Page 13 of Ranger's Code

Clara hums, lips pursing like she already doubts the answer. “Hope that’s all it is,” she says, but her tone holds a note too pointed, too knowing. Like she’s not just making conversation—she’s issuing a warning dressed up as a pleasantry. It lodges in my spine like a splinter, sharp and impossible to ignore.

That comment sits heavy on my shoulders long after Clara leaves. It trails me like a shadow through the kitchen, slipping into the quiet moments between orders and clinging to me like the smell of scorched sugar. Each time I glance at my staff, the words echo—unfamiliar faces, different vendors, a revolving door. It isn’t just gossip. It’s a mirror. And I hate what it reflects: a business slipping out of my grip, and the creeping dread that Clara has simply said what I’m too afraid to admit.

The rush hits soon after, and I dive into my work like it might save my sanity. I move with the frenetic energy of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts, barking instructions and clattering bowls louder than necessary. My hands move quickly, automatically—cracking eggs, leveling flour, setting timers—but my mind stays knotted around the weight of Clara’s words and Gideon’s too-steady presence.

I’m halfway through measuring ingredients for a custom wedding order, trying to pretend the ground beneath my feet isn’t shifting, trying to pretend the pressure in my chest isn’t tightening with every passing hour. If I just keep moving, maybe the panic won’t catch up. Maybe the cracks in my foundation won’t spread.

I reach for the fresh bag of sugar, mind buzzing, hands on autopilot as I empty it into the container from which I measure out the amounts I need, spilling a bit on the counter. Taking a cloth, I sweep it from the counter into my hand and freeze. My pulse skips. My breath hitches. My stomach turns cold, a thick weight dropping in my gut as dread claws up my spine. I can feel it; contained within the sugar crystals like a buried mine—glass—shattered, jagged, unmistakable.

This isn’t just careless. Not just bad luck. This is a deliberate act. An invasion disguised as an accident, a threat masquerading as a mistake. A message, yes—but not subtle. Bold. Brazen. And it had nearly slipped past my fingertips like a whispered warning I almost didn’t hear. Someone wants me scared. Someone wants me off-balance. And now, they have my full attention.

My breath catches like a snare tightening in my chest. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the bag, and my knees threaten to give out. My heart thunders against my ribs in a frantic, stuttering rhythm, so loud it drowns out the hum of the ovens, the music playing from the front, the rest of the world entirely. My vision blurs—not from tears, but from the sick, disorienting flood of adrenaline that says this isn’t an accident. Someone wants to hurt me.

I dump the sugar and the glass into the trash, seal the bag with shaking hands, and carry it out back with the stiffness of someone moving through a dream turned nightmare. The moment the lid snaps shut on the dumpster, the silence hits me—louder than the clatter of trays or the hum of the ovens. I make it back inside and to my office in a haze, each step heavier than the last, until I close the door behind me and press my back to it. Only then does my spine sag and my shoulders collapse inward, like the fear has finally found its way into my bones. I haven’t just found glass in a bag of sugar. The discovery proves that my safety has already been compromised. And that realization nearly knocks me to the floor.

My hands brace on the desk, chest heaving, as if the act of holding myself upright is the only thing keeping me from shattering. The walls feel too close, pressing in with a suffocating weight, and my skin itches like the air itself has turned hostile. My control—already shredded by weeks of unease and mounting failures—snaps in a silent scream behind my teeth, pain and fury tangled so tightly together I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I want to scream, to throw something, to cry, but all I can do is breathe through clenched teeth and pray the tremble in my legs doesn’t give me away.

I open my eyes to find Gideon standing behind me, feet planted wide like he owns the damn room, his attention locked on his phone screen with that impenetrable calm I’m coming to both resent and rely on. He looks quiet—comfortable, focused, and steady like nothing has rattled him all day. Like he hasn't just witnessed me fall apart.

"Found something," he says without looking up.

“So did I.”

Gideon looks up. “Tell me.”

I hesitate, arms crossed tight over my chest like I can hold the fear in by force. “There was glass. In the sugar.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in the room does—it goes still, sharper. “How much?”

“Enough that if I hadn’t seen it…” I shake my head, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t a broken jar or a crack in the bag. It was inside a new sealed bag. It was buried and hidden as if it was meant to be missed.”

He swears under his breath, low and quiet. “Anyone else touch it?”

“No. I dumped it. Bag’s out back, double-tied. But Gideon…” My voice dips. “That was no accident. Someone wanted it in the batter. Someone wanted someone to get hurt.”

His jaw flexes, but he says nothing.

That’s when I try to make light of it. I stare at him, pulse still thudding in my ears, my voice thinner than I mean it to be. “Do you just... lurk everywhere now?” My attempt at sarcasm falls flat, the edge dulled by the tremor I can’t quite swallow. I don’t know whether his presence annoys or relieves me—but the part of me that feels less alone also bothers me.

"Only where it matters," he replies, glancing up at me.

I move past him to see his phone. Delivery logs—columns of data, time stamps, product codes, signatures. My eyes catch on the repetition instantly. Three different shipments logged under the same ID number in the last ten days. The same manifest number. The same vendor name. But subtle differences in product weights, driver names, even crate markings. My throat tightens. That kind of discrepancy isn’t just oversight—it’s orchestration.

"These aren’t the same deliveries," I whisper.

“Nope.” His gaze lifts to mine, just for a second, and lingers. Not just to confirm what he already knows—but to check on me. The tightness in my voice. The tension in my shoulders. Something about me is off, and he clocks it. I can see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the subtle shift in his posture. He isn’t just focused on the sabotage. He’s reading me, too.

My fingers curl around the edge of the desk. “You’re sure?”

“Cross-referenced with footage. Different drivers. Different crates. Same manifest,” he says, choosing to ignore what I’m sure he’s seen in my demeanor.

I’m grateful, but I don’t want to be grateful. Gratitude feels too close to dependence, and dependence is dangerous. It makes my chest tighten in defense, even as something warmer—something quieter—uncoils just beneath the surface. I don’t want to feel the weird twist in my stomach that comes every time he looks at me like that—like this is more than a job to him. Like he sees me. Not just the bakery, not just the problem. Like I’m not alone in this. And maybe that’s what scares me most of all.

“Thanks,” I say, voice quiet.

He finally looks at me then, eyes dark and steady. “Don’t thank me. Just stay sharp.”

The words are simple. But the look? That look carries something weightier than reassurance. It’s steady, unreadable, and far too focused on me—not just the problem. It makes my throat close up, the pressure building there a mix of panic and something I refuse to name. Like he sees too much. Like he already knows what I’m trying so damn hard to hide.

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