Page 41 of Ranger's Code

I let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-disbelief. “You sure?”

“Deacon doesn’t use words like ‘all’ lightly.”

I nod slowly, a grin spreading across my face. I reach for the cupcake still in his hand, pluck the candle out, and pop the entire thing into my mouth without ceremony. He stares at me, amused and a little awed, as I chew.

“Now it’s a celebration,” I say, licking a smear of frosting off my lip. “Tell me that wasn’t the most satisfying dessert of your life.”

Gideon’s eyes darken, his voice dropping low. “Still waiting for dessert.”

I laugh, flushed and fearless. “Then I suggest we move this party indoors, Ranger.”

The phone buzzes again—another message fromDeacon: Confirmed. FBI’s launching the press conference tomorrow. You’ll want to watch.

Gideon clicks the screen off and looks at me, his expression sliding from primal satisfaction to something more intimate—something quieter, grounded in something deeper. It’s not victory in his eyes. It’s reverence. Like seeing me now, whole and unbroken after everything, humbles him in a way nothing else could.

“It’s done,” he says again, quieter this time.

And I nod, because I know it too. The storm has passed. But our story isn’t over.

Gideon exhales and looks down at me. “That sound?” he asks. I raise an eyebrow. “That’s the sound of a very expensive house of cards collapsing,” he says with a feral grin.

CHAPTER20

GIDEON

The beach is quiet at midnight; the world hushed beneath a sky slicked with stars. Only the rhythmic whisper of waves meeting the shore, soft and ceaseless, like a lullaby drawn out by the sea itself. Galveston rarely sleeps—it pulses with life even in the deepest hours—but tonight, the beach feels changed. Not empty, not still. Just aware. As if it has borne witness to the collapse of something dark and heavy and now stands watch as something new takes root. The air holds its breath, reverent and expectant, cradling the edge of a beginning.

Maggie and I slip off our shoes and step onto the cool sand, walking hand-in-hand through the hush of midnight. Her fingers lace with mine, cool and steady, but her energy thrums with quiet confidence. She takes each step with grounding, deliberate movements, as if she belongs in this in-between place—where sky meets water, and something ancient whispers in the waves. The moon hangs swollen and bright above us, casting molten silver over her bare skin, and turning her hair into a tangle of stormlight and promise. She looks over at me; her smile soft and sure, edged with something new: peace.

“Care to go for a run?” she says.

“I can think of few things I’d rather do,” I say in a low, seductive growl.

We stop near the dunes, where the sand stretches pale and unbroken, shimmering under the moon’s watchful gaze. Maggie turns to me with a half-smile, the kind that dares me to look away—and promises I won’t want to. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches for the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it over her head, the fabric sliding upward like a caress. The moonlight follows every inch of newly revealed skin, casting her in silver and shadow, soft and powerful all at once. When the shirt clears her head, she shakes out her hair—wild and free—and folds the shirt with casual care, placing it atop a flat rock with reverence, as though this undressing is a ritual shared only between us and the stars.

Piece by piece, she undresses—sliding off her jeans with a slow roll of her hips, then her underthings with the kind of grace that makes the night hold its breath. Her body is bare, not with shyness, but with purpose. She moves like a woman who has shed more than fabric—like she’s sloughing off fear and doubt with each layer. Lean and luminous in the moonlight, her figure is all shadowed curves and quiet command, shaped by strength and softened by survival. The breeze caresses her skin, and she welcomes it. There’s no shame in her stance, only fierce composure. No hesitation, just the undeniable presence of someone who has claimed every piece of herself—and is now letting me see it all.

I can’t move, can’t breathe. Watching her like that—with the moonlight painting her skin in soft silver and the sea breeze teasing strands of her hair loose—feels like witnessing something elemental and untouchable. She’s luminous, carved from shadow and starlight, a woman not trying to become anything but simply being everything. Power curls beneath her skin like a promise, her stance both unguarded and unshakable. It’s not just that she’s beautiful—though she is—it’s that she stands there fully seen, fully known, and wholly unafraid. And I want nothing more than to deserve to be beside her in this moment.

Awe prickles under my skin like static as I tug off my shirt, then unfasten my jeans with practiced ease, folding both garments with a reverence that mirrors the quiet intensity in my chest. Every movement feels deliberate, tethered to something sacred. My pulse thuds—not just from the hum of attraction that never truly dulls around her—but from something deeper, bone-deep. This moment isn’t about possession. It isn’t even about passion, though it simmers hot and constant. It’s about honoring what we’ve become together. Something wild. Something earned. Something permanent.

She moves toward me, slow and sure, the soft pads of her feet whispering against the sand. Her gaze never leaves mine, bold and steady, and when she reaches me, her fingers slip into mine without hesitation. The contact is grounding, electric. Together, we step forward, letting the space between us widen only as much as necessary for the transformation to begin—the moment intimate and inevitable.

The mist comes fast, rising like breath from the belly of the earth. It curls around our ankles, not cold or damp like fog, but warm and electric, shot through with threads of gold and silver that shimmer like starlight caught in motion. The air pulses with it—an almost silent thrum, like a heartbeat too large for one body to hold. The scent of it is wild and grounding all at once, like pine smoke and rain-soaked stone, ancient and familiar. As the mist thickens, it seems to recognize us, folding around Maggie with a kind of reverence, brushing against her bare skin like a whisper of welcome. It climbs higher, tugging at the edges of what will be. Lightning flickers faintly inside it, veiled and playful, as thunder rolls far off like a drumbeat marking time. It doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels like a promise. A reckoning of blood and bone. Like coming home.

Her wolf form stands tall beside me—radiant and wild. Her coat gleams like burnished gold, woven through with streaks of sunlight that dance with every shift of her body. The hues in her fur seem alive, flickering like firelight, casting a glow even under the moon’s silver gaze. Her eyes—no longer just amber, but molten—shine with a fierce clarity that takes my breath. Intelligence burns in them, sharp and knowing. Pride. Power. Freedom. She doesn’t just look like herself; she looks more. Transcendent. A creature born not of myth, but of memory and magic.

Beside her, my wolf stands steady—darker, more grounded. My coat ripples with charcoal and ash, my frame broad and unshakable. Together, we are contrast and complement, shadow and flame. We don’t move at first. We don’t need to. The bond between us hums like a live wire, a pulse exchanged through breath and silence. And when we finally turn to the shoreline, it’s not with urgency. It’s with intent. Two wolves. One rhythm. A promise written into the night.

Then we run. Together, we surge forward as if the earth itself has whisperedgo. Our paws strike the sand in perfect rhythm, spraying fine grains into the air like stardust, the cool ocean breeze slicing through our fur as we race. This isn't survival. This isn't duty. It’s something older, purer—the pure thrill of freedom. The tide roars beside us, whitecaps catching the moonlight, echoing our joy with each crashing wave. Our bodies stretch into motion, a blur of golden fire and shadowed steel, two wolves streaking down the shoreline, breathless, alive, and limitless. There is no destination, only the rhythm of our bond, the celebration of what we’ve survived—and who we’ve become. Nothing chases us. Nothing holds us. There is only this: the night, the sea, and everything ahead.

The surf laps at our heels, a steady rhythm to match the thunder of my heart. Above us, stars spin in their endless celestial dance, distant but radiant, like they’re bearing witness. And between the earth and sky, there is her—my mate, my fire, the axis on which my world turns. Every part of my soul finds anchor in her presence. She runs beside me like she’s always belonged to the wild, like the sea knows her name. There’s no fear anymore. No duty. No past grief clawing at my spine. Just her. Wild and golden. And mine.

Eventually, we slow, breath coming hard and fast, hearts still drumming from the thrill of our run. The mist rolls in to meet us once more, curling around our legs with a sentient kind of grace, like it remembers our shapes and stories. It shimmers gold in the moonlight, soft as breath, alive with heat and memory. As we return to human form, the mist dissolves around us, leaving a whisper of warmth in its wake.

We collapse onto the blanket we brought, limbs tangled and skin cooling under the coastal breeze. Sand clings to our calves and forearms, tiny grains etched like stars against flesh. The surrounding air is thick with salt, the faint trace of ozone, and something more elusive—something that feels like magic not just in the air, but in our blood.

The beach cradles us, quiet and endless, as if the sea itself has fallen into awe-struck silence. The tide moves with reverence, gentle and rhythmic, like a lullaby played in the key of breath and heartbeat. Above us, the stars blink into place one by one, a thousand tiny witnesses to the making of something sacred. Around us, the sand holds our shared heat, a cradle of warmth and wonder, the imprint of two souls newly written into the story of the earth. And within the hush, it is not silence we hear—but belonging, vast and certain.

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