Page 10 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

WREN

T he power cuts with a gut-deep jolt—sudden and intense.

It doesn’t feel like weather. It feels like someone pulling a trigger.

The low hum of electricity dies, and the soft lights that warmed the cottage vanish like a snapped thread.

One moment, we’re soaked in the orange glow of firelight and utility bulbs.

The next, the only thing between us and the cold, disorienting dark is the dim light of the fire.

"Shit," I mutter, already reaching for my flashlight. The beam slices through the dark, narrow and weak against the void pressing in around us.

"Generator's in the shed," Nate says. "I'll see to it."

His voice is low, calm, but there’s a new edge to it—like he’s already cycling through options.

He grabs his rifle and coat. I’m already shoving my arms into mine, boots hitting the floor as I move to follow him.

The temperature inside begins to drop without the heat pumping, but it's nothing compared to the bitter cold outside.

I know this chill—dry, aggressive, the kind that bites under your skin if you let it.

The wind howls, feral and alive, ripping through the trees like it’s covering tracks, like the storm itself wants to erase whoever’s out here.

Snow slashes at us in blinding sheets, the icy sting harsh against every scrap of exposed skin.

I trudge behind Nate through the knee-deep drifts, each step a battle.

The flashlight beam dances across gnarled pine and wind-warped shadow, the storm turning the world into a blur of white fury and flickering shapes.

The shed crouches half-buried, crusted with ice and too exposed if anyone wants us trapped inside.

Nate wrestles the door open against the wind while I duck in beside him, the space is small, but big enough for the two of us.

The backup generator sits in the corner, cold and silent, but the Toyo heater is working away to keep the temperature tolerable.

He kneels beside it, checking connections while I hold the light steady.

Our breath fogs the air in twin plumes, curling between us in the dim, icy space.

I catch the rise and fall of his chest in the pulse of the flashlight, the taut lines of muscle under his coat, the way the confined air carries his heat.

There’s a faint trace of something on him—woodsmoke, maybe, and the scent of cold air clinging to fabric.

It’s grounding and intimate, and far too easy to breathe in.

The tension between us hums just beneath the surface, not quite spoken, but undeniable.

The shed is cramped, and every move jostles us closer.

Adrenaline thrums through my limbs, but it’s his nearness that really lights the fuse.

Cold leather, wind, woodsmoke—his scent is everywhere, filling the space until the shed feels more like him than walls.

Every brush of his shoulder charges the air like a live wire.

It’s like static charging the space between skin and impulse.

The tight quarters don’t just trap body heat—they trap tension, need, everything we’ve been trying not to acknowledge since this started.

I feel him at my side—not just physically, but in the way his presence starts to fill up all the space in my chest. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t register. But it does. Every single time.

“Shouldn’t take long,” he mutters, fingers working with practiced precision through the snarl of wires, making sure the generator’s exhaust will vent cleanly to the outside.

His brow pulls tight in concentration, jaw set hard, the dim beam carving shadows across the defined line of his cheek.

His voice is low, a quiet hum that threads through the shed like heat from a banked flame—curling into me, settling low and unsteady where I can’t shake it.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. My throat’s dry, and not just from the cold. My stomach flips, a tight clench of nerves and heat, and I swear I feel every inch of space between us like a current barely restrained, sparking just beneath the surface.

I move slightly, trying to relieve the pressure gathering low and intense.

It only heightens my awareness of his nearness, the way his breath moves the air and the rough whisper of fabric as he adjusts his grip.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. I move a little more, trying to ease the tension wound tight in my spine.

But I can feel him watching now. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark.

He looks up, and the moment catches like a snare—his gaze locking onto mine with an unreadable intensity that steals the breath from my throat. Time hiccups. Everything else—the storm, the cold—fades to static as heat and hesitation war in the narrow space between us.

"You okay?" he asks.

It’s a simple question. But everything in it lands wrong. Or maybe too right.

"Yeah," I say, but it’s too quick. Too tight.

His eyes narrow, keen and unreadable in the dim light. "Don’t feed me lies, Wren." His tone cuts low, the kind that leaves no room for evasion, and suddenly the air between us feels charged, like a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap.

Something breaks loose in my chest. A sound, a laugh, a breath—I’m not sure what it is.

Maybe it’s just the pressure valve cracking.

Maybe it’s the way his voice drops lower when he uses my name like that.

Or maybe it’s the storm, the dark, the cold, and the fact that he’s too close and not close enough.

"I’m not the one who left half a map unmarked just so we could brush shoulders," I say, quieter now.

His mouth curves. Not a smirk; I don't know that Nate even knows how to smirk. Something darker. "You noticed."

"Of course I noticed," I say, my voice low, almost defiant.

My eyes lock with his, and for a breathless second, the air between us coils tighter.

The space feels smaller. Denser. Like we’re no longer just standing in a shed but something far more charged.

I don’t look away. I can’t. Not when every inch of me is still aware of him—of the heat coming off his body, the intensity in his stare, the raw hunger layered just beneath his steady control. He’s not just noticing. He’s choosing.

The generator kicks on with a rattle, followed by a low, steady hum. But the noise barely registers, swallowed by the thunder of blood in my ears and the tension coiled tight in my chest.

I don’t know who reaches for the other first—if it’s my hand fisting his collar or his fingers curling around my waist—but the space between us collapses like it’s been waiting to give way. One second, we’re staring; the next, we’re already falling.

The kiss slams into me—rough, unrelenting, edged with the same danger as the storm outside.

Hungry, claiming, too fierce to be anything but inevitable.

His mouth takes mine with a possessive heat that jolts through every nerve like a live current.

My breath shatters, chest pulled tight, as if the shock of him detonates behind my ribs.

His lips are cold from the wind but flare hot where they seal to mine, a wild contrast that sears deeper than skin.

I taste salt, wind, and something fiercely male—bittersweet and addictive—until sensation blurs everything else. It’s not just a kiss. It’s combustion.

The scent of cold leather and wind-clung fabric wraps around him earthy, masculine, and wild.

My fingers find the front of his coat without conscious thought, curling into the rough material like it's the only solid thing in the world. It isn’t slow.

It isn’t sweet. It’s brutal urgency—raw friction and heat, a detonation we’ve circled too long.

His mouth claims mine in a fierce, breath-stealing rush—cold from the storm, but the heat behind it is scorching.

I shift slightly, trying to relieve the pressure gathering low and fierce.

It only heightens my awareness of his nearness, the way his breath moves the air and the rough whisper of fabric as he adjusts his grip.

Hands fumble clumsily over damp layers, urgent and impatient.

He drags me into him, and my spine hits the shed wall with a thud that seems to shake something loose inside me.

His mouth is rough, consuming, demanding.

Each pass of his tongue feels like it’s claiming space I didn’t know I’d left undefended.

There’s no gradual climb, no prelude—just the explosive shatter of tension finally breaking.

His hands grip the fabric of my coat, yanking me flush against him until I feel every hard line of his body.

Heat floods my core as I arch, chasing friction, craving the overwhelming press of him.

Every point of contact sends a new jolt, raw and sparking.

It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious. It’s the inevitable detonation we’ve both been circling, reckless and all-consuming, and neither of us makes a move to stop it.

My hands slide over the hard planes of his chest, then grip his shoulders, pulling him in until there’s no space left to breathe. His thigh presses between mine, firm and insistent, and I ride the pressure with a shuddering moan, chasing that friction with a raw, needy roll of my hips.

The cold air bites at my back, but all I feel is heat—his body, his breath, his mouth as it drags down the column of my neck.

His tongue flicks across my skin, hot and wet against the chill, sending a lightning bolt of sensation straight through me.

I arch, gasping, fingers fisting in his coat like it’s the only thing holding me together.

"Tell me to stop," he growls.

I want to. But the words lodge in my throat, drowned out by the flood of heat and the thrum in my blood.