Page 12 of Ranger's Code

That night, after closing, I step out into the back alley, the city’s hush wrapping around me like a shroud. The air is thick with salt and cooling asphalt, but beneath it, something still pulses—residual tension, a hum of wrongness that hasn’t left since earlier. I pull out my phone, the glow briefly lighting the hard line of my jaw, and make a call.

"Deacon, I’ve got something. Delivery inconsistencies, vendor name flagged under a shell corp. Something’s off."

"Send me the invoice. I’ll dig."

I hesitate. "Also, I caught a scent."

"Human or shifter?"

"Shifter. Not ours. Not local. Too faint to track, but it’s recent."

Deacon swears low. "Someone’s circling. You need backup?"

"Not yet. I’m on it."

I end the call and turn slowly, letting the air wrap around me as the silence takes hold. The night air presses in thick and briny, wind curling through the alley like a warning too soft to hear. The scent is gone now, drowned by the ocean breeze and city rot—but the memory of it lingers, phantom-sharp on the edge of my senses. Wolf. Not mine. Not welcome.

But the instinct in my gut won’t settle. It churns low and steady, like an engine waiting to be unleashed, a hum of warning vibrating beneath my ribs. Not the instinct born from paranoia—but the kind born from countless missions gone sideways, from knowing that predators can stalk silence as well as shadows. My wolf doesn’t pace. It watches. Waits. Ready to bare its teeth the moment the threat makes itself known.

Someone has been watching. Not casually. Not accidentally. The kind of watching that leaves a mark in the air, a static tension that buzzes under my skin. I can feel it even now—like the brush of breath at the back of my neck. They weren’t just nearby. They had been here. Close enough to see her. Close enough to scent me. Too close.

CHAPTER7

MAGGIE

The morning begins with me arriving early, unlocking the front door with robotic precision. I flip on the lights one by one, like a ritual to keep the shadows at bay. The scent of butter and sugar—normally grounding—hangs too thick, too sweet, like it knows I’m lying to myself, puttering in the front instead of heading into the kitchen.

My hands move through the usual motions of readying the front for the coming day—putting chairs back on the floor, rearranging artisan supplies I sell as a small revenue and to help other small entrepreneurs begin to make their own dreams come true.

I walk into the back and find Gideon already there.

Of course he is. He has to have been up for hours. The coffee is brewed. Inventory logs reviewed. The wobble in the back door hinge—fixed. He stands at the prep counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping it down with quiet efficiency, moving like the place has always been his. Like he belongs there.

It makes something inside me clench—an unwelcome knot of appreciation, irritation, and something I don’t dare name.

This bakery—especially the kitchen—is supposed to be my domain. And yet, here he is. More useful than the rest of my staff put together. Twice as steady. And every time I find myself adjusting to his presence instead of resenting it, it shakes me. Gideon is Kari’s big brother. He’s only here as a favor to Kari. I know I need to get over my perpetual crush on Gideon, but then I’ve known that for years and, as yet, have not accomplished it.

“You don’t have to do everything, you know,” I mutter, grabbing a tray from the drying rack with a little too much force. My hand trembles slightly, but I tighten my grip, hoping he doesn’t see. Everything is piling up—late deliveries, rotating staff, the quiet whispers behind my back. My world is unraveling thread by thread, and here Gideon is, just... fixing things. Steady. Unshaken. Like he belongs in the middle of my chaos. And that only makes me angrier.

“Someone has to,” he says without looking up.

I turn on him. “You may be on the payroll, but that doesn’t make this your kitchen.”

He finally meets my eyes, calm and unbothered. “No. But someone’s been treating this place like a target, and I don’t look the other way when people are under attack. You hired me as your assistant, Maggie, and Kari asked that I keep an eye on you...”

"Kari worries too much. I suppose it's a common affliction of writers..."

"I don't think Kari is being overzealous. My little sister has pretty good instincts about these things. So either let me help or tell me which part of the sabotage I’m supposed to pretend doesn’t exist. Because I’m not wired to watch it happen and do nothing.”

The words land hard. My breath hitches, my spine stiffening as if I can will the reaction away through sheer force. But it’s too late. The truth of what he says scrapes against the inside of my chest, raw and too close to the bone. I turn away before he can see the flinch, jaw clench, throat tight, everything inside me just one more push from cracking wide open.

Mid-morning brings a brief lull, and a regular named Clara—an older woman with a sharp bob, sharper tongue, and a tendency to notice everything. She leans on the counter like she owns it, tapping the glass case with her perfectly manicured nails in a slow, deliberate rhythm that grates on my nerves. Clara never misses a thing and today is no exception. There’s curiosity in her eyes, but also something else—concern, maybe. Or suspicion. I can’t tell which, and that only makes my chest tighten further.

“You’ve had a lot of unfamiliar faces lately,” Clara says casually, eyeing the kitchen staff. “Seems like a revolving door back there—although I must say this latest one is easy on the eyes. And the vendors... a different guy every week.”

I paste on a smile so tight it hurts. “We’ve had a few changes, that’s all.”

My voice comes out too bright, too practiced—like I’ve rehearsed the line in the mirror that morning. Because what else can I say? That my staff keep quitting or ghosting with zero warning? That every unknown face comes with the question: are they working for me, or against me? My grip on the counter edge tightens just slightly as I hold the smile a beat too long.

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