Page 1 of Ranger's Code

PROLOGUE

GIDEON

Just Outside Galveston, Texas

Six Months Ago

The first time I touch a whisk, it’s out of boredom.

The second time? Survival.

Not from bullets or enemies—hell, I’ve danced with both and barely blinked—but from myself. From the silence that follows missions, that creeps in like fog and settles in my chest like a second heartbeat. One with teeth. One that growls. The kind of silence that gnaws at me and bites down hard. I feel it then—that edge, that snap waiting to happen. The line between man and wolf is always tight, but after a mission, it’s damn near threadbare.

But baking... baking keeps that line from breaking.

There’s something in the way it demands control. In the way the weight of a whisk fits in my hand—light, sure, nothing like a weapon but solid in its own way. There’s order in it. Rules. Structure. A system. Something my instincts can bend to without blood on the floor. In that moment, I’m not a weapon. I’m not a wild thing trying to stay leashed. I’m just a man, standing on a thread, trying not to come apart.

I’m barefoot in the kitchen of the Team W ranch house, bare-chested, Levis hanging low on my hips, still dusted with dirt from earlier. This place isn’t official, but it’s home. As close as we get. Our team doesn’t do official. We answer to the governor and not much else. Off the books. Off the grid.

The air smells like gun oil, old bacon grease, and whatever the hell Gage burned last time he tried to “experiment.” The walls are thick, reinforced, but the sound still bleeds through—Dalton giving Deacon hell over a game, Gage adding fuel to the fire, and Rush, calm as ever, dropping one-liners like a sniper takes shots. Always clean. Always lethal.

I can’t be still. The run didn’t help—too much animal, not enough release. The mission clawed something open in me. They all do, in one way or another, but this last one... it asked too much of the beast inside me. Asked me to go deeper, stay longer, tear cleaner. My body’s humming now, wired like a trip cord, twitchy and strung tight. I’ve cleaned my gear. Twice. Checked my sidearm. Paced the perimeter until the ground remembers my boots better than it remembers rain.

And still... I’m not settled. I can’t shift again, not here. Not without a reason. The others don’t need to see what I’m holding back.

But doing nothing? That’s a death sentence.

So I move. I open the pantry. Flour. Sugar. A crusted bottle of vanilla extract. These aren’t my tools—not the ones I trained with—but they’re something. And I needsomething.

Eggs crack under my fingers—one hand, no shells. Instinct. Measure by feel. Stir. Fold. Pour.

It comes quick, faster than I expect. There’s peace in the process.

No thinking about targets or triggers. No blood. No heat rising under my skin, begging for claws.

Just rhythm. Follow the damn recipe. That’s all.

The first cake sucks. Dry as sand. Edges crisped to hell. Probably too much baking soda. Doesn’t matter. The wolf’s quiet.

Next night, I’m back at it. Still wired. Still human enough to stay on two legs, but only just.

I don’t say a word to the team—not about the light burning past midnight. Not about the way the house starts smelling like cinnamon and butter instead of sweat and steel. I just keep baking. Cakes. Cookies. Cupcakes. Whatever the pantry throws at me.

There’s control in it. Precision. No games. No bullshit. No commands from above. You follow the steps, the results show up. No politics. No collateral damage. No cleanup crew.

Just sweetness. Rising.

One night, after a hard run, I come in from the back—still half-charged with stormlight, skin raw from the shift—and there’s Rush in the kitchen, eating a blondie straight off the cooling rack.

He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna open a bakery next?”

I don’t answer. Just pull on my jeans, tie the apron around my waist, rinse the blood and dirt off my hands, and get back to it.

Dalton wanders in, swipes a blondie without looking. “Ew, are you gonna drip sweat all over the treats?”

I growl low. “It’s my secret ingredient.”

He makes a face, but he eats the damn thing, anyway.

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