Page 8 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

NATE

T he wind hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s turned predatory—knifing down the chimney like it’s hunting for a way in.

The snow falls against the stone, metal and glass of the cottage in a muffled, smothering shroud, thick enough now that I can’t see the edge of the tree line from the front windows.

Visibility has dropped to a wall of white. We’re socked in.

Fine by me. The storm builds the walls higher—no one crosses in this whiteout without leaving a trail.

It forces them to wait—and gives us room to breathe, to plan, to regroup.

And maybe, if I’m honest, it gives me more time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about the woman pacing my floors and invading my thoughts.

Wren is pacing again. Third lap since sunrise.

Each one scrapes my nerves raw—not because of the noise, but because I know exactly what’s driving her.

She tries to disguise the restlessness, but her body betrays her.

The way her hands flex, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the half-glances at the door like it's whispering her name. Like if she could just get outside, get her boots in the snow, she might outrun the sense of being trapped. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself.

And the worst part? I understand it and her all too well.

"You’re going to wear a groove in my floor," I say, but my eyes catch on the way her hips move, all tense rhythm and restless fire. I don't look up from the rifle I’m reassembling.

She carries the faint spice of cedar soap from my shower, layered over the sharper wild scent that’s hers alone. It hits harder than it should. It scrapes against the edge of my control, leaves me wondering what else she tastes like when she thinks no one’s watching.

"You’d probably mark it with tape and assign it a serial number."

I glance over. She flashes a grin, thin and frayed, more mask than mirth.

Her eyes are shadowed, ringed with exhaustion, and her shoulders haven’t loosened an inch despite the warmth in the room.

She’s upright, alert, vibrating with the kind of taut, barely-leashed tension that simmers just beneath the surface, refusing to dissipate with rest. She hasn’t let herself truly exhale since we found the arrow embedded in my door.

And I don’t think she will until she’s sure there isn’t another one coming.

"Want to help with the comms?" I ask.

The room changes when she’s near, less like a bunker and more like a fuse waiting for the strike. The air hardens, tightens something in my chest, and I know she’s there before I even look.

It starts subtly: the low brush of her movement, the soft rustle of fabric as she leans closer. Heat rolls off her in a quiet wave, carrying the faint trace of fire’s warmth and the crisp bite of wind-dried cloth—clean, grounded, unmistakably hers.

That warmth bridges the space between us, a steady pulse that finds its way under my skin.

It’s not just heat—it’s gravity, a pull I can’t shake, binding me to the moment and to her.

Every nerve sharpens, awareness humming, coiled tight as if the smallest spark could set it off.

I tell myself to focus elsewhere, to keep the distance I need.

But I can’t. And worse—I don’t want to.

She tilts her head. "Thought you had a system."

"I do. You’re smart enough not to screw it up."

That gets me a little blink of surprise before she moves over to the table where the sat-link rig sits looped in a careful spiral next to a backup battery bank.

I’ve been rationing transmissions—too much traffic draws ears I don’t want listening.

Tomorrow’s window is narrow. If the storm breaks, I push a message. If it doesn’t, we sit blind.

Wren’s fingers move with practiced precision, her hands steady as she mirrors the method she’s seen me use.

She’s been paying attention, and it shows—no wasted motion, no hesitation.

I let her settle in beside me, watching the sure flex of her knuckles, the focused line of her mouth.

It’s more than competence—it’s connection.

My eyes track every move, not just because I want to be sure she’s getting it right, but because I like the way she moves in my space, like she belongs there.

"You always run solo on these assignments?" she asks after a beat.

"Usually."

"Because you don’t play well with others or because no one else keeps up?"

"Little of both."

She hums under her breath. "Figures."

The silence deepens, broken only by the occasional hiss of the fire and the eerie moan of wind curling through the eaves.

The sound is too thin, too harsh, as if something were clawing for a way in.

The kind of quiet that feels loaded, suspended, as if the walls themselves are bracing for what comes next.

"Why’d you leave Anchorage PD?" she asks, not looking up from the comm board.

I don’t answer right away. She doesn’t push, which I respect. I watch the way her brows pull together as she studies the antenna output, the way her mouth tugs to one side when she finds something off.

"Dead kid," I say finally. The memory flashes behind my eyes—red sirens, wet pavement, the hollow silence that follows a scream too late. I still hear the echo when it’s quiet like this, still feel the weight of the badge I handed in.

But it wasn’t the only reason I walked. It was the last straw. The pull was already there—toward this place, toward work without red tape, and yeah, toward her. Wren. Stubborn, reckless, infuriating. Brave as hell. The pull had only gotten stronger.

The move to Glacier Hollow wasn’t just a change—it was a calculated step forward.

A promotion with better pay, more autonomy, and for once, the chance at something that didn’t feel temporary.

I’d told myself it was about the mission, the cleaner lines of command, the chance to build something solid.

But if I’m honest, it was also about her. About the way Wren had lodged herself in my thoughts, and about the ties I’d started to feel pulling me toward this place and the people in it. I wanted something real. And this—this might just be it.

Her head turns slowly. "Yours?"

"No. A kid. Not mine, but mine to protect. I failed him."

She nods like she gets it. I think she does.

"I doubt that, but I understand. Denali didn’t turn out the way I thought either," she says quietly.

I glance at her, wondering if she’ll meet my eyes, but she doesn’t.

Her focus stays on the panel, precise and deliberate.

Still, something in the set of her jaw tells me she’s not just thinking about circuits and signal strength.

She’s remembering. And maybe, like me, she’s wondering what would’ve happened if things had played out just a little differently back then, and what’s already changing between us now.

"We did everything right, and it still went to hell. I still hear the crack. The rope going slack."

I don’t offer comfort. Sympathy insults scars like these.

Silence, though, she understands. I stay quiet, just close enough that she knows she’s not alone.

She clears her throat, a harsh, deliberate sound, and turns her focus back to the wiring, but her hands move slower now, the tension in her spine unwinding by degrees.

We don’t talk for a while. The weight of memory settles between us, dense but bearable, like snow packing in tight around a trailhead—limiting, but not suffocating.

It’s not just silence—it’s shared terrain.

No need to fill it, no urge to escape it.

The quiet stretches, not as a wedge, but as a kind of truce.

One that says, 'I see you. And I’m still here. '

The storm doesn’t ease. By the second day, we’ve stopped checking the window. No tracks, no movement, no change. Just white—endless, unbroken, and disorienting.

It presses in from every angle, muting the world to a dead hush that amplifies every creak of the walls and ripple of shadow in the firelight.

It’s a silence so absolute it starts to feel personal, like the mountain’s watching and waiting.

The isolation worms its way under my skin, heightening everything—my guard, my instincts, and every last thread of awareness when Wren moves beside me.

She’s close enough that her breath stirs the air. Close enough that focus takes effort.

I’ve double-checked every ration and mapped out supply use to the hour.

The wood is stacked high, dry and close to the hearth.

Water’s accounted for, with snow ready to melt if needed.

We’re sealed in tight—nothing and no one’s getting through this weather unnoticed.

But that doesn’t mean we’re alone. If they’re still out there, they’re waiting, watching, using the storm the same way we are: to regroup.

The silence isn’t safety. It’s a tactic—same one I’d use.

Let the weather pin the target in place, then close when they’re worn thin.

Wren doesn’t ask if she can go outside, but the tension radiating from her is impossible to ignore.

She moves in short, agitated strides across the room, every step tight with purpose.

Her gaze flicks to the door with the regularity of a metronome, jaw set, fingers flexing like she’s trying to work the tension out of her skin.

I see the question behind her eyes—unspoken, but louder with every lap.

She’s restless as hell, strung tight and wearing it openly now.

And I get it. Being trapped this long with no outlet grinds on the nerves, and Wren’s not built for stillness.

She needs motion, needs space. The fact that she’s holding it together at all tells me more than she probably realizes.

At mid-afternoon, I spread the topography maps across the kitchen table again, the weight of them grounding me in something tangible. Wren is already there, close enough that I feel the press of her presence before I register her movement.