Scout handed her a steaming bowl and cornbread. “Yeah, but you can’t hack hunger.”
They ate, spoons tapping tin, wind howling beyond the walls.
Tessa finally broke the silence. “Sara’s still alive.”
He met her eyes. “You’re sure.”
“She has to be. This guy’s controlling the narrative—making us chase. He’s not ready to end it.”
Scout nodded. “Then we make it through tonight. When the blizzard breaks, we hunt.”
A branch scraped hard across the roof, a dragging, nails-on-tin sound that stopped both of them cold. Scout’s hand moved, calm and precise, closing around the grip. Tessa mirrored him, rising slowly, eyes on the door.
For a long beat, only the wind answered. Then another faint creak somewhere above them—too soft to place, too sharp to ignore.
Scout drew in a breath, lowered the gun. “Just wind shifting.”
“That’s what I hate about storms,” Tessa said. “They hide things.” Her pulse didn’t settle. She slid her weapon back on the table, barrel angled toward the door.
The fire popped. Sparks flared against the hearthstone.
“So we wait,” Tessa murmured.
“Yeah,” he said. “We wait it out.”
Wind screamed down the ridge, shaking the shutters, but inside warmth held—woodsmoke, lantern glow, two guns on the table, two agents too stubborn to rest while the mountain kept its secrets. Outside, darkness deepened.
Tessa settled deeper into the rocker, exhaustion threatening to swallow her whole. Her mind flickered to Sylva, the rental cabin, to Tallulah—safe, fed, the feeder’s backup battery a little comfort against the dark. One thing, at least, she could control.
But silence made space for memory—the brush of heat between them earlier, the way the world had narrowed for a heartbeat before the radio cut through.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.
The fire shifted. Wood settled.
Across the room, Scout felt the weight of her gaze even without meeting it. Not fragile. Not shaken. Just steady.
He was suddenly too aware of the space between them. The heat of the fire. The fact that it wasn’t the only thing warming the room.
“Get some sleep,” he said quietly.
“You first.”
Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away.
Tomorrow, they’d hunt.
Somewhere beyond the ridge, someone else was waiting for the storm to clear.
20
The Watcher — The Writer’s Room (Night)
She thought silence meant mercy.
That was the first mistake.
He watched the feed without sound, as if this were a study session instead of a cage. Sara sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the bed. She hadn’t cried tonight. That disappointed him slightly. Tears were useful. Resistance, more so.
