Page 18 of Ranger's Code

And Gideon is gone.

CHAPTER10

GIDEON

Ileave Maggie’s bed with regret thick in my chest. Every instinct screams at me to stay—to pull her closer, bury myself in her scent, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist for a few more hours. But I’m not just a man anymore. I’m her protector now, and something—someone—is circling too close. Tomorrow, Dalton and Gage will be in town to help cover ground, but tonight, the responsibility is mine alone. If any threat lingers, it needs to know that Maggie isn’t unguarded; that she belongs to someone who can—and will—fight to keep her safe.

I leave the loft building and make my way down to the dock. With methodical ease, I strip, folding each item as if grounding myself in a familiar routine before the storm. Tucked behind a rusted dumpster where the salt air clings thick and heavy, I fold my clothes and place them in a waterproof bag and hide them beneath a tarp.

Then I reach inward, summoning the presence that lives beneath my skin—ancient, instinctive, coiled like lightning waiting to strike. It’s more than muscle memory now; it’s a bond of blood and bone. The wolf doesn't just rise—it surges, wild and ready, demanding the night like it belongs to it.

It rises fast and feral, a pressure behind my ribs that makes me feel as if my entire body is cracking wide, demanding release. The swirling mist surges around me, curling in supernatural tendrils as color shimmers within it. A crack of thunder rolls over the waves as lightning streaks across the sky like the threads of a spider's web, drawn to the moment my body begins to change.

My bones reform with a soundless ripple, skin giving way to fur, heat blooming down my spine. The pain is brief but biting, sharp-edged and familiar. And when it passes, I stand silent and watchful, all muscle and fang, the moonlight casting silver across my coat.

The skies rumble in harmony as I lope into the shadows—a living, breathing warning cloaked in muscle and menace. With each paw striking the ground, I silently declare my claim to this territory. My presence isn’t just defense. It’s a promise. To any predator foolish enough to get close, it says one thing clearly: you’ll have to go through me.

The moon is low when I hit the beach on which Maggie's building fronts—the sand cold beneath my paws. A misty spray curls around the edges of the surf like a secret whispered in code. In this form, the world slows and sharpens—every grain of sand, every crackle of air and shifting breeze coded into instincts as old as the blood in my veins. Each wave that breaks on the shore carries information: who has passed, what has lingered, how close danger has come. My claws leave purposeful marks in the sand as I prowl along the edge of the surf, head low, senses flaring wide. This is my time, my terrain, and anyone foolish enough to challenge that will meet more than just muscle—they’ll meet wrath.

Except tonight, there’s no calm. The air is too sharp, too charged—like the storm doesn’t just hang overhead but coils around me. The ocean whispers of trespass, and the breeze carries tension through the salt-heavy mist. I feel it before I can even form the thought: something is off. Watching. Waiting. The kind of stillness that doesn’t bring peace, but the eerie quiet before something violent cracks open in the dark.

I scent it the second I pass the old lifeguard station—a thread of scent that snaps taut through my chest. It’s not Team W. It’s not Kari. It’s not local. It’s not right. It’s sharp, predatory, unfamiliar. Rogue. And worse, the lingering scent is an arrogant, deliberate message, not an accident, from whoever left it.

It’s faint, but fresh. Too fresh. Like whoever left it behind did so minutes ago—not hours. It clings to the breeze with a kind of smugness, as if daring someone to notice, to follow. It’s not just territorial; it’s taunting.

I track it toward the north edge of the block—where Maggie's loft stands, warm light still glowing behind drawn curtains. The scent flares again as I near, sour and sharp with arrogance, like rust on old steel. It curls through the air, too deliberate to be passing. I slow near the trash bins, nose to the ground, every muscle coiled tight. The scent lingers there—bold, oily, unbothered by the idea of being found. Then it veers west, pulled like a thread toward the narrow alley behind the bakery, the path precise and unapologetic. Whoever it is, they’ve come close. Too close.

I don’t chase. Not yet. The sun is beginning to send streaks of light over the horizon, heralding the dawn. It’s time I get back to the loft. I shift, pull on my clothes and enter the building. By the time I come upstairs, dawn is encroaching on the day, painting the water pink and orange like a lie.

Maggie is already up. She’s in the kitchen, hair twisted up in a messy knot that probably started as neat but lost the battle somewhere between stress and caffeine. She perches on a stool, tucking one socked foot beneath her other leg, and squints at her laptop while nursing an espresso shot and crunching determinedly through a slice of blackened toast. She looks like someone who lost a fight with her morning but refuses to admit defeat. The moment she spots me entering, her eyes narrow like she’s preparing to add me to her list of problems.

“Let me guess,” she says, waving the toast with mock menace. “You were out brooding under the moonlight, regretting the choice you made last night.”

Ah, so she’s angry about waking up alone. She has no idea what it cost me to leave her, and now’s not the time to tell her.

"Not at all. I was doing my job. In case you've forgotten, someone is trying to sabotage your bakery and I'm trying to figure out who and why. It's become apparent that this is more than someone just trying to drive you out of business. I've talked with the team; Dalton and Gage will be here sometime today and they can keep an eye on things overnight, which will leave me to ravish you at will."

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching her blush and almost spit her coffee onto her laptop screen.

“What makes you think I'll let you do that?” she says, waving her toast like a warning.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I take a sip and level her with my most lascivious stare. "What makes you think you can stop me?" I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “You burning the toast on purpose now?”

“It’s called caramelization, Ranger.”

“It’s called ‘about to set off the smoke detector,’ Cupcake.”

"Don't call me that."

"Don't tell me what to do."

I catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth—a flicker of a smile she clearly doesn’t want me to notice, much less acknowledge. It’s not much, but it’s real. She turns away fast, like she can hide it behind the movement, but I don’t miss the subtle warmth rising in her. It’s there in her posture, the flush crawling up her neck. She might be trying to keep me at arm's length, but her body is saying something else entirely.

* * *

Later that morning, we open Sea Salt & Sugar, and I instinctively move in step behind Maggie like I have every morning this week. But today, something’s different. She moves like someone performing a role she’s not sure she remembers the lines to—her smile too wide, her laughter half a beat too late. She snaps at one of the servers for misplacing a receipt, then immediately apologizes with a brittle laugh and a brush of her hand through her hair. Her normally precise and confident rhythm was disrupted.

She’s trying too hard. Pushing too much. And everyone can feel it, including me.

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