Page 17 of Ranger's Justice

Rush doesn’t speak. He just tightens his hold. A muscle ticks in his jaw, but it’s his eyes that freeze me in place. They don’t look human. They look like they belong to something else. Something predatory.

“Rush,” I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice.

He doesn’t answer; doesn’t even acknowledge me.

Ortega gags, his face turning red. “P-please…”

Rush’s voice is lethal. “I don’t do warnings.”

And then, with a brutal snap of his wrist, he hurls Ortega to the ground.

The cartel enforcer gasps, clutching his throat, barely able to crawl away before Rush’s boot lands on his chest, pinning him like a bug.

I force myself to move, stepping closer. “Rush, he’s done. Let him go.”

Rush’s chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s fighting something, something just beneath his skin. I don’t know how or why, but somewhere deep in my gut, I know if I don’t stop him, he won’t stop at all.

So, I do something reckless. I touch him.

A simple thing—my fingertips against his arm—but the second I make contact, his whole body goes still. He turns his head slowly, and when his eyes meet mine, a shiver runs through me. Because for a moment, it’s not Rush looking at me. It’s something else, and it wants blood.

I swallow hard. “Rush.”

A long beat. Then—just as fast as it came, the wildness in his gaze fades. He blinks once, his jaw ticking, and then he steps back, letting Ortega crumble to the ground.

“Get out.” His voice is quiet. Deadly. Final.

Ortega scrambles to his feet, dragging his companion with him. Neither of them spare me a second glance before they stumble out the door and disappear into the night.

And then, Rush turns to me. I know, without a doubt, that I’m about to catch holy hell for my little stunt. As much as I hate to admit it, I know that’s what it was—a stunt to prove something to Rush or to me, I’m not sure. I barely have time to take a single breath before Rush’s fingers wrap around my wrist, dragging me out of my loft.

“Hey!” I struggle, but he’s too damn strong, his grip unrelenting. “Where the hell are we going?”

He doesn’t answer. I dig my heels in, but it’s useless. He hauls me through the parking garage, past my car, past every exit, straight toward his blacked-out SUV. The doors unlock with a beep, and before I can fight, he’s spun me around and pinned me against the side of the vehicle.

A sharp gasp tears from my throat, my palms flattening against the metal. His body cages me in, heat rolling off him in waves. I tilt my head back, and—God help me—his eyes are still burning, still glowing with something too intense, too inhuman.

I swallow hard. “Rush…”

He slaps his palm against the truck beside my head, cutting off my words. “Of all the stupid, reckless stunts…” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, his breathing heavy. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted to sleep in my own bed,” I bite out.

His jaw tightens. “You could be dead.”

“But I’m not.”

He leans in, and damn it, I feel it again—the heat, the danger, the pull of something between us that I don’t understand but can’t ignore.

“You’re done,” he says, voice like gravel and steel. “No more running. No more sneaking out. You’re under my protection, and you’re going to do what I tell you.”

I lift my chin. “Or what?”

His eyes flash. For one charged, aching second, we’re too close, breathing the same air, feeling the same fury. And then, he lets go. Not gently. Not carefully. Just gone, stepping back like I burn him.

I feel the loss of his heat like a slap.

Rush takes a slow breath, running a hand over his face. “Get in the truck,” he mutters.

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