In one smooth motion, tucks the handle into the back pocket of his jeans. Theblade rests against his lower back like it belongs there—casual, competent, a little dangerous.
Then he turns to Kyle.
“Apologize.”
“What?” Kyle sputters. “Look, man, I was just joking around?—”
“I didn't ask if you were joking.” Everett's doesn’t rise. It’s oddly quiet. More dangerous. “I said apologize. To her. Now.”
Kyle's eyes dart to Tara, who's watching the whole thing with the hungry expression of someone who just struck content gold. “Look, I don't—this is—Tara, tell him?—”
“He's off my mountain.”
Everett doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. Every person in that clearing hears him perfectly.
Tara steps forward, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. “Everett, let's not be hasty. Kyle is an integral part of my crew. I'm sure we can work this out?—”
“You can work it out somewhere else.” Everett's gaze doesn't waver from Kyle. “He goes, or I pull the plug on your access. Your choice.”
“You need this show,” Tara says. There's an edge to her voice now, the velvet glove slipping to reveal the steel underneath. “Your bookings, your reputation, everything we've built this week—you'd throw that away over one comment?”
“It's just amountain.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches. My heart stutters.
It's just a mountain.
“It's your legacy,” Tara presses. “Everything your family built?—”
“I'll lose my mountain before I let the cost come at Sierra's expense.”
The world stops.
I feel my brothers' eyes on me. Feel the weight of every camera in that clearing. Feel the impossible, terrifying, devastating truth of what Everett just said—out loud, in public, in front of everyone.
He would give up everything. His lodge. His legacy. Everything that’s made him who he is.
For me.
Tara's expression flickers—calculation replacing frustration. Her eyes move from Everett to me and back, cataloging, connecting, filing away.
“Fine.” She snaps her fingers at Kyle. “You're done. Get your gear and go.”
Kyle's face goes purple. “You can't be serious?—”
“I said go.”
He goes. Spitting curses under his breath, throwing me a look that promises this isn't over, but he goes.
The crowd slowly resumes chatting and moving about. Conversations resume. The competition prep continues like nothing happened.
But something happened. Something huge.
Roman materializes at my side, his big-brother radarclearly pinging at maximum alert. “You okay, Shutterbug?”
“Fine.” My voice sounds distant, even to me. “I'm fine.”
“That was one hell of a throw.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Dad would've been proud.”
