Page 23 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

WREN

T he morning sun finds me at the counter, spoon tapping sugar into coffee, the steam curling up like breath in the chill air.

My arm hums with the familiar tightness of sleep, but it is nothing I can’t work through.

Nate is still in bed, steady in sleep. He did not stir when I slipped out, did not crack an eye or growl his usual warning about me wandering off.

He trusts me now, and that feels heavier than any lock on the door. That change is the difference.

That, and the two men who tried to break into the cottage at first light.

Both are accounted for now, wrists zip-tied and bodies locked in Nate’s tool shed, their breath fogging the cold air until the chopper arrives.

One carries a dislocated shoulder and a spiral fracture.

The other is unconscious, destined to wake with nothing worse than a bruised ego and a federal sentence.

Rough country or not, attempted murder gets taken seriously.

They came in low and fast through the tree line, counting on the blue hour to hide them.

It did not. Nate’s alarms warned us early, and we were waiting.

Before they reached the porch, I was already at the window, weapon steady.

We moved as if rehearsed a hundred times, silent, our pulses locked in the same rhythm.

The first slipped near the wood pile. Nate went out the back, came up behind, and dropped him with a knee to the gut and an elbow to the neck.

The second fired once, missing clean. I pushed out the door and smashed him with the butt of my sidearm before he could sight again.

The adrenaline still hums through my veins, but the bruises are earned, and the quiet settling over us feels just as deserved.

These men lacked the precision of the last team.

The first wave had elite camouflage uniforms and patience.

They had precision. This wave is patchwork.

They burned through funds with their opening gambit.

I guess they didn’t expect me to be hard to kill.

They sure as hell didn’t count on Nate. What came after the first team was bought cheap and mean, sloppy kit, off-brand optics, and a hunger that smells like dwindling funds and panic.

The one with the ruined arm had not planned to talk, but Nate’s work made him reconsider.

Turns out Mason Harper had a cousin. Same eyes.

Same bone structure. Only leaner in the face, the mouth hollowed as if grief had already carved him down.

The resemblance is uncanny, like a faded photograph brought back into focus.

I see why satellite imagery mistook him for Mason.

Seeing him drags me backward through time, forcing me to stare straight into a wound I pretended had scarred but still bleeds beneath the surface.

I always knew Mason’s widow blamed me. Her messages made that clear, cutting words sliding under my skin long after I stopped answering.

I figured she hated me, that she needed someone to carry her grief, and I was the target.

Grief is one thing. Hiring her husband’s cousin to track me down here is another.

I never thought her bitterness would rot into something this dangerous. I never believed she would twist her anger into a plan ending with me in a shallow grave. But here we are. Some grudges don’t fade. They calcify. They fester until the only way out is blood.

I pull Mason’s old map strip from my wallet, the one I kept folded so small the creases felt like ribs.

I lay it on the stove and rest my finger on the route he never finished.

“I carried you so long I forgot how to set you down,” I whisper.

The paper does not burn. Not yet. I leave it there, a marker for a decision I have finally started to make.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” Nate says, stepping into the kitchen with hair tousled and rough, like he just rolled out of a fight instead of a bed.

I pass him a mug. “They were family. Who thinks like that? I love my brother, but even I wouldn’t put a hit out on someone…” Nate's grin stops me. "Okay, so maybe I would."

He lifts the mug to his lips, eyes locked on mine over the rim as he grins. “You definitely would, and for the record, I'd be right there beside you. People need someone to blame.”

"The worst part is, I understand that. I lived in that guilt for years. It took the sound of bullets in the trees and you bleeding beside me to finally shake it loose. I didn't fail Mason. But I let that guilt define me." I take a long sip and a deeper breath. "What do you think will happen?"

“Zeke, Anchorage PD and the Feds have it under control. Nate thumbs the sat unit to speaker and sets it on the table.

“Zeke, run the serial fragment, eight-seven-one-KC.”

Zeke comes back fast. “Batch sale through a shell in Seattle six months ago. Distributor of record links to a holding company that uses the name Black Current. Anchorage liaison is already moving. Stand by for detainments.” The satphone buzzes again.

“Heads up. Black Current has an Alaskan contract with a client called North Gulf Holdings. Paper is clean, people are not. We will not close this in a day.”

I meet Nate’s eyes. The air inside the cottage feels colder than the snow. I do not sit. My pulse goes loud in my ears, not from fear, from the shape of an answer finally taking form.

The investigation is all but done,” Nate says, dropping into the chair across from me.

Zeke’s voice cuts through. “Anchorage has one female detained at a Riverside address. The cousin is in cuffs. Judge on call denied bail. Transport in two.”

I close my eyes and finally breathe. Not relief, not yet, but something that moves like it.

“It would seem we're officially off everyone’s radar.”

“Except Caleb’s.”

He groans. “He texted me at two in the morning with nothing but the skull emoji.”

I stifle a grin and sip my coffee. “That's my brother. Subtle. I told you he’d be pissed. I can't decide if he'll be more pissed that you didn't tell him I was being threatened...”

"That's on you," Nate says, tipping his mug at me.

“Or that you’re in bed with his little sister,” I tease. He groans like the words landed heavier than a punch.

“God help me..."

"I think both He and Caleb would tell you, you're on your own."

"For the record, I didn’t tell him because I knew he’d storm up here with a ten-man team and scare the whole mountain. I needed space to do it my way... our way. As for the fucking you part, I didn't tell him because I wanted to keep on breathing.”

“Good luck with that. Unless I miss my guess, that snowmobile that's closing in belongs to him." I look out the window and nod. "Yep, he’s here.”

Nate jerks upright. “What?”

“And he doesn’t look happy.”

Nate moves out of the cottage to greet Caleb.

"Caleb," I start from the porch.

"You stay out of this," they say in unison.

"She's my sister. Where do you get off keeping her secrets from me and sleeping with her."

"She's my woman."

They face off in front of the cottage, jaws locked, steam rising from their breath like battle smoke in the frozen air. Caleb’s fists flex at his sides, his stance tight and braced like he's itching to throw the first punch.

Nate’s body is still, but his eyes sharpen, tracking every twitch like a predator waiting to pounce. Caleb’s jaw ticks. Nate crosses his arms and says nothing. It doesn't take long before Caleb shoves Nate.

“You think keeping me out makes you a hero?”

“I think not having your stubborn ass up here is what kept Wren alive.”

“She’s my sister.”

“I know exactly who she is.”

“Do you?”

That does it. Nate steps in fast, all shoulders and warning. Caleb doesn’t back off, and now they’re chest to chest, voices climbing, two alpha males ready to tear into each other.

I hit the ignition on the snowblower.The roar should shred through the argument. It doesn't.

I yank the chute lever hard, and the machine coughs before blasting a stream of icy slush like a firehose straight between them. The muck splatters up their boots, spatters their jeans, and paints a filthy stripe across the snow.

Both men stumble back, blinking and sputtering as the cold spray soaks through denim. Caleb glares at me like I’ve just insulted our mother. Nate wipes a hunk of ice off his jacket with deliberate calm, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing.

The two lethal, battle-ready alpha males now stand dripping like scarecrows in a thaw, and the sight is so absurd I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

“Unless you two want me to do it again,” I say over the motor, “you’re going to shake hands, shut the fuck up, and come inside for breakfast.”

Caleb drips on the mat and will not look at me at first. When he does, his eyes are raw. “You scared me,” he says. No bark, no badge, just my brother. “Next time I get the call with your name on it, I come running. You tell me before you tell him.” He jerks his chin toward Nate without heat.

Nate growls.

“Not happening. How about I call you right after or I don’t tell Nate he can’t call you?”

Caleb looks between Nate and I. "I suppose I could live with that.” He turns to Nate. “She's not cooking, is she?" he asks.

"If I wanted you dead, I'd have shot you."

They stare at me. Then at each other. Then—because they’re both too stubborn to stand down—they take a step forward in unison.

I slam the throttle again, blasting them a second time, harder, the chute spewing slush straight into their chests.

The spray knocks them back a pace, dripping, furious, and united now in one purpose: me.

The snowblower sputters as I drop the handle, heart pounding, and I bolt for the cottage door just as they charge in tandem, cursing and soaked to the bone.

After breakfast, I level Caleb with a look. “You need to be nice. I'm going to need help moving my crap out here before the next snow squall.”

A few days later, Nate’s stone cottage is quiet and solid, the kind of place that feels like it’s been standing against winter storms for a hundred years. It probably has.

The bed’s unmade. My duffel sits by the front door with my hiking boots stacked on top. I drop the last box onto the bench by the window. “That’s it. All of my worldly possessions.”

I touch the duffel handle and almost lift it again. Habit tightens my grip, the old reflex that says leave first and you will not be left. I set it down and keep my hand there until the urge passes.

“Leave it, I do the heavy lifting,” Nate says behind me.

“It’s not that heavy, I travel light.”

“Impressive,” Nate chuckles.

I glance over my shoulder. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is. Means you won’t bring a bunch of clutter into my space.”

I raise a brow. “Our space.”

His smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I stand corrected. Our space.”

He walks over, takes the duffel and box in one hand and sets them aside. Then he closes the distance between us, hands braced on either side of my hips.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low. “Because once you’re in, I warned you already, I’m not letting you go.”

I look up at him, heart steady but ribs tight, like something inside me has finally stopped bracing for impact. "I’m sure. No more running." A sudden surge of something sparks low in my belly, because this isn’t retreat. It’s surrender, and for once, it doesn’t feel like losing.

His hands slide to my waist, pulling me flush against him. “Good.”

The kiss starts soft, but there’s a tension beneath it—like a thread pulled taut.

His fingers press into my waist just enough to ground me, to tether me to this moment.

His mouth lingers, then deepens the kiss, slow and steady, like he’s drawing something out of both of us.

My hands slide up his chest, not to push him away but to feel the solid heat of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palms. It’s not just need.

It’s belonging. And when he finally pulls back, his eyes stay locked on mine, fierce and certain.

My fingers knot in his shirt as his mouth claims mine again, slow but firm, as if sealing a vow neither of us will ever break. It’s not rushed. Not frantic. It’s grounded in everything we’ve fought for—the bruises, the confessions, the long nights and hard truths.

When he pulls back, I’m breathless.

“I love you,” I breathe, the words raw and certain.

His answer comes without pause, rough but steady: “I love you too.”

I take the folded map from the stove and carry it to the hearth. “I am sorry,” I tell the route that ended in white silence. “I am done paying with my life.” I hold the corner to the coals until the paper curls, then I let it go.

Outside, the wind picks up. Snow flurries swirl past the windows.

Inside, it’s warm. Safe. Home.

Six Months Later

At the foot of Talon Mountain at the edge of town, a new trail opened last week where none existed before. It's still a work in progress, more an unmarked path than an actual trail onto the beach, but it's coming along.

Just beyond it, a stranger steps from the trees with a battered pack and a haunted gaze. He carries no memory of who he is, only a secret heavy enough to change everything.