Page 20 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

WREN

T he chair creaks when I move, my spine crackling in tandem.

I roll my shoulder against a knot of tension that’s been lodged there since sundown, a nervous tic I haven’t indulged in years.

Nate doesn’t glance over. He has not stirred in half an hour, but I know better than to mistake stillness for rest. Every inch of him is tuned like a bowstring, waiting for the right moment to snap forward.

He’s watching the window, eyes narrowed like the trees might try something.

The soft glow of the lamp turns his profile into a living charcoal etching, all hard angles and lean shadows, the suggestion of quiet menace etched into every line. His stillness hums with restrained power, and it hits me how easily that calm could become violence if the need arose.

I sip the last of my now-lukewarm coffee, the bitterness clinging to my tongue.

My fingers tighten around the ceramic before I set the mug down with a hard thunk, the sound harsher than it needs to be.

The movement jerks my elbow, sending a jolt up my arm.

I press my lips together, annoyed by the flare of tension I can't quite explain.

It's not just the conversation or lack thereof.

It's the weight of being watched, of being seen too clearly.

"You planning to sit there and burn holes through the glass until sunrise?" I ask in a slightly teasing tone of voice.

He doesn’t blink. "I might."

I blow out a breath and curl my legs tighter under me, making myself comfortable. "We both know this is a pressure cooker."

Nate finally turns his head, his voice low and steady. "Then stop pretending it’s not bothering you."

My jaw tightens, and I shift in my seat again, a tremor running from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck.

The words land harder than they should, scraping over nerves that haven’t stopped buzzing since the ambush and all that followed.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat, trying to decide whether to snap back or retreat behind silence.

I brace my elbow on the arm of the chair and rest my chin in my palm. My voice stays casual. "You always this good at after sex conversation and interrogation of prisoners, or is this a special blend just for me?"

He levels me with a look. "You think I care about being polite right now?

You could have been killed. There's a bounty on your head.

I don't know what made you head for me instead of trying to play Alaskan Amazon, but I thank God for it.

Shit, Wren, what that guy, and trust me he's an amateur, told us changes all the rules. "

"It doesn’t mean I surrender my choices."

His jaw tightens. "I’m not asking for surrender. I’m asking for truth and cooperation."

The air between us pulls taut. I could shatter it with a breath too deep. My spine locks straight, but it doesn’t stop the words that scrape up my throat.

“Mason didn’t die in silence. He screamed, ragged and desperate, a sound that tore through the night like shrapnel and lodged itself inside me, gut-wrenching and unforgettable.

That sound has lived inside my head ever since, echoing in every still moment, a brutal reminder I could never outrun.

” I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“You should know, you're the first person I ever told. "

"Caleb..."

"Caleb is my big brother and if he knows I have night terrors, he'll be perched up in a tree watching over me every night."

The words hit like a body blow, harsh and bruising.

Nate’s jaw flexes, eyes darkening with something deeper than sympathy, a flash of raw understanding that tightens his features.

His shoulders curve inward, like he’s absorbing the blow for both of us, like the truth I just gave him roots somewhere he’s been bleeding too.

A beat passes before I register what I’ve just done—what I’ve just said.

I’ve never spoken those words aloud, not to anyone.

Never let the sound of Mason’s scream exist outside my skull.

But now it’s out there between us, naked and trembling.

And Nate doesn't look away. He absorbs it like it matters. Like I matter.

"The review board called it an act of God. The terrain, the storm, the timing. Nothing I could’ve done differently, they said. But his wife didn’t buy it."

Nate stays silent, but his gaze sharpens, fixed and unwavering. He doesn’t push, doesn’t prompt—he just holds the space between us like a vow, steady and unrelenting, giving me room to keep going without ever letting me forget he’s listening.

"It started with messages. Cold. Formal. Accusations. Then it took a hard turn for the worse. I was the one who lived. Her husband didn’t. That math didn’t sit right with her."

A brittle laugh escapes before I can stop it. "So, I did what people like us do when the walls get too close. I left and disappeared into the woods. Built a new cage out of trees and silence, convinced it would be safer to disappear than to stay and face the wreckage."

Nate reaches for me, but I brush his hand away, and continue.

"At first, it felt like freedom—no questions, no pity, no eyes watching me unravel.

But the quiet turned heavy, like the pressure before a storm, and some nights, it pressed against my chest until I forgot what breathing without guilt felt like. "

I meet his stare and find no judgment there. Just something quiet and unflinching, steady as stone and twice as grounding. The way he looks at me, like nothing I say could make him flinch, leaves a strange ache in my chest—equal parts comfort and confusion.

"You think that makes you weak?" he asks, his voice quieter than before, laced with something I don’t expect: gentleness.

The softness in his tone slips past my defenses like a warm hand pressed to cold skin.

I feel it too fast and too deep, my chest tightening as if it’s been caught off guard.

I glance away, pulse tapping at the base of my throat, unsure if I want to be comforted or left alone with my scars.

It lands wrong in my chest, like a note held too long in the wrong key.

My breath stutters before I can lock it down.

I glance away, pretending I didn’t feel that.

"No. It makes me a coward with decent survival instincts."

Nate leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. "I’ve watched men bleed out under my command. Good men. Better than me. I walked away more than once, but the guilt didn’t."

He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it messy in a way that tells me he’s been wrestling with the same thoughts for hours—restless, haunted, trying and failing to look composed.

“Sometimes I think about the last op I ran. If I’d called it five minutes earlier… maybe it would’ve ended differently.”

My throat tightens. “So what do you do with that?”

He shrugs, but it’s weighted. “I carry it, and I try not to drop it on the people I care about. The guilt never lightens, but I can choose where I set it down.”

Care. The word reverberates through me like a strike on glass—fragile, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

My pulse hammers. I can’t decide if I want to hold onto that word or run from it.

It’s been so long since I’ve let anyone get close enough to care.

Now it feels too much, too real, and it terrifies me.

I push to my feet, restless. My fingers skim the edge of the stove, grounding myself in the steady heat. Nate rises too, but he keeps his distance.

“You don’t rattle easily,” I say, meeting his eyes. “But letting someone else shoulder the weight with me? I don’t know that I could ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask.” His voice is low, steady. “I already did it, Wren. You just haven’t seen it yet.”

I look at him fully now. He’s not trying to seduce or soothe. He’s just there. Steady. That strange mountain stillness he carries, always so impenetrable, thinner tonight than usual—like frost on glass warmed by breath—just enough for me to glimpse the man beneath.

I step closer until I can smell the faint trace of coffee on his breath. My voice is quieter now. "You think I’m worth all this trouble?"

Nate moves with intent, slow and deliberate, until we’re nearly chest to chest. His fingers lift and brush a lock of hair from my cheek. "You’re not trouble. You’re the reason I remember what peace feels like."

His voice softens at the edges, almost reverent. My breath catches in my throat, the unexpected tenderness hitting me harder than it should. For a second, I forget to shield myself, forget to brace. Just feel.

An acute ache blooms in my chest, like my ribs are pulling inward.

I want to throw up a shield, spit something cutting that will push him back into familiar distance.

But the words catch behind my teeth. I let the silence stretch instead, let him see the places where the cracks run deepest, where I’m not okay, and maybe never was.

"We can’t afford to make mistakes," I whisper.

"Then let’s not. But we don’t need to lie to ourselves to survive either."

I nod once, unsteady and shaky. "Alright. You want the truth? Here it is. I am tired of being strong only in silence. I am tired of hiding in this mountain and convincing myself that surviving is the same thing as living. It is not. It never was."

His thumb traces along my jaw with a touch so steady it anchors me. Not possessive, not demanding, just present—like a vow written in skin.

"Then stop surviving alone. Step down from your private mountain and share your life with people who care about you, people who will not let the weight crush you because they are willing to carry it too."

There it is again—that word I haven’t let myself believe in for too long. Care. The word punches through my chest like a shot—unexpected, heavy, and impossible to ignore. It settles in my chest like a clenched fist, leaving me raw and breathless.

His voice carries no demand, just quiet certainty.

My chest tightens, breath snagging for a beat as something cracks loose inside me—something I've held together with grit and will for far too long. My eyes sting, but I don’t look away.

I let it settle between us, raw and exposed, and wait to see if it will break me open or hold me steady.

Something inside me gives—subtle, like thawing ice, but real. Not a collapse. Not a surrender. Just the quiet opening of a gate within the wall—a wall no longer standing quite so tall.

A gust of wind rattles the window, snapping us out of the stillness. I blink and take a half-step back. "We should probably run another check of the perimeter. If someone’s dumb enough to come again, I think we should greet them properly."

Nate nods, all business again. "Motion sensors first. Then we'll reset all the trip lines."

I reach for my coat and pull it on slowly, the canvas stiff and cool against my arms. The weight feels grounding, like slipping into something that still belongs to me.

Nate steps toward the door, flashlight in hand, but I can feel the heat of his gaze before I even turn.

I glance back, meeting his eyes with something that lands closer to trust than I expect.

"Nate."

He lifts his chin and looks at me quizzically.

"When this ends... if we make it through... I’m not running again."

His mouth stays still, but something changes in his eyes, focused and unflinching, like he's already decided the answer for both of us. The look carries weight, quiet certainty, and I feel it settle deep in my chest, anchoring me with a gravity I hadn’t realized I needed.

"Good. That saves me the trouble of hunting you down, throwing you over my shoulder, hog-tying you and dragging your stubbornly sexy ass back here where you belong."

I can't help the grin that tugs at my mouth as we step into the dark together, side by side, and I realize that for the first time in five years, I’m not bracing for the next avalanche alone.

The storm is not over. It crouches on the horizon, coiled and waiting, gathering itself tighter and meaner with every breath of wind, holding until the perfect moment to strike with teeth bared and no warning.