Page 52 of Ranger's Justice

His hand grips my wrist, his fingers tight, possessive. His wolf is close—too close—and it’s not just rage in his eyes. It’s something darker.

Something that terrifies me more than almost getting killed.

Because for the first time since this whole thing started, I see what I really am to Rush Rushton. Not just an ally. Not just an asset. I’m his.

My pulse pounds in my ears, a violent, erratic drumbeat as the chaos in the warehouse swallows me whole. Gunfire cracks like a thunderstorm around me, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood. The team is moving, sweeping the compound, taking out the last of the traffickers, but my focus stays locked on Rush.

His grip is still tight on my wrist, his gray eyes wild, his breathing ragged like he’s barely holding himself together. I don’t know what scares me more—the way he’s looking at me or the fact that for a second back there, I thought I was dead.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

“Well, well… Look what we have here.”

My stomach drops.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, that primal sense of wrong clawing up my spine. I know that voice.

Warehouse Man.

Before I can react, something huge slams into my side, knocking me off my feet. The impact rips me from Rush’s grasp, sending me sprawling onto the cold concrete floor. My gun skids out of reach, spinning toward a row of rusted barrels.

I barely have time to suck in a breath before a thick, gloved hand clamps around my arm, yanking me up like a rag doll. I twist, struggling, my instincts screaming, but the grip tightens like iron.

“Remember me, sweetheart?”

The world narrows to the bastard leering down at me. The one from the warehouse. The one who got away.

The prisoner twists his face into a smirk; his nose is still crooked from where Rush had broken it, and his lip is split. Blood is drying on his temple, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s bigger than me, taller, stronger, and armed. And judging by the madness gleaming in his eyes—he’s desperate.

I thrash, but he’s ready for it. He wrenches my arm behind my back, pinning me against his chest, pressing something hard and cold against my temple—a gun.

“Let her go.” Rush’s voice is nothing but a low growl, but it carries over the gunfire, cutting through the chaos.

The man laughs. “Oh, I don’t think so. See, your little girlfriend cost me a hell of a lot of money.” His grip tightens. “And I intend to get something out of her before I go.”

My blood turns to ice. I force myself to stay still, to think. If I fight, he’ll pull the trigger. If I hesitate, I’ll die.

Rush takes a slow step forward, his hands flexing at his sides. “You touch her, and I’ll gut you where you stand.”

Warehouse Man chuckles, shoving the barrel of the gun harder against my skull. “See, that’s what I was hoping for.”

I feel the shift in Rush before I see it. His body tightens, his muscles bunching, his chest rising and falling too fast. His golden eyes flash, revealing intensity beyond anger or rage.

Something not human.

“Rush.” My voice is barely a whisper.

He doesn’t blink.

The air changes.

The tension between us pulses like a living thing, thick and crackling, charged with something I don’t understand. The gunfire around us fades, the shouts, the screams—it all becomes distant noise because all I can focus on is him.

Rush stands perfectly still.

Too still, until he moves. Fast. Too fast.

And as he does so, the swirling mist envelopes him in motion as he shifts. One second, he’s a man—broad and brutal, lethal in the way only he can be.

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