Page 33 of Ranger's Code

“Brought caffeine,” she says, sliding one across. “And questions.”

I lift my cup. “You want answers or alibis?”

“Oh, I already know,” Kari says. Her gaze drops to my neck, to the bite I haven’t bothered to hide. She arches an eyebrow. “About time.”

There’s a pause. Then I exhale. “I’m scared, Kari. Not of him. Not of the change. I’m scared that I like it. That I like what I’m becoming.”

Kari’s expression softens. “Maybe that’s not something to be afraid of. Maybe it means you were always more than human. Maybe your soul was always wolf and the rest of you is just... catching up. Take care of him. He may be all lethal and shit, but he’s not indestructible, and I think you could destroy him if you wanted.”

I reach across the counter, smile, and squeeze Kari’s forearm. I blink hard, my lashes brushing against flushed cheeks, then give a small nod—less a gesture of understanding and more of surrender to the weight of the moment.

“He’s safe with me.”

Kari returns the smile and the nod. “Never doubted it for a minute. I love you both.”

The knot I haven’t even known I’ve been carrying—tight, coiled, forged from years of trying to control too much and feel too little—eases at the edges. It doesn’t unravel all at once, but the pressure inside my chest shifts. I feel a quiet stretch of space open up inside me, where fear has lived. And in that space, something steadier settles—acceptance, maybe. Or at least the start of it.

* * *

When the bakery is finally cleaned and locked up for the night, I take my time walking back to the loft, with Gage as my escort. Gideon and Dalton left earlier in order to do what I’m quickly beginning to think of as ‘Ranger things.’

The streets are mostly empty, the ocean air damp and heavy with the promise of a storm. I need the silence, need a minute to feel like myself again—whoever that is now. My keys jingle in my pocket as I climb the stairs to the loft two at a time, heart pounding faster than I’ll admit. Dalton is waiting outside. He indicates he and Gage have other places to be and that Gideon is waiting.

Inside, the loft is dim except for the glow from the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. The scent of sea salt and sugar still clings to my skin, and the faint sound of waves brushes up against the silence. I step through the doorway slowly, toeing off my shoes, my fingers already working loose the buttons of my flour-dusted shirt. My body hums from a long day that started in chaos and is about to end in something far more intimate.

Wordless and intent, I cross the space between us slowly, peeling off each layer of clothing as I walk. The loft is dim, quiet, private. Mine. Ours. The cool tile presses against my bare feet as I stand naked in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of butter and vanilla from the frosting I’ve begun mixing in a half-hearted attempt to find calm.

The moment I stepped into the loft and saw Gideon standing in the kitchen, all quiet dominance and smoldering patience, something inside me clicked into place. The bowl of buttercream sits on the counter, frosting clinging to my knuckles in luscious peaks. I stir absently, my mind flicking between unfinished thoughts and the magnetic pull of the man who’s claimed me as his own.

Gideon stands leaning against the counter behind me, shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips, his arms crossed. His molten steel and wildfire gaze tracks my every movement, as if I’m something precious and breakable—or something he’s moments from devouring. There’s no smile, no grin—just heat, raw and focused. I don’t need to see his expression to feel it. The air between us tightens like a string pulled taut.

It isn’t just the kitchen that’s warm. It’s thick with tension, the kind that buzzes just beneath the skin and makes each breath feel like a prelude. My body picks up on the signal before my brain does—the heavy pulse of his attention, the invisible pull of gravity between us. I know that look, even with my back turned. That weight in the air. The quiet hum of want pressed close behind my ribs. I know what he remembers. I know exactly what he wants. And I want it, too.

“You keep looking at me like that,” I murmur, not glancing up, “and I’m going to make a mess we don’t clean up.”

His eyes burn. “Promise?”

I turn, powdered sugar dusted across my collarbone, arms bare, breath shallow. And I don’t wait.

I dip my finger into the bowl, taste the frosting slowly, letting my tongue drag across my fingertip with a deliberate tease. I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. His presence curls down my spine, awakening the wolf that still trembles just beneath my skin.

“You’re cleaning up the mess,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t answer with words. I can feel him moving restlessly, like the predator he is. Glancing over my shoulder, I see powdered sugar along his jaw, caught by his five o’clock shadow, and a smear of buttercream on his chest where I’d playfully swiped him with frosting. He watches me now, like he’s barely holding something in.

“You gonna keep staring or actually help?” I ask, not turning around.

His voice is low, rough. “Depends. You planning to bake cupcakes to go along with that frosting or just keep pretending that buttercream isn’t an excuse to distract yourself?”

I scoop a finger full of frosting, lick it slowly. “I don’t know that the two are mutually exclusive.”

He moves before I can blink. One long stride, and the space between us evaporates as his hands grasp my hips, spinning me to face him, backing me into the counter. The bowl wobbles behind me, but neither of us cares.

His eyes are dark. Not with anger. With hunger.

“You keep looking at me like that,” I say, my voice breathless, “like you’re starving.”

His mouth dips to my neck. “I am.”

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