Page 9 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain (Men of Talon Mountain #3)

We've been refining ingress routes—any path someone might take to either of our places without being seen—but it's more than logistics now. The longer we linger over the maps, the more I feel the crackle in the air, the change in our focus.

She leans over beside me, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other reaching toward the same quadrant I’m tracing.

Her shoulder brushes mine, close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the space between us.

A whisper of her hair catches the light, drawing my eye, and I swear the air tightens between us.

The storm may have trapped us here, held us in place, but something far more volatile is stirring now, and it sure as hell isn’t tactical.

Our fingers brush—just a spark, but it jolts low and fast, every nerve wired hot.

My hand wants more. I hold the line. Barely.

Another brush of her skin, another second of that charged connection, and I’ll be lost. It's not just a fleeting impulse; it’s a gut-deep need for reassurance that what’s humming between us is mutual, not imagined.

My muscles tighten, jaw locking against the urge to close the distance again, to chase the warmth she left behind.

The jolt of heat that arcs between our fingers is sudden, immediate.

It’s almost like the charged snap of static electricity—biting, alive, crackling against my skin.

It rushes up my arm, sets every nerve on edge, and anchors me to the spot.

Her touch isn’t hesitant, but it’s not bold either; it lingers somewhere in between, as if neither of us is ready to admit what this is becoming. My hand doesn’t move.

Hers doesn’t either. The air between us hums with tension, and the storm outside suddenly feels like background noise to the one building right here, skin to skin.

Her breath catches, sudden and jagged, like her body’s trying to betray what she won’t say out loud.

She looks away quickly, but not before I catch the flicker in her eyes—a hesitation, a pull—and I swear I feel it echo down my spine.

I don’t move. Can’t. Every instinct tells me not to break the moment, even as it fractures around the edges.

It’s not a moment that should matter. Not one that should linger. But it does. Her shoulder is warm next to mine, her scent all soap and cedar smoke and something wilder underneath, something that makes my restraint grit its teeth and brace.

Her fingers linger on the map, deliberate and steady.

I let mine drift, slow and careful, brushing hers again—just enough contact to feel the spark but not enough to make it obvious.

Heat coils low in my gut, low and visceral, as if that single point of contact wires straight to something primal. I don’t pull away. I just... stay.

"This trail here..." she says, voice low, but a fraction rougher than before.

"Yeah. Could be a backdoor. Ridges give partial cover. But they’d still have to cross the gulley."

She nods, not looking up. We’re both still staring at the map like it holds the answer to something bigger than patrol routes.

I can feel the tension in her body, the way it’s not just tactical now.

Not just fear. There’s heat threaded through it.

Awareness. A pull I’ve been fighting from the second she landed on my doorstep.

She finally straightens, her spine unfolding with a quiet resolve. I rise too, slower, unwilling to sever the invisible thread stretched taut between us—a tether spun from heat, tension, and the unspoken weight of what almost happened.

"We’ll mark it," I say.

She nods again and heads to the other side of the room, and something changes in the air when she leaves my side.

The warmth from her shoulder still lingers like an echo, and the space she occupied feels too empty, too quiet.

I drag a breath in, but it doesn't steady me the way it should. I stare at the map for another long second before folding it. My pulse is elevated, jaw tight. It’s not the weather.

She doesn’t ask about the brush. Doesn’t make a joke or call it out. Her hands tremble when she pours water; a spark she masks quickly. Proof I’m not the only one who is fraying.

That night, we sit across from each other in the firelight, the restless glow painting shadows across her cheekbones and catching in the strands of her hair, making them shimmer with each subtle movement.

She sits cross-legged, posture casual, eyes anything but, measuring with heat threaded through calculation.

She holds the same mug from the night before, fingers curled around it like it’s an anchor, and looks at me with something deeper than strategy in her gaze.

She’s judging more than terrain or timelines, she’s weighing the charged space between us.

Risk and reward. Threat and temptation. Her eyes don’t just study me, they challenge me.

There’s a glint there, a calculation that makes something inside me tighten hard.

Is she wondering if I’ll be the one to cross the line?

Or debating if she’ll beat me to it? My eyes fall to the slow, absent circle her thumb traces along the mug’s rim.

It’s a tiny, distracted movement, but it draws my focus to her mouth with ruthless precision.

The air feels weighted. Not just with smoke and firelight, but with something that hums just beneath the surface. Anticipation. The storm outside might’ve forced a pause, but it’s only stirred up the one building between these walls—between us.

She catches me looking, and instead of glancing away, she holds my gaze—steady, unflinching, like she wants me to see the storm beneath her skin.

Heat flares low, sudden and fierce, my breath catching in my throat as tension coils through me.

My muscles tighten, chest rising with a breath that feels too deep, too aware.

She doesn’t blink. Neither do I. The air crackles between us, heavy and electric, as if touch isn’t necessary to feel the impact of her eyes on mine.

Outside, the wind screams against the glass, harsh and relentless, like a warning spun through wire.

It doesn’t just batter the glass—it probes, circles.

A predator outside, patient and waiting for weakness.

The sound grates along my spine, too focused.

It doesn’t feel like weather anymore. It feels like intent.

Inside, it’s quiet. Too quiet. Like the hush before something breaks.

And I know when something breaks, it won’t be the storm that decides the fallout. It’ll be what happens between us when the walls crack and something more dangerous tries to slip through.