Chapter 7
7
ABBY
I ’m beginning to think Misty Mountain is full of hidden bunkers and reinforced rooms disguised as rustic charm.
The Hollow Tree Inn doesn’t look like what I thought it would in a tiny mountain town. I expected to find it worn and a bit dilapidated. Instead, I discover a solid building with pristine clapboard siding, a wonderfully rustic porch, and a wooden sign that creaks in the breeze.
The second I step inside, I know it’s something special. It smells like cinnamon, sage, vanilla and fresh coffee. The kind of scent that makes you feel like you just might not die today.
Ella Franklin appears behind the counter like she’s been waiting for me. Tall, slender, with long dark hair and soft brown eyes. She’s soft-spoken, and dressed in a thick oatmeal sweater that looks handmade. She offers me a gentle smile and a steaming mug before I can even drop my bag.
“Hank called ahead,” she says as I wrap my hands around the drink. “Said to make you comfortable but keep you out of sight. Don’t worry—we’re used to strange requests from that one.”
“That one?” I ask, sipping.
“Travis.” She arches one eyebrow. “You know. Big. Broody. Growls instead of speaking? I once watched him carry a refrigerator up the front stairs with one hand because the delivery guys didn’t tie it down properly.”
I cough into my mug. “Sounds about right.”
She gestures toward the hallway. “I’ve got a room in the back. Reinforced, insulated, and nowhere near the street. Looks like any other guest room unless you know what to look for. Travis’s orders.”
Of course. Because heaven forbid I be trusted to breathe in the general vicinity of windows without some ex-military safe house protocol in place.
I follow her down a cozy corridor lined with black-and-white photos of the town—festivals, old cars, people smiling like they’ve never seen a sniper scope in their lives. The room at the end of the hall opens into something I didn’t expect.
Warm wood floors. A thick comforter in pale blue and cream. A window, yes, but with a steel-reinforced shutter that slides down at the press of a button beside the bed. There’s even a shelf with books. Mystery, romance, a couple of dog-eared thrillers I recognize from my own shelves at home.
“Clara brought those over,” Ella says, setting the mug on the side table. “Said you looked like the type who needed good words and warm carbs.”
My chest tightens. Clara. I’ll have to remember to do something really nice for her.
“I’ll have a plate sent in soon. Don’t argue—you’ve got that same exhausted, defiant look Travis had the first few weeks he came back. You need food, rest, and a little space to think.”
I nod, too grateful and overwhelmed to speak.
Ella touches my shoulder gently. “You’re safe here. We’ve got your back. You need anything, call down. We keep the front locked at night, and Hank’s usually around with that bear-sized gun of his.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She gives me one last kind look, then leaves. I lock the door, lean against it, and let out a breath that feels like I’ve been holding it for days. Then I think about him; of course I do.
Travis Holt, mountain man mystery and walking command complex, dropped me off originally at the Rusty Elk Tavern like I’m a package that needs warehousing and stormproof walls. He didn’t explain. Didn’t say when he’d be back. Just kissed me like the world was ending and then vanished into the storm.
I know it was about keeping me safe. I know that.
But damn it, I’m not a porcelain doll or a civilian casualty waiting to happen. I’m Nick Westwood’s sister. I’m a researcher—a damn good one—and I don’t crumble just because someone tells me to sit still.
And yet, I let him lead. I let him shield me. I let him kiss me like I belonged to him.
Which—newsflash—I absolutely do not.
Hank had moved me down to the Hollow Tree, saying he thought I’d be more comfortable and that he’d cleared it with Travis. I wish he hadn’t said that. Somebody ought to check with me about these things. But looking around the lovely room, I decide not to take umbrage.
I toss my bag onto the bed, pace the room once, then stop in front of the mirror. I see my reflection staring back: windburned cheeks, frizz from hell, and wide eyes that can’t seem to decide whether to be furious or shaken.
“You kissed him,” I say out loud. “You kissed a man who uses words like orders and stares like he’s calculating your pulse rate.”
And I’d do it again. God help me, I’d do it again.
There’s a knock on the door. I yank it open without thinking and nearly get smacked in the face with a cardboard to-go tray stacked with three different takeout containers and another one of those enormous and delicious cinnamon rolls.
“Delivery,” Clara says, breezing in past me like she owns the room. “Brought by your friendly local enabler.”
“I—Clara, what is all this?”
“Dinner. Snacks. Bribery. Take your pick.” She sets the tray down on the desk and then spins on her heel, returns to close and lock the door, then faces me, hands on hips. “So. Want to tell me why you look like you either committed a felony or just had the best sex of your life?”
I gape at her. “Clara!”
“What? I know that look.”
“There was no sex.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“There was a kiss. Which I started. And immediately regretted.”
Clara perches on the edge of the bed and arches one eyebrow. “You regretted kissing a six-foot-six, built like-a-canyon, survivalist author with haunted eyes and a jawline that could cut steel?”
I sit heavily on the chair across from her. “Okay, when you say it like that…”
She grins. “Look, I’m not judging. Travis Holt is like… the human version of those mystery thrillers you binge at three a.m. Dark, dangerous, and way too addictive.”
“That’s the problem. I am addicted. And I don’t know why. Half the time I want to strangle him, the other half I want to straddle him.”
Clara bursts out laughing. “That’s the tagline, right there. ‘He makes me want to strangle and straddle him—sometimes at the same time.’”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “This is bad. I don’t do this. I don’t chase impossible men. I certainly don’t make out with them in reinforced bedrooms while bullets fly. And I never admit to any of it.”
Her voice softens. “You’ve had a hell of a week, Abs. And the way I see it? You’re doing your best. Which, frankly, is a lot better than most would do in your boots.”
I lift my head. “You think I’m crazy for staying?”
“No. I think you’re brave. Maybe a little reckless. But not crazy. You came here for answers. You found a man who’s either part of the solution or part of the storm. And you’ve survived everything they’ve thrown at you so far.”
I swallow hard, heart aching. “I just want to know what happened to Nick.”
“And I think you will,” Clara says gently. “But you also need to be ready for the truth when it comes.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I know.”
She stands and brushes her hands together. “Okay. Eat your carbs. Read your books. And if you kiss him again, own it and take notes. I’m going to want details, lots and lots of details. . ”
I laugh despite myself. “Thanks, Clara.”
“Anytime. And if you’re expecting Travis to storm in here like some mountain man on a mission—let’s sell tickets. We could make a fortune.”
She winks and leaves, her laughter trailing behind her. I lock the door again, sit down on the edge of the bed, and stare at the tray she left.
Food. Warmth. Safety. And somewhere out there in the cold, Travis Holt. Complicated and dangerous—and trying to protect me in the only way he knows how.
I just don’t know if I can keep letting him. Because wanting him is starting to feel like standing too close to a cliff in a windstorm. The problem is, I’m not sure if I’ll get blown off or leap with abandon into the abyss.
The knock on the door doesn’t come. It’s a heavy footstep, deliberate, right outside the room. I already know it’s him. Travis doesn’t knock. He shows up with a key and just lets himself in. I want to throw something at him. I’m just not sure if it’s a bookend or myself.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, the air shifts. The silence changes. It's like the room itself braces for his presence. I turn slowly, arms crossed, all the words I’ve been holding back rising to the surface like a tide I can’t stop.
He looks like he walked through hell to get here—snow still clings to his shoulders, the flannel shirt over his broad frame soaked through in patches. Ice and snow cake his boots, and they are starting to melt. His jaw is tight, and his eyes—those dark, piercing blue eyes—lock on me like he’s been tracking me across a battlefield.
He opens his mouth, probably to start barking orders, but I beat him to it.
“No.”
He pauses mid-step, eyebrows pulling together. “No?”
“No, Travis. You don’t get to walk in here after leaving me behind like I’m some mission detail to be shelved, and act like we’re picking up exactly where you left off.”
His eyes narrow. “I told you I was coming back.”
“Yeah. And you think that’s enough? That I should just nod along while you make all the decisions and keep me in the dark like I’m breakable?”
He stalks forward, slow and steady. “I kept you in the dark to keep you alive.”
“I’m not asking you to stop protecting me,” I snap, stepping right into his space. “I’m asking you to stop treating me like I don’t get a say in any of this. I’m not your soldier. I’m not your responsibility.”
“You’re wrong.”
That stops me short. “Excuse me?”
“You are my responsibility. You were the second your brother put my name in your hands.” His voice is low now, deadly calm. “I gave him my word, Abby.”
“And that’s all this is to you? A promise to a dead man?”
His jaw ticks. “Don’t twist my words.”
“Then say what you mean.”
“I mean,” he growls. I step back until my back brushes the wall, “I’ve been trying to protect you without pulling you under with me. And I’m failing at it.”
“Maybe because you keep pretending we’re not already in this together.”
One second he’s across the room. The next, I’m against the wall, his body pinning mine, heat radiating off every inch of him. His hands cage me, one planted beside my head, the other gripping my hip.
“You think you don’t matter?” His voice is low and lethal. “You think I’d burn my life to the ground for just anyone?”
My heart stutters. “Then stop acting like I’m an inconvenience you’re babysitting.”
He dips his head, mouth brushing my ear. “You’re not an inconvenience.”
“Then what am I?” My voice breaks, too soft, too honest.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are fire.
“Mine,” he says.
His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and hot, like he’s starving, and I’m the only thing that can fill that need. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s fire and frustration, command and surrender all wrapped into one devastating moment that blurs the lines we’ve both been dancing around for days.
I press myself against him, hands clutching his shirt, fingers tangled in flannel and muscle. My legs nearly buckle, but he’s there, solid and immovable, holding me upright with nothing but strength and need.
When he pulls away, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead presses to mine.
“This is why I didn’t stay,” he growls. “Because I knew the second I touched you like this, I wouldn’t stop.”
My voice is barely a whisper as I pull his head back down to mine. “Then don’t.”
He lets out a harsh sound—frustrated, hungry—and lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the bed. His mouth finds mine again before we hit the mattress, his hands already tugging my sweater up, warm palms skating over bare skin.
The rest comes off in pieces. All of my clothes stripped away as he kisses me to the point I may not be able to breathe. I shove his flannel shirt off his shoulders and then pull his thermal Henley over his head. His mouth traces fire along my jaw and down my throat, across my collarbone, kissing a line between my breasts as he cups them possessively with his hand and his lips whisper kisses across my belly.
I gasp his name when his fingers slide between my thighs and find the place I’m already aching for him. He’s in complete control—commanding, sure, dominant in the way he touches, takes, gives—but he listens to every sound I make, every whisper of my body under his hands.
We break apart only long enough for him to look at me, breathing hard, eyes blazing.
“This changes everything,” he says.
“I know.”
This isn’t just attraction. This isn’t just escape. This is the kind of kiss that shifts tectonic plates. That changes the battlefield. He lowers his head again, and I let go of everything but him.
Travis slips his hand behind my head, tilting my mouth to exactly where he wants it as his tongue slides between my lips. My brain says to bite him, but my lips decide that sucking at his tongue would be a lot more fun.
I moan slightly at his touch, the heat spreading through me like wildfire. As our kiss deepens, I burrow myself closer, wanting to feel the heat of his skin against mine once more before it was too late.
Travis breaks the kiss and stands, his breath ragged. “I don’t do soft, and I don’t do easy.”
Rolling up onto my knees, I wrap my arms around his neck. “No one’s asking you to. I can handle you, Shadow.”
“You can’t just say no, can you?” he says, his eyes hooded and filled with a hunger I know all too well.
“Not a chance, big guy,” I say with a smile.
Unable to find the words that can express the need coursing through me. I lie back down, pulling him with me. This may be our one and only chance, and I refuse to let it pass by.