Page 8 of Ranger's Code

They’re wrong.

Because they don’t see me yet. But I see everything. And my body is already moving.

“Keep walking,” I say from behind them, my voice low and cold as a steel blade. It isn’t a suggestion—it’s a promise. The kind of tone that freezes blood and makes smarter men turn heel before things get ugly. My wolf pushes forward, teeth bared beneath the surface, just barely held back by the thin thread of control.

The men turn. One is wiry, all jittery limbs and a sneer that doesn’t reach his eyes—posture slouched like he couldn’t care less, but his gaze is sharp and mean. The other is a tank of a man, thick shoulders, dead stare, the type who moves when told and hits hard when he does. They don’t smell right. Not like locals, not like curious idiots. They smell like gasoline and cheap motel soap, like adrenaline and something metallic beneath. Trouble. Professional, calculated trouble.

“You her boyfriend?” the wiry one asks, his voice full of mockery, like the idea amuses him—like I’m not a threat, just some guy playing protector for attention. His grin curls higher as he adds, “Didn’t figure cupcake shops came with built-in muscle.”

“No,” I say, stepping closer, my tone flat and lethal. “I’m the last mistake you’ll make tonight.”

That’s the only warning they get—barely a heartbeat between the last word and the moment I move. One blink and I’m in motion, all controlled violence and predator precision. No theatrics. No noise. Just the clean, brutal efficiency of a man who knows exactly how to end a threat before it begins.

One man slams back against the brick wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, my forearm pressed tight across his throat. The other goes down with a grunt, swept off his feet in a blur of motion that leaves him gasping on the pavement, wide-eyed and stunned. I don’t draw blood. I don’t have to. My presence alone, the coiled violence simmering beneath my calm, does all the talking. No broken bones. No visible bruises. Just fear—raw, cold, and lingering in the air long after I step back.

“Next time, you won’t get a warning,” I say, my voice like gravel and gunmetal, quiet enough to make them lean in—and cold enough to make them regret it. My eyes burn, steady and unblinking, daring them to test me again.

They bolt, stumbling over each other in their rush to get away, shoes scraping the pavement, the stench of fear clinging to them like smoke. One mutters a curse, the other doesn’t look back. They disappear into the dark like rats flushed from cover, and I stand still, watching, until they’re swallowed by the night.

Maggie is pale, furious, and rattled all at once. I can sense her pulse still thundering in her ears, drowning out the city’s background noise. Her hands clench at her sides, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. She hates how shaken she feels, how the fear slides under her skin like ice—and how badly she wants to lean into the safety I just provided. That makes her angrier than anything else.

“They were probably just...” she begins, but her voice cracks halfway through the sentence. She clears her throat, trying to force it back into something solid, something unaffected. Her body betrays her—her hand trembles as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her breath still uneven, skin still buzzing from the adrenaline. She’s scared, yes, but something else has her off-balance too—the sheer proximity of me, the way I stepped between her and danger like it was instinct, like she belonged there, behind me. It leaves her shaken in ways she doesn’t want to admit, and her flustered attempt at denial feels paper-thin even to her own ears.

“No,” I cut in, my voice rougher than before, darker. “That wasn’t random.” My eyes stay locked on hers, refusing to let her look away. “That was a test. Someone sent them to see how far they could push—and how fast I’d respond.”

I don’t say it to scare her. I say it because she needs to understand. Because her fear is justified. And because the idea of someone targeting her—my Maggie—sets something wild and feral stirring in my chest. I take a step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head to keep meeting my eyes.

“You need to take this seriously,” I add, voice low, meant only for her. “Because I sure as hell am.”

She opens her mouth, but no words come. Everything she wants to say—thank you, I’m fine, I don’t need you—dies on her tongue. The heat of my presence, the way I look at her like she’s something worth protecting, unravels her resolve. Her throat bobs as she swallows the emotion trying to claw its way up. She closes her mouth slowly, then nods once, jerky and reluctant, like the admission costs her something she doesn’t want to give.

“Come on,” I say, my voice softer now, but no less firm. “I’ll walk you home.”

I don’t offer it like a suggestion. It’s a declaration, a silent vow embedded in those six words that says I’m not letting her walk home alone—not tonight, not ever, not while I’m breathing. And maybe it’s the way my eyes pin hers, steady and protective, or maybe it’s the way her heart won’t slow down, but she doesn’t protest. She doesn’t want to. She just falls in beside me, too aware of the heat radiating off my body and the silence stretching between us, thick with unspoken things neither of us is quite ready to name.

She doesn’t argue. The words hover on her tongue, unspoken and heavy. She isn’t used to leaning on anyone. Doesn’t like how easily I make her feel safe. Or how tempting it is to let me protect her—even just for one night.

When we reach her building, I slow my steps, not crowding her but staying close enough to intercept anything—or anyone—that dares get near. She fumbles with her key code once before getting it right, fingers shaky, breath shallow. I don’t say a word, just stand there like a wall between her and the rest of the world. Only when the door clicks open and she steps inside do I let my muscles unclench.

“Lock it. Don’t open it for anyone but me. Got it?” My voice drops lower, rough with the edge of command that leaves no room for argument. It isn’t just protective—it’s primal. My body stands taut, eyes trained on the door, daring her to test the boundary I’m setting. Not because I don’t think she can handle herself, but because I can’t stomach the thought of her facing another moment of danger alone.

She hesitates, the weight of the moment catching up to her. There’s a flicker in her eyes—defiance, curiosity, maybe even a challenge—but under it all is a trembling she can’t hide. “And if I do?” she asks, voice low and taut, trying to sound braver than she feels. The words aren’t flippant. They’re a test, not of me, but of how far I’ll go to keep her safe.

“Then I sleep on your doorstep.”

She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t have the same bite it usually does. It’s softer this time—deflection more than defiance. “Fine,” she says, the word laced with reluctant surrender. Holding herself together has spent all her fire, so her voice lacks heat.

The door closes, I hear the lock click, and I step back into the shadows, swallowed by the night like smoke. Hours pass. The world dims and quiets, but the energy in me never settles. I leave her building only long enough to patrol the area but always keeping it within sight.

Later that night, when the sky blackens, and the streetlamps buzz to life, I return. Mist rolls across the pavement like a living thing, curling around my boots, drawn to me. The wind shifts, sharp with salt and storm. Overhead, clouds swirl and gather, charged with something more than weather. Something ancient. Something watching.

And in a pulse of lightning and heat, I shift.

It isn’t just a transformation. It’s a release. My body blurs into motion, the air cracking with magic as bone and sinew bend, stretch, reshape. Light fractures around me, silver licking across my skin before it vanishes beneath fur. My eyes glow like wildfire. Massive, black as midnight and silent, the wolf emerges—not separate from me, but more of me than anything else ever is.

Massive, dark fur bristling with electric energy, eyes glowing like twin moons lit from within. I lift my muzzle to the sky, and the howl that tears from me splits the night open—long and low, wild and ancient. It echoes through the mist-laced streets like a vow, a warning, a claim.

CHAPTER5

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