Page 20 of Ranger's Code

My mouth claims hers, not with patience, but with purpose—like a man who’s spent all day resisting the urge and finally lets the leash snap. Her lips part on a gasp and my tongue slides against hers, coaxing and demanding at the same time. It’s a deep, consuming kiss that doesn’t need to ask for permission. She finds the front of my shirt, fisting the fabric as if anchoring herself to something solid.

Her knees buckle slightly, and I steady her with an arm at her waist, pulling her flush against me. She tastes like sugar and something wilder, and when she whimpers into my mouth, my pulse detonates.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. A warning. A promise. And her body answers all three.

I lift my head. "Any questions?" I ask in a calm and steady voice. She shakes her head. "Good." I kiss her again and step back before offering her a slick flyer I picked up earlier in the day. “Have you seen these?”

She takes the flyer and looks at them and then up at me, brow furrowed, confused.

“Granger Shores—a brand new beachfront condo development. Spa, gym, rooftop pool.”

She squints. “Are you looking to move to a condo here in town?”

"If I was, I'd be looking to move into a really nice converted warehouse loft with a sexy blonde to warm my bed."

Her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush, color blooming in a fast, telltale rush. I feel the twist of satisfaction coil in my gut. Not because I enjoy embarrassing her—but because I enjoy getting to her. That blush isn’t shame. It’s heat, stirred up from memory, from want. It’s the answer to a question neither of us has been brave enough to ask out loud.

Good. Let her feel it. Let her remember every damn second of last night. Maybe now she’ll stop pretending it hadn’t meant something. Because I sure as hell haven’t forgotten. Not for a heartbeat.

"Then why show it to me?"

“Because their pool’s gonna sit exactly where your mixer is.”

That gets her. Her mouth opens. Closes.

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

“I plan to and often. Two Granger-connected companies have made offers to half this block. You’re the only one left; everyone else has either sold or been forced out. I don't know how to tell you this, but Sea Salt & Sugar isn't special, you're just next.”

Her breath hitches, sharp and audible, like her body recognizes a threat her mind hasn’t yet processed. The bell at the back door interrupts her—shrill and sudden, as if the sound itself is wired to her nerves—just as she opens her mouth, perhaps to argue or deny.

Vendor drop. But it feels wrong. Too perfectly timed. Like whoever’s on the other side of that door has been waiting for just this moment.

I watch as Maggie tenses, her spine going ramrod straight. She moves to sidestep me, but I’m faster, already intercepting. My instincts scream not to let her anywhere near that door. One large hand lands firmly on her arm—firm but gentle, just enough to stop her momentum.

I don’t yank, don’t bark an order. I don’t need to. My presence alone is command enough.

“Let me.”

My voice isn’t raised, but it’s final. I open the door, my frame blocking most of the entryway like a living wall. The man on the other side is wiry, young, maybe mid-twenties, with a cap pulled too low over his face and a clipboard held like a shield.

He hands over the slip without meeting my eyes and lifts the bag of flour like it weighs nothing. But I miss the delivery; I’m too focused on the scent that hits me when the door cracks open.

Shifter. Wolf.

Not one I know. Not Team W. Not local. But the signature is unmistakable—predatory and pungent, threaded with something oily and chemical like burned plastic. Whoever this is, they’re covering their tracks poorly. Or worse, not at all.

I take the slip and step closer, deliberately invading the guy’s space. “New route?” I ask casually, voice low and edged with something sharper.

The man blinks, caught off guard. “Just filling in.”

“Sure you are.” My eyes narrow as I take in every detail—scuffed boots, a twitchy jaw, the way his fingers keep flexing around the clipboard.

He hands over the flour without another word and turns, walking fast, not quite running.

I don’t follow.

Yet.

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