Page 11 of Ranger's Justice

“You don’t understand what you just walked into,” I say finally, keeping my voice measured. “You think this is a game, Marlow?”

She bristles, turning to face me fully. “I’m not stupid, Rush.”

“No?” I glance at her, and something inside me tightens at the way she’s looking at me—like she’s daring me to challenge her. “Because you sure as hell acted like it tonight.”

That gets a reaction. Her eyes flash, her fingers curling into fists on her lap. “I had a plan.”

I snort. “Yeah? What was it? Piss off a dozen armed men and hope they were feeling generous?”

Her cheeks flush, and damn it, I shouldn’t find it sexy that she’s this pissed off at me.

“I was getting proof,” she grits out.

“You were getting yourself killed.”

We’re at a stoplight, and I turn to look at her, really look at her. Her jaw is tight, her body tense, but there’s something else underneath all that fire—something sharp and desperate.

This isn’t just about exposing Hollister. This is personal. But then I suspect for her, it’s always been personal.

I watch her carefully. “Tell me what you were hoping to find.”

Cassidy hesitates. That’s new—thinking before she speaks.

Finally, she sighs. “I traced a shipment to that warehouse. A shipment tied to my stepfather.”

Hollister. That name alone is enough to make my wolf growl inside me.

She squirms in her seat. “I had to see it for myself.”

The light turns green. I don’t hit the gas right away. Instead, I study her, my pulse a slow, deliberate thud. There’s a line between bravery and recklessness, and Cassidy Marlow has a bad habit of walking that line like a tightrope.

She’s so damn determined, and that determination is going to get her killed.

I take a breath. “Listen to me carefully.”

She arches an eyebrow, like she’s daring me to order her around. If history is any predictor of the future, she will not have much of a choice. She won’t back down, and I won’t let her get herself killed.

“This is over,” I tell her. “You’re out. You stay the hell away from the cartel. From Hollister. From all of it.”

Cassidy laughs. Actually laughs.

“Oh, Ranger,” she says, her voice dripping sweet mockery, “you really don’t know me at all, do you?”

I grip the wheel, letting that settle in my chest. She’s wrong. I do know her.

And that’s what scares the hell out of me.

The second I pull onto the open road, Cassidy twists in her seat and crosses her arms like she’s bracing for a fight.

Good; because she’s about to get one.

I grip the wheel, jaw locked, forcing my breathing to slow. The rush of combat is fading, but my instincts are still screaming at me to do something reckless. Like pull over and make her swear on whatever god she believes in that she’ll never pull this kind of shit again.

She won’t, of course—swear never to endanger herself again. Cassidy Marlow doesn’t scare. She should, and that pisses me off more than anything.

“Alright, Ranger,” she says, voice sharp as a blade. “I’m done waiting. Who the hell are you? I know your name, but why did you pull me out of there?”

I glance at her, my grip on the wheel tightening. “You were about to get yourself killed. That’s why. Was I supposed to leave you and just retrieve your bullet-ridden corpse?”

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