Page 22 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

The heat of her body presses close, her breath shallow, and when her hand brushes my skin again, something inside me jolts—not from pain, but from the way her fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary.

It's not just triage. It’s something charged.

Something dangerous. She’s in medic mode now—professional, precise, but I see the tension in her jaw.

Her anger isn’t just adrenaline. It is fear wound tight like a spring, a live current sparking beneath every clipped movement. Her jaw is locked, her breath harsh, and I can feel the cost of her caring in the force of her hands.

"I'm okay, Wren... or I will be."

"It’s clean," she says finally. "But you’re not lifting anything heavy until I say so."

"Bossy."

She levels me with a look that could cut glass. "And don't you forget it."

We secure the prisoners and haul them back to the cottage, picking up the fifth along the way.

With all five accounted for, we bind their wrists with makeshift zip cuffs, layering nylon and plastic until none of them can move without pain, and then I call Zeke to arrange pickup.

Dawn is still a few hours off, so we lock them in the tool shed, adjusting the Toyo stove so they won’t get frostbite.

The chopper will take about an hour to get here.

Until then, we sit tight and stay alert.

Back inside the cottage, Wren presses a new bandage to my arm and tapes it down.

Her hands linger a second longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against my skin with a subtle hesitation that makes my breath catch.

There's a trace of uncertainty in her eyes or maybe something deeper—and the soft graze leaves a heat in its wake that has nothing to do with the wound. I don’t look away.

I want her to see that I felt it too. She looks up.

"Those guys out there? They're just a distraction."

I nod. "The real puppet master’s still out there, pulling strings and watching how we react."

Her eyes narrow. "I know."

"They sent expendables. Someone’s still watching. Still waiting."

I can see the wheels turning. "We're going to need to draw them in."

"Use me as bait?"

I meet her stare. "Us. We don’t divide anymore."

A long breath leaves her lungs. Then she nods. "Okay."

That one word lands with quiet finality, the kind that sinks into marrow. It's not just agreement—it's resolve. A shared line in the sand, drawn with blood and grit. No more isolation. No more solo fights. From here on out, we move forward as something forged, not fractured.

The thrum of rotor blades cuts through the stillness before the sun’s first rays even crest the ridge.

Snow whirls up in ghostly spirals as Zeke sets the bird down in the clearing beside the cottage, the skids biting into hardpack with a jolt.

Travis jumps out first, rifle slung and eyes scanning, while Zeke keeps the engine hot.

Wren and I haul the prisoners out of the tool shed one by one, their breath steaming in the cold as plastic cuffs bite into their wrists.

They stumble against the downdraft, sullen and silent now, but I don’t miss the hard edge in their eyes.

Travis shoves the first man up the ramp, then another, and soon all five are strapped in the back like cargo.

Zeke leans over the console, giving us a curt nod and no wasted words.

The chopper lifts, blades tearing at the dawn, and within moments they’re banking east, vanishing into the gray horizon on their way to Glacier Hollow.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

We move back into the cottage, and I move closer to Wren, my fingers brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.

Her skin is warm despite the chill in the air, and for a second, she leans into the touch—barely, but enough that I feel it in my chest. Her breath hitches, and the muscles along her throat tighten, a visible pulse ticking beneath the surface.

She doesn’t speak, but the way her eyes lift to meet mine, steady and unguarded, tells me more than words ever could.

Something raw and unspoken passes between us, a magnetic pull just shy of surrender.

Her eyes lock on mine, wide and searching, and I swear I can feel the change in the air around us.

My hand lingers, just long enough to feel the tremor in her skin.

Her breath catches, lips parting like she might speak—but she doesn’t.

The silence hums between us, electric and full of something neither of us is ready to name.

"You were flawless out there."

Her cheeks pinken, but she doesn’t flinch. "I’m not just some damsel in distress, Nate."

"Never thought you were. You’re my partner."

Something clicks into place between us. Unspoken.

Solid. Her hand settles against my chest, warm and steady, but there's a tremor in her touch that betrays the weight of everything we’ve just been through.

My heart doesn’t just react—it slams against her palm like it recognizes her, like it’s reaching through the bone for something only she can claim.

I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let the silence stretch, thick with all the words we aren’t ready to say but feel in every heartbeat between us.

"Then let’s finish this."

Outside, the wind howls through the trees, rising like a warning. We both look toward the early light, instincts humming.

This isn’t over, The next time they come for us they will not find easy targets. They will find predators lying in wait, teeth bared and ready, and by then it will already be too late for them.