Page 49 of Ranger's Justice

I barely recognize myself, sprawled across his bed, tangled in his sheets, my skin marked with the evidence of what we did. Of what I let him take. Of how much I wanted him to take.

That’s what shakes me the most. Not just how easily he dominated me. Not just how effortlessly I gave in. But how much I craved it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, trying to find the woman I was before Rush Rushton came crashing into my life with his growling orders and his possessive hands. Before he broke through every wall I spent years building and made himself a part of me.

Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it? It’s not just sex. It’s not just an op. It’s him. Us.

The feeling of being watched washes over me. I squirm, muscles protesting as I sit up, pulling the sheet higher over my chest. The air in the room is cool against my bare skin, but it’s not just the temperature that makes a prickle of awareness skate down my spine.

I turn my head, and there he is. Rush stands near the door, arms crossed over his broad chest, legs braced apart like he’s been there for a while. Just watching me.

My pulse jumps. The look on his face isn’t soft. It’s intense, unreadable.

“Been standing there long?” My voice is scratchy with sleep, my body too warm, too attuned to his presence.

“Long enough.”

His voice is steady, controlled, but there’s something underneath it. A tension coiled tight beneath the surface, something he’s barely holding in check.

He’s dressed already—black tactical gear, his weapons strapped into place like the warrior he is. The man is a walking maelstrom, a controlled burn of violence waiting for an outlet. And today? He’ll get it.

I push the hair back from my face, forcing my own emotions into a tight, locked box. Last night is over. Whatever this thing between us is—whatever he thinks it is—I can’t afford to dwell on it.

We have a job to do, and I’ll be damned if I let Rush or anyone else treat me like I’m some fragile little thing that needs to be protected.

I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. “So, what’s the plan?”

His eyes flick over me, assessing. For a second, I swear I see something almost... possessive flash there, but it’s gone asquickly as it surfaced. He nods toward the foot of the bed, where a neatly folded pile of tactical gear sits.

“You’re with us,” he says simply.

A slow breath escapes me. “No argument this time?”

His jaw ticks, and I know the fight still lingers under his skin, but he doesn’t take the bait. “You were going to do whatever the hell you wanted anyway,” he mutters, stepping closer. “I’d rather have you where I can see you.”

Something about the way he says it sends heat curling through me. I shake it off, throwing back the covers and standing—deliberately ignoring the way his gaze darkens when he sees my bare skin. I grab the pile of clothing and gear, determined to focus on what matters.

The mission.

Not the way Rush watches me like he owns me. Not the way my body still hums from what he did to me.

One step at a time.

The staging area is buzzing with movement by the time I step outside.

The Texas sun is cresting the horizon, casting shadows over the gravel lot where the Rangers are gearing up. Weapons are being checked, ammo counted. The air smells like leather, gun oil, and adrenaline.

And the men? They move like wolves before a hunt—calm, methodical, hungry.

I step toward the group, adjusting the tactical vest Dalton tossed at me earlier. It fits snugly, my sidearm strapped securely to my thigh, my hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. I may look the part, but I am so in over my head.

No one gives me the look—the one I’ve been dreading. The‘you don’t belong here’look. Instead, they acknowledge me with nods, subtle gestures. Acceptance.

I barely have time to process it before Rush steps up beside me, his presence an unshakable force. “You good?”

I lift my chin. “Yeah.”

He studies me, his gaze flicking over my face, searching for something I don’t have a name for. “You remember the plan?”

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