Page 10 of Ranger's Code

“Nope,” he says, popping a cooled blueberry mini into his mouth with maddening ease. “Didn’t figure I’d need one yet.”

He chews slowly, like he has all the time in the world and no doubt I’ll end up offering. And damn it, he isn’t wrong. The way he leans against the counter, so relaxed and grounded in my space, it feels inevitable. Like he’s already decided where he belongs—and it’s here, with his hands in my batter and his mouth full of my blueberries.

I stare at him for a long second, then exhale.

“God help me,” I mutter. “My condo only has one bedroom, but I do have a murphy bed in the office area. It's yours, temporarily, if you want it. And I mean temporarily, Bonham. Don’t touch my bedroom, don’t touch my stuff, and don’t even think about confusing buttercream with bodyguard duty.”

I try to sound stern. I really do. But something about the way he looks at me—like he can see straight through my defenses and isn’t afraid of a single one—makes my voice sound thinner than I like. The worst part? Part of me wants him there. Not just for protection. But for the solid, quiet presence that has already started to feel too steady. Too familiar. Too tempting.

His grin is pure sin, lazy and slow like honey melting over something too hot to touch. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, but there is a glint in his eye that makes my stomach clench—like he’s heard the unspoken parts of my warning, the part that doesn’t mind him being too close. The part that maybe wants it.

That evening, after we lock up, Gideon ushers me into his vintage truck and drives us to my condo. He grabs his duffle bag and follows me silently inside. Once we enter, I can feel my entire body go on high alert.

"I normally like to shower in the morning. So you can shower at night if you want..."

"No long, luxurious bubble baths?" he teases, giving me an appraising look that makes me blush. I hope he doesn't notice.

"No. I hate bubble baths. They're too... passive."

"Ah," he says, his voice a shade lower, the smile curling at the edges of his mouth slow and deliberate. "You like your showers like your men—scorching, relentless, and impossible to ignore."

He lets the words hang there between us, heat pulsing in the pause that follows. The tease in his tone dances just close enough to seduction to make my breath hitch. Flustered and not knowing what else to say, I walk to my bedroom door, each step an effort to ignore the heat still lingering in the air between us.

"I'm afraid I'm really tired," I say, my voice thinner than usual. "I think tonight I'll take my shower and go straight to bed. You can use the shower in the morning. There’s also a powder room over there," I say, indicating its location.

I don’t glance back as I speak, but I feel his gaze all the same—like a touch I can’t shake. Every nerve under my skin buzzes, alive with everything I’m not letting myself feel. And when I finally close the door behind me, I don’t lean against it because I’m tired. I lean because my knees are no longer cooperating.

The next morning after breakfast, we head to the bakery. Gideon attempts to decorate a batch of cupcakes with all the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb. I catch him squinting at the piping bag like it has personally insulted his honor. He adjusts his grip like it’s a tactical weapon, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. When he finally frosts the cupcake, the result is so catastrophic—lumpy swirls, sagging edges, and something that might have been a rose if roses had been flattened by a truck and then run over again—that I have to walk away before I burst into laughter.

I duck behind the prep table, hands over my mouth, shoulders shaking. The frosting looks like a toddler with no motor skills and a deep-seated vendetta against buttercream had applied it. And yet... the sight of his big, battle-hardened hands fumbling through flower shapes tugs at my chest in a way I can’t quite shake.

I double over behind the prep table, muffling the laugh with the crook of my arm, tears stinging my eyes. It wasn’t just bad—it was gloriously, epically bad. And yet... there was something undeniably endearing about it. This man, lethal and composed, a weapon in combat, earnestly trying to create buttercream rosettes with the same intensity he probably applied to hostage situations. That kind of effort? It cracked something open in me. Something soft.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” I ask, pointing at a mangled rose.

“Ambition,” he says. “Felt right in the moment.”

I roll my eyes, but my chest tightens anyway. Because he tried. He was trying—and not in the casual, half-hearted way most people offered help. No, he was giving it his full attention, fumbling through flour and buttercream like the mission mattered. And maybe that’s what got me most. That this dangerous, brooding man with callused hands and a soldier’s stare was putting effort into my world. My space. My rules. He was meeting me where I lived, and that was the kind of intimacy that snuck past my walls before I could stop it.

Then the flour delivery arrived. Wrong brand. Wrong size. Again. This wasn’t the first careless error; we dismissed the first one as chance, but this one wasn’t a coincidence. I feel it like a punch to the gut. I check the invoice twice, then the original order, fingers moving faster as my breathing tightens. I hadn’t messed up. I know I hadn’t. The creeping dread that had been building all week twists tighter in my chest, wrapping around my ribs like a vise. My jaw clenches. My pulse kicks hard enough to make my vision blur for a beat. Something was wrong. And it was getting worse.

Gideon says nothing, but I can feel his attention sharpen beside me, like a lens clicking into tighter focus. It wasn’t just the error he zeroed in on—it was me. The way my shoulders tensed. The way my jaw flexed. The flicker of panic I tried to swallow down. He watched it all with that quiet, methodical intensity that made my skin prickle, like I was under examination and protection all at once. Taking notes. Tracking patterns. Calculating the angles of pressure. Waiting for the next shoe to drop—and already preparing to crush it under his boot when it did.

And for once, I don’t mind that someone else is watching. I feel the weight of his gaze like a second skin—steady, capable, almost comforting in a way I don’t want to name. Gideon didn’t just see the surface. He saw the cracks forming underneath; the pressure mounting. And that unshakable sense that he would catch whatever broke before it hit the floor makes me exhale just a little deeper. I just hope he’s fast enough—and fierce enough—to stop whatever storm is building on the horizon.

CHAPTER6

GIDEON

I’m up before the sun. Not because I have to be—my internal clock simply doesn’t understand what it means to rest. Years of military deployment, followed by a stint in Team W, have stripped me of the luxury of sleeping in. Mornings are for motion. For clarity. For getting ahead of whatever storm might be coming.

I stretch, pull on jeans and boots, and step outside with the crisp intention of surveillance hard-wired into my bones. No noise, no wasted movement. Just me, the street, and the pull of instinct that never quite dulls. My wolf stirs under my skin, alert, prowling beneath the surface. Not anxious. Just ready.

By the time the fog starts to lift off the sidewalk and the storefronts begin flickering to life, I’ve already walked two full blocks in either direction from Sea Salt & Sugar. No hoodie. No ball cap. No attempt to hide my presence. I wear the quiet threat of a man who doesn’t need to sneak to be dangerous as if I’ve been born to it—which, in a way, I have. I have the kind of presence that draws eyes, makes people squirm uncomfortably even when they don’t know why. Sometimes it’s better to be seen—especially when I’m trying to smoke out rats and remind them the predator is already here.

I move slow, calm, quiet—my wolf instincts humming just below the surface, tuned to the pulse of the street like a second heartbeat. I’m not just looking. I’m reading the city like a living organism, catching its flinches, its hesitations, the stuttered breath of something not quite right. The rhythm comes to me in fragments—the sound of footsteps that don’t match their direction, the twitch of a hand hovering too long over a doorbell, the false smile tossed toward a passing patrol car. Every unfamiliar face, every flicker of unease, every delivery van that lingers a beat too long—all of it feeds into the mental log I keep running with ruthless clarity. Observation isn’t passive. It’s a hunt. And I’m already circling the prey.

The guy in the dented blue van two doors down catches my eye first. Unmarked vehicle. No business logo. Just rust and caution. The driver is fidgety, eyes constantly scanning the street, hands tapping the wheel like he’s waiting for a signal. He’s not making deliveries—just watching. When a man in an apron steps out of a nearby café and leans in close to the driver’s window, I slow my pace and angle myself just enough to eavesdrop without drawing attention. Low tones. Quick nods. Something exchanged—a flat envelope, subtle but practiced. The driver pulls away fast, like he’s overstayed his welcome in daylight.

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