. They flit to the knives above the doorframe. On the boots lined in a perfect row. On the bed in the corner. She struggles briefly, but then succumbs to the exhaustion and cold.

The wind howls through the trees as if it remembers her too.

Like it carries the echo of that first night—years ago, when I should've left her to fate and frostbite.

But I didn't. Couldn't. Something in me had already decided.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe obsession. Maybe the kind of madness that creeps in when you've been too long alone with your own darkness.

I told myself back then it was a one-time act.

Just a rescue. Just a woman in the snow.

But I watched the news for days after, waiting to hear her name, see her face, know she was all right.

I memorized every scrap of information I could find—interviews, rescue reports, even the blog post she wrote afterward, trying to make sense of what happened.

She never mentioned me. Not directly. But I was in every line between the lines.

And I couldn't stop reading them. Pull her out, disappear, let her forget.

But I kept the memory. And when I hear that wind now, it sounds like a warning I ignored and a vow I never made out loud.

I don't believe in fate. But I believe in patterns. And this one? This one's starting again.

She opens her mouth, then groans, a shiver racking her body as the cold tightens its grip.

I kneel beside her, breath fogging as I assess how bad it is. Skin pale. Fingernails bluish. Her clothes—soaked through, sticking to her like ice-laced cloth. I run a hand down her arm, testing the rigidity. She's not gone yet, but she's close. Too close.

My jaw tightens. This is the part I told myself I wouldn't do again. Not with her. But the mountain doesn't care about promises. It only cares about what you're willing to sacrifice to survive.

My fingers find the zipper of her coat. It sticks. Frozen. Of course it is. I peel off her gloves, then pull the scarf away—same one, still frayed. Still hers.

Every layer I remove exposes more of her heatless body. Damp fleece. Soggy cotton. The line of her throat, vulnerable and smooth, rising with shallow, fluttering breaths. I work mechanically, the soldier in me cataloging movements, cataloging threats. And still...

My hands aren't entirely steady.

It's not just duty anymore. It hasn't been since I saw her name. Since I recognized her through the scope.

The first time, she was too young. Too lost. I told myself I was protecting her. But now? She's a woman. And I'm no longer trying to be a good man.

I push past the instinct to stop—to look away—and remove the last damp layer from her thighs, exposing her fully to me.

Her skin is smooth and decorated with goosebumps, flushed with the edge of frostbite.

I wrap the heavy fur around her, tucking it close, my fingers grazing her skin, careful and slow, like it makes a difference.

But I'm not thinking about the cold anymore.

I'm thinking about the way she arches slightly into the warmth, her back curving as she seeks heat, practically begging for my touch.

About the way her lashes flutter when my hands brush the dip of her waist, fingers dancing over the curve of her hip.

Her body trusts me in this vulnerable moment, and though I tell myself it's for her safety, her survival.

But I know better.