Page 19 of Ranger's Code

My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless and on edge. Watching Maggie play pretend, acting like everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t, grates like sand under my skin. It would’ve been easier if she’d snapped, yelled, thrown something. At least that would’ve been real. But this brittle cheerfulness? This forced calm for the benefit of her staff and maybe even for me? It reads like a lie. And my instincts hate lies.

She’s not just holding it together—she’s strangling the edges of her composure like it might bolt if she lets up for even a second. And that—that—itches at something primal in me. Because wolves don’t fake control. They either have it, or they don’t. And Maggie? She’s close to cracking wide open, and the worst part is, she doesn’t trust anyone enough to admit it.

It’s not just that something rattled her. It’s that she clearly doesn’t trust herself to show it. That kind of pressure? It cracks people open from the inside. I’ve seen it before in war zones. And it looks a hell of a lot like this.

I text Deacon between orders:

Gideon: Anything back on those LLCs?

Deacon: Two are Granger-linked. One just bought the surf shop across from Maggie’s place. She’s surrounded.

I stare at the phone, thumb hovering.

Gideon: We’ve got a problem. The scent from last night—not ours. And it was close.

By mid-afternoon, customers swamp the bakery. Locals drift in like clockwork, tourists snap pictures of the pastry case, and a couple of college kids spread out their laptops across a corner table like it’s a shared office space they haven’t paid for. The shop buzzes with chatter and espresso machines, the comforting chaos of a booming day.

Maggie weaves through it all, pink-cheeked and laser-focused, her hands flying between ovens and displays, but I can see the cracks widening. Her smiles come too fast, too sharp. She flinches every time the order bell rings, and her laugh—normally low and sarcastic—is brittle at the edges.

She cracks a joke about needing a clone when someone asks for gluten-free options, but the punchline doesn’t land. Not because it isn’t funny, but because her voice shakes. Her staff exchange glances when they think she’s not looking. I see them. More importantly, I see her—the too-tight shoulders, the clipped replies, the way she’s pretending not to notice the pressure mounting minute by minute.

And beneath it all, she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she moves faster, like outrunning her own exhaustion. It’s not resilience. It’s desperation dressed up as control.

She drops a tray of lemon bars, and the sound it makes as it crashes to the floor is loud enough to cut through the hum of the espresso machine and the background chatter. The lemon bars hit with a wet splat and a shatter of ceramic, powdered sugar flying like a cloudburst. The entire shop pauses, just for a second. Maggie stands there frozen, hands clenched at her sides, shoulders tight enough to snap. Then, too brightly, she forces out a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Damn it,” she hisses, then pastes on a smile so fake it hurts to watch. “We’re discontinuing these. For safety reasons.”

I crouch to help her clean it up.

“You’re pushing too hard,” I murmur.

“I’m fine,” she replies through her teeth, wiping up the lemony mess.

“You’re twitching like a cat on espresso.”

“Twitch this,” she snaps, and pushes the rag into my face before spinning on her heel and retreating.

It’s irrational and petty and hot as hell.

* * *

That night, after closing, the bakery finally exhales. The lights are dimmed, the hum of the espresso machine is silenced, and the chairs are flipped upside down on tabletops. But the tension between us? Still loud, still pulsing.

I find her in the back, sleeves pushed up, hair falling from the knot on her head, reorganizing sugar bins with far more force than necessary. She’s not sorting; she’s venting. Scooping, pouring, slamming plastic lids shut like they’re responsible for every piece of stress weighing her down.

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. She knows I’m here. I can feel it in the way her movements stiffen, the way her shoulder blades lock tight beneath her shirt. Still, she doesn’t look up.

Not until she’s good and ready to.

“Got something you need to say, Ranger?” she asks, dry as dust but not half as subtle as she thinks. She doesn’t even glance up from the bin she’s aggressively re-labeling. I know she’s rattled without seeing her face.

I can feel it rolling off her in waves. The kind of brittle tension that comes from waking up alone and pretending it hadn’t mattered. Like she hadn’t searched for me in the sheets, or checked her phone for a message that never came. And now she’s hiding behind her sass, trying to slap a label on her disappointment just like she’s doing with the sugar bins.

I let her snark stand for a beat, watching the rigid set of her shoulders. Then I answer, voice low and even. “No. Just trying to decide if I should kiss you again or throw you over my shoulder and remind you what last night actually meant.”

That gets her attention. Maggie turns to face me, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more dangerous. I don’t wait for her to decide if she wants this. I already know she does.

I cross the space in two strides, my hand cupping the back of her neck with a possessive, dominant pressure. The first step she takes is hesitant, defiant even—but the next? She melts into me, mouth parted, heat rising off her skin like a storm ready to break.

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