Page 12 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

NATE

T he satphone crackles the second we step back inside the cottage, the howl of wind fading behind me as I shoulder the door shut behind us.

Snow hisses off my jacket in soft plumes, the sudden warmth inside hitting my skin like a low-grade burn.

The air is quiet—predator quiet, the kind that coils in your gut a split second before impact.

The satphone spits static again and snaps me back.

I hear the barest wisp of hissing before it clears into Ranger Breckman’s clipped voice. "Barrett, you copy?"

I cross to the table, click the receiver. "Copy. Go ahead."

"Flyover picked up thermal anomalies ten miles out. Southeast ridge near Split Rock. Pattern’s consistent with human movement. Not wildlife."

A cold knot pulls tight in my gut, the kind that comes just before contact.

They're not just near, they’ve crossed the goddamn boundary.

Closer than protocol, closer than comfort.

I scan the room instinctively, already replotting defensive routes, exit plans, and fallback positions.

My pulse drops low and steady, the way it always does before a fight.

"You get a count?"

"Hard to tell in this storm. Minimum three. Possibly more."

Wren steps into the room behind me, having changed into a fresh thermal layer. Her eyes are keen despite the flush still high on her cheeks, a striking contrast that makes my breath catch. That heated color, blooming across her cheekbones, drags my attention even as I try to focus.

She’s a goddamn distraction—keen eyes, steady hands—and the memory of her mouth on mine makes the rest hit harder. The pulse of awareness radiates between us. That spark of heat twists through me again, not just desire but the restless ache of unfinished business.

I feel it land low in my gut—a hot, coiled weight that flares brighter the second I register her face. My breath hitches just enough to notice, a subtle stutter I try to bury beneath the task at hand.

A pull, not just desire, but something more tangled. I don't touch her, but damn if every part of me doesn't want to. It flashes through me again—her breath against my skin, the taste of her mouth, the way her body yielded and fought at once.

My fingers flex once, then curl into a fist—tight, controlled. A rough surge of instinct claws up my spine, raw and immediate, the need to reach for her barely kept in check. It’s not just reflex. It’s possession. Protection. Instinct as old as bone.

My muscles tense, bracing against the pull, but it lingers—low and dangerous., instinct tugging toward her, but I force them still. The space feels charged now, as if the air itself hasn’t forgotten what passed between us. Neither have I.

In the shed, she tried to pull back. I told her not to. Still, it lingers between us now, tangible as breath, wound tight like a wire under skin. I see it in the way her posture alters when our eyes catch, in the spark of something raw that fills the silence we don’t quite break.

Part of me wants to push, to close the space and drag it into the open, but another part, the part clenched tight in my chest, knows the fire between us isn’t done smoldering yet. Not even close. The air between us is heavier now. Not with regret, but with a new kind of weight. Real. Unavoidable.

"I appreciate the heads up," I say. "We’ll stay sharp. Check back in an hour?"

"Affirmative. Breckman out."

I lower the satphone, the final click still echoing faintly in the room.

When I turn, Wren’s already watching me, her eyes locked on mine, posture alert.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The way her gaze narrows, chin tilting almost imperceptibly, says she’s already read the situation clear as day. .. ten seconds ahead of me.

A pulse kicks hard behind my breastbone—steady, hot, and unrelenting.

Not fear. It's the charge behind her stare, the unspoken tension winding tighter with every second she doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t need to. The storm brewing in her expression says more than words ever could, demanding, fierce, impossible to ignore.

My skin tightens in response, the space between us humming like it’s seconds from combustion.

“They’re close,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t blink. “How close?”

"About ten miles out. Too close." I grab my sidearm, check the chamber, re-holster.

“That’s not that close on foot in a blizzard,” she points out blandly.

I eye her with annoyance. "Too close for my liking. We stick together. No exceptions."

She lifts her chin, arms folding with a deliberate snap that draws my gaze to the rigid line of her posture.

It’s not just defiance—it’s control. Her spine straightens, shoulders tightening like she’s preparing for a blow she won’t let land.

There’s heat behind the move, yes, but also a hard edge of restraint.

I feel it settle between us, an electric hum beneath the tension already simmering in the room.

Her eyes lock onto mine, glittering with a dare I feel in the tightening of my gut. The room contracts around her, her defiance as tangible as the heat still coiled low in my spine. It’s not just a challenge. It’s provocation—sharp, deliberate—and it slides under my skin like a blade.

"Do you think I was about to go take a walk and wave a flare around? Maybe sketch a target on my forehead while I was at it?"

"I think you’ve got a habit of disappearing when you decide you don’t need backup," I counter, keeping my tone even but letting my eyes hold hers.

Heat rises in her face. Whether it’s defiance, indignation, or something fiercer, I can’t tell, but she holds my gaze without flinching, her silence more telling than denial.

"You’re not wrong," she admits. "But if I wanted to run, I’d already be gone."

There’s a beat of silence where neither of us looks away, the air stretched taut between us. My breath slows, not because I’m calm, but because something about the way she holds my gaze makes everything else fade. Her pupils dilate just enough to notice, and I swear I feel heat crawl up my spine.

I don’t reach for her, but the urge thrums low and constant in my bloodstream, winding through me like a live current just under the skin.

The air grows dense with the unsaid. Every withheld truth, every jagged-edged feeling presses in close, saturating the space between us with tension neither of us is ready to name.

She’s close enough to feel in my bones, her presence threading through me like heat through metal. Not just memory, but need, aching and immediate as breath. And whatever this is between us, neither of us is ready to define it, but that doesn’t stop it from pulling tighter.

"You still think they’re after me specifically?" she asks, quieter now.

I pause. "I think you saw something you weren’t supposed to. And someone doesn’t want you alive to explain it."

She doesn’t flinch, but her jaw tightens, the muscle ticking once.

Wren doesn’t scare easily. She's steel under pressure, but she doesn’t dive into danger without purpose either.

Her silence isn't fear; it's calculation, and I can almost see the mental gears turning behind her eyes, parsing threats, outcomes, and next moves with the kind of focus that would’ve made her lethal on any op.

"Do we hold here, or move while we’ve still got the cover of snow?" she asks.

"No. Not yet. If they’re sweeping this area, moving right now makes us more visible. For the moment, we keep quiet, stay inside, watch the perimeter. If they close the gap, we bolt north."

She nods, slow and deliberate, but her eyes cut toward the window and stay there, cold and distant.

Her jaw tightens, unease flashing through her expression before it's buried beneath calculation. One hand rises to rest against the windowsill, fingertips just brushing the glass, as if she’s reading something in the storm’s quiet retreat.

Behind the stillness, I see it—her mind already several steps ahead, measuring distance, threat, and time.

She shifts her weight slightly, barely perceptible, but it sends another ripple of awareness through me.

She’s beautiful when she’s like this, fierce, alert, utterly focused.

And even now, part of me aches to touch her, to feel that tension snap between us like a live wire.

Her jaw locks tight, the muscle flexing once—an unconscious tell that she’s already strategizing.

Whatever thoughts are running through her head, they’re fast and focused, and I’d bet money she’s mapping routes and exit options without even realizing it.

Her mind’s already cycling through contingencies—routes, exits, worst-case projections. It’s the way she runs her hands down her thighs, slow and steady, grounding herself. The way she glances at her pack and back to me.

I angle a look at her, watching the tension still riding her shoulders, the way her fingers flex restlessly like they need something to do. "First, we lock it down—every window, every door. Then I get into dry clothes and we fix food that sticks."

Her eyes flick toward mine, wary and piercing.

"After that," I add, tone softening just enough to cut beneath her defenses, "you rest. Even steel needs a pause before the next hit."

The words hang between us, heavy with more than logistics—an offering of care wrapped in command. Her chin lifts a fraction, not in defiance this time, but in reluctant understanding.

"You ordering me to take a nap now?"

"You need sleep. You won’t be any good to either of us if you burn out."

"Spoken like a man who doesn’t have night terrors."

My jaw tightens, frustration pulsing beneath the surface. She’s right, and we both know it—but the truth doesn’t quiet the instinct to keep her safe. That need digs in deeper, heavy and unrelenting, refusing to ease just because the logic doesn't favor it.

"You take the front," I say, changing my focus. "I’ll double-check the back locks and window bars."

She moves past me, close enough to brush my arm, but neither of us acknowledges it. That tether between us—the one we crossed in the shed—is still there, still humming. But for now, we don’t touch it.

The perimeter check takes under fifteen minutes, but every step feels weighted.

I move with purpose, eyes keen, senses stretched to their limits.

The snow has eased to a steady drift, visibility better than before, but that only makes the silence more unnerving. No wind, no wildlife, just the creak of ice settling and the faint whisper of snow sliding from pine boughs.

Every window I pass reflects back a muted image of tension and unfinished questions.

I circle the cottage with methodical precision, checking the locks twice.

Not because I doubt them, but because a part of me needs the motion to contain the storm building inside.

By the time I step back in, boots heavy with slush and shoulders tight with anticipation, I’ve cataloged every weak point and reinforced it in my mind.

But even with the walls secure, the real threat feels closer than ever.

The storm’s easing, but the hush it leaves in its wake feels thick and unnatural. The air clings to my skin like a warning—cool, damp, and strangely still. In the quiet, even the soft creak of timber feels jarring, too loud against the weight of silence settling over the world like a held breath.

Distant branches creak under the weight of fresh snow, but even that sounds muted—too measured, too contained.

It isn’t peace. It’s the hush before something snaps.

The sky’s lighter, but the snowdrifts are deep and soft, ready to swallow noise and signs both.

Visibility improves, but so do the odds they’re watching back.

When I step back inside, Wren stands near the stove, holding out a steaming mug of coffee by the time I walk through the door. The faint scent of coffee and woodsmoke wraps around me as I take it from her hands, the warmth seeping into my chilled fingers like a quiet truce.

"Don’t get used to it," she says. "I just need your hands warm enough to shoot straight."

I take the cup, meet her eyes. "I can shoot just fine with cold hands."

"Yeah? Let’s not test that today."

I let the warmth bleed into my fingers, chasing away the last chill clinging to my skin.

The mug anchors me, solid and steady in my hands.

Across the room, her gaze lingers, intent and thoughtful, like she’s sifting through what’s left unsaid between us.

I feel the weight of it—her silence, her questions—just before I break it.

"That team from Denali SAR—we talked briefly about what happened. Do you still think about it?"

Wren nods once. "Yeah. I think about what happened. The people who didn’t come back," she says, watching me carefully.

"Zeke told me once that back when he was still in the Lower 48, he’d heard a story making the rounds in some of the SAR forums—a woman with Denali SAR, tough as hell, led their medic team, then vanished after a mission went sideways.

He didn’t know her name, just that the story stuck with him.

Said it made him curious enough to look into a job up here when the Glacier Hollow sheriff post opened years later. "

Her eyebrows lift. "Zeke told you that?"

I nod, the motion slow, deliberate. A weighted pause hangs between us, thick with memory and the things neither of us is quite ready to say. I set the mug down with a quiet clink, the sound oddly final in the hushed room.

"Yeah. I think about them." Her voice is low, rough—too raw to disguise. "I don’t just think about them—I carry them. The storm, the calls we answered, the ones we couldn’t save. They don’t fade.

They stay lodged under my ribs, steady as scar tissue.

Denali didn’t let go, and I guess in some ways, I never really left it behind.

" She doesn’t say anything for a long beat. "Anything else?"

"No, but I appreciate you sharing. For what it's worth I think the assessment of 'tough as hell' is pretty much spot on. If and when you want to talk, I'll be here to listen."

Another silence falls, heavier this time—thick with all the things neither of us says. The kind that clings to the wall, settle deep in the chest, and hum like unfinished business.

She turns and stokes the fire, her movements steady but quiet, as if tamping down something deeper than kindling.

The firelight casts shadows across her face, highlighting the tension she won’t name.

I watch her for a beat longer, then let it go.

For now. Some wounds stay buried until the next storm digs them out.