Page 7 of Ranger's Code

Having to deal with Gideon Bonham is the last thing I need, but if I'm being honest with myself, the thing I want most in life. Would it really hurt to let him work here? Isn't it a good thing to employ a veteran—especially one that would have the morning break crew coming in to drool... and buy baked goods?

If he really can bake, maybe I can charge more for the things he bakes...

CHAPTER4

GIDEON

I’ve spent my entire adult life learning how to read people, rooms, and danger long before anyone else realizes something is off. It’s instinct for me now—part training, part blood, part something older and wilder humming beneath my skin.

By noon, I have the entire layout of Sea Salt & Sugar mapped in my head. Not just the physical setup—where the ovens sit, how the front counter creates choke points, which doors squeak and which don’t—but the flow, the rhythm, the energy. I watch Maggie move from station to station, noting how her staff navigates around her, who gives her space when she’s focused, and who intuitively synchronizes with her rhythm.

The place runs like a living thing, each part connected to the next, pulsing with the quiet hum of purpose. But beneath the scent of cinnamon and sugar—sweet, comforting, familiar—something else lingers. Something off. It isn't strong, not enough to trigger alarms in a human nose, but my wolf senses it instantly. A bitter note woven through the walls, tucked in the corners, like mold just beginning to grow. A wrongness, subtle and deliberate, that doesn’t belong in a place built on warmth and precision. And my wolf hasn’t stopped sniffing for it since I walked through the door.

The customers? Loud, loyal, and hungry for more than just carbs. They come in waves—morning regulars who practically have assigned seats, tossing around cheeky banter and exchanging inside jokes with the staff, then a slow swell of tourists drawn by the intoxicating scent of butter and sugar wafting out the front door.

I listen. Watch. I observe how baristas greet regulars with ease and open body language, smiling wider and moving with less tension when recognizing a familiar face. Newcomers get polite service, but there’s a subtle shift—shoulders squared a little more, voices tightened slightly. Maggie’s team isn’t unfriendly, but they’re vigilant. Not enough to alarm the average observer.

But I’m not average. My wolf picks up the edge behind the smiles, the wary glances toward the entrance, the micro-pauses in conversation when someone new steps through the door. It isn’t paranoia. It’s a conditioned instinct. Muscle memory that comes from too many missions where a casual glance missed meant someone bled. Learned caution that keeps you alive. And it raises every hackle I have. Something here isn’t right, and every fiber of my being—from the man to the animal—is waiting for the moment it snaps into place.

Maggie, for her part, ignores me with impressive, almost theatrical dedication. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t talk to me. Doesn’t so much as twitch in my direction, even when I refill my own coffee like a man who belongs behind the counter. It amuses the hell out of me. The more she tries to pretend I’m not here, the clearer it becomes that she’s aware of my every move. She’s more flustered than she cares to admit. Trying not to be. Trying harder not to let me see it. Her control is sharp, but it has cracks, and I’m becoming very good at finding them.

She’s failing, and we both know it. Every once in a while, her eyes flick toward me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Her jaw clenches. Her lips twitch like she wants to say something, scream something. I like that. Like the fire.

Vendors come and go. I make a mental log of every delivery and transaction, eyes sharp for inconsistencies. A produce guy hustles in crates of fruit, scrawls something barely legible on a clipboard, and hightails it out like he has somewhere better to be—fast. A dairy truck rolls up late, the driver barking about traffic and heat, unloading with the kind of rushed aggression that doesn’t match the usual pace of a chill bakery drop-off. My jaw ticks. None of it screams sabotage, but none of it smells right, either. Maggie’s staff tries to keep pace, subtly leaning on one another, covering mistakes with practiced teamwork. But they keep glancing at the back door with too much tension, like they’re waiting for something worse to show up. It isn’t fear exactly—but it’s close.

It isn’t nothing. My gut says there’s a pattern hiding in plain sight, and my wolf agrees—circling it like prey it hasn’t fully cornered yet. But it isn’t enough yet. Not enough to act. Not enough to name. Just enough to keep me coiled tight, waiting for the thread that will finally unravel the whole damn thing.

The sun dips low, and the crowd thins to a trickle of late stragglers sipping lukewarm coffee and debating one last cookie. Staff moves into autopilot, wiping counters, flipping chairs, locking the pastry case with practiced motions. The hum of closing time settles over the bakery like a soft exhale. Josie stretches behind the counter with a dramatic yawn, arms overhead, and glances at me like she isn’t sure whether to flirt with me or ask me to take out the trash.

“So, uh… closing time,” she says.

Jamal coughs behind his hand. “Yup. All locked up soon.”

I sip my coffee with the unhurried patience of a man who has nowhere else to be and no intention of taking the hint. I let the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward, then give the smallest shrug, as if to say closing time has nothing to do with me.

Eventually, Maggie appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel like it personally offended her. Her expression is flat—professionally blank—but her eyes are sharp, cutting, like twin blades aimed right at me. She isn’t tired. She’s furious and holding it together with threadbare grace.

“We’re closed,” she says, voice tight with authority and exhaustion, like the words are doing double duty as both a business notice and a personal boundary. The way she stands—arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes unblinking—makes it clear this isn’t a polite suggestion. This is her turf, and I’m still in it.

“I noticed,” I say, rising slowly to my full height, voice calm but edged with something that makes the air feel tighter. I don’t rush. Don’t posture. Just move like someone who’s already decided how this is going to go—and doesn’t need her permission to see it through.

“So why aren't you gone?” she asks, voice clipped and strained. I look down at her and smile, slow and infuriatingly calm. “Never mind,” she snaps, before I can answer. “I don't care. Just leave.”

I give her a smile that barely touches my mouth but burns slowly in my eyes, like a fuse lit with no hurry to detonate. “Sure,” I say, in that low, unshakable tone that makes it sound like her demand is just a suggestion I’ll get around to ignoring.

I step outside, but I don’t leave. Instead, I move a few yards down the sidewalk, lean against the corner of the building, and fold my arms like I’m settling in for the long haul. The shop lights click off one by one, the inside dimming into a soft afterglow. The air cools with the thick weight of coastal nightfall, damp and humming with the buzz of distant streetlamps. And that feeling—the one that has prickled the back of my neck since sunset—grows sharper, more insistent, like the kind of pressure that makes my wolf pace under my skin and my senses stretch into the dark. Something is coming. I can feel it.

When Maggie finally exits through the back door, backpack slung over one shoulder, keys jingling like a warning bell in the stillness, my senses snap into high alert. I catch a flicker of movement near the alley, low and deliberate—the kind of motion that doesn’t belong near a quiet, closing bakery. Two men. Lurking, angled just enough to look like they aren’t watching her. But they are. And every inch of my body knows it.

Two men. Lingering too long near the alley, moving like they don’t care who notices. One leans against the wall, head low but eyes tracking every move Maggie makes. The other stands half-shadowed, pretending to scroll on his phone but angled just right to block her path. Predators playing casual. My muscles coil, tight and ready, instincts snapping into formation as I step forward, quiet but deadly sure. No way in hell I’m letting them get any closer.

“Evening, sweetheart,” one man calls, stepping out of the shadows with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes and the smugness of someone who thinks the dark gives him power. He speaks too casually, too smoothly, as if he has rehearsed his intimidation. Every syllable slides over my nerves like a blade.

I see her freeze, her whole body locking up like prey sensing the snap of a trap. I track her movement, my instincts lighting up before my mind catches up. Her keys jingle in her hand, too loud in the quiet alley, her knuckles white where she grips them.

I can’t hear her breath, but I can feel it—ragged and shallow—even from this distance. She hasn’t recognized the men. I can tell by the flicker of confusion on her face. But the rest of her posture, the way her body braces and her eyes widen, says she knows exactly what kind of danger she’s looking at.

The two men aren’t rushing her. That’s the worst part. They stroll closer with that loose, oily confidence I’ve seen too many times before. Men who think they own the night. Men who think women like Maggie are easy targets.

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