Page 11 of His Untamed Craving
A surprised laugh bursts from my chest despite my body's desperate need for oxygen. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."
Wyatt holds my stare for another beat, the barest hint of a smirk playing across those rugged features. Then he's off again, flowing into the next precarious sequence like mercury.
I take a steadying breath and force my focus back to the climb, determined not to let his taunts shake me. Carefully, methodically, I follow in Wyatt's wake.
The next few pitches continue in the same grueling rhythm—Wyatt leading the way while I trail behind him, moving in seamless sync. The world around us fades away until nothing is left but the sound of my ragged breathing mingled with the scrape of rock against calloused fingertips.
By the time Wyatt calls out that he's ready to set up an anchor, sweat coats my body in a sheen of glistening salt. I wedge myself into a secure stance and fumble for my chalk bag, desperate to dry my palms before the final few harrowing moves.
"You good?"
I glance up to find Wyatt perched about twenty feet above me, studying my every move with those intense dark eyes. There's no judgment in them, just a simple acknowledgment of the shared reality we're facing—one wrong move could spell disaster up here.
Offering him a resolute nod, I stuff the chalk bag back into the pack on my harness and begin the final push toward the anchor. Each reach, each foot shuffled higher, seems to take every ounce of my remaining willpower.
Then, just when the trembling in my arms threatens to overtake me completely, my fingers latch onto Wyatt's secure stance. He's there instantly, bracing me with those solid hands as I crunch my body against the sheer rock face beside him.
We stay there for a few heartbeats, our chests heaving in unison as the adrenaline thunders through our veins. This close, I can see the dark smudges of fatigue beneath Wyatt's eyes, the sheen of sweat coating his chiseled features.
Yet his stare burns with a quiet intensity, boring into me with a look that seems to strip me bare.
"Not bad for a city girl," he finally rumbles, the barest hint of approval lacing those words.
My lips quirk in a cocky grin, body humming with satisfaction at that simple acknowledgment. "I'm just getting started, mountain man."
Wyatt holds my challenging stare for another heated moment before giving a slight nod. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. That look in his eyes says it all—he's taking me seriously now, seeing me as a true partner out here rather than some tagalong amateur.
My heart swells with a sense of pride I can't quite put words to. For so long, I've been chasing a sense of purpose, of meaning. Maybe I've finally found it in the most unlikely of places.
With a few efficient clips of carabiners and a quick systems check, Wyatt finishes securing the anchor and passes me the lead rope. My brow furrows slightly as I take the coiled line, glancing up at the sheer wall of granite still towering above us. "You sure about this?"
"You've got skills, Delgado," he replies simply. "Time to put 'em to the test for real."
A tremor of excitement races through me, quickly followed by a steadying breath. This is it—time to take the reins and prove I've got what it takes.
I turn my attention to studying the next section. The granite face above is a maze of hairline fractures and crystalline edges, with only the most subtle changes in texture hinting at potential handholds. This is going to take every ounce of focus and commitment.
Drawing a deep, centering breath, I subtly tap my sternum to ensure the body cam is still recording, determined to document every grueling pitch of this insane ascent. Then, I reach up and latch my fingers into the first thin seam, feeling the familiar bite of rough stone against calloused fingertips. With a slight shift of my hips, I launch into the first few moves of my lead.
I lose all sense of time and space as I flow from one position to the next, seeking out each micro-edge and dimple with a sixth sense born from years of practice.
Up and up I go, each move seeming to take more effort than the last as fatigue seeps deeper into my muscles. The exposure grows increasingly serious, a yawning void of open air surrounding me on all sides. But the higher I climb, the more something seems to click into place, like I've finally found that elusive rhythm.
At one point, I risk a glance back down to where Wyatt clings to the rock, his eyes trained intently on my every move as he takes up the slack in the rope. His intense gaze sends a jolt of heat through me.
I shake off the distraction and refocus on the stone before me, determined not to let anything break my concentration. Not when I've come so close to proving myself out here.
Gritting my teeth, I latch onto the next thin granite rail and pull myself up into a high step, fighting against every ounce of gravity's insistent tug. My fingers ache and tremble as I search out that next hold, that next lifeline to propel me higher. Just a few more body lengths...
Then, with an explosive burst of effort, my fingers lock into a solid two-finger pocket, and I launch up in one final dynamic sequence, hauling myself up and over the final bulging lip to a narrow ledge.
For a few heartbeats, I simply cling there, chest heaving as the world slowly bleeds back into focus around me. Holy shit... I actually did it. I just led one of the most exposed pitches on the entire Fang without flinching.
A sudden burst of giddy laughter bubbles up from deep in my chest as the reality of my achievement sets in. I tilt my head back, letting the sound tear free in an unbridled outpouring of pure exhilaration.
"You about done up there, Delgado?" Wyatt's gruff call drifts up, immediately smothering my elation like a wet blanket.
Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention to rigging the next anchor, making quick work of clipping carabiners and threading the line. Once I've finished the systems check, I glance over the edge to find Wyatt already sizing up the final summit pitch. "Ready when you are, Croft!"
