Page 12 of Ranger's Honor
I felt each thrust like a claim, every bruising kiss like a demand, and somewhere between the broken gasps and the clawed fingertips, I knew this wasn’t just a release—it was a brand. A mark I couldn’t scrub away. Even now, my skin sings with the imprint of him, my breath still unsteady, my heart still racing like it’s trying to catch up to what just happened. My body aches, not in pain, but in memory—of how wholly he possessed me. How wholly I let him.
But it means everything.
As he growls my name during his shuddering release, I can't help but think this was worth every second of fear, risk, and disorder.
Then he pulls away—too fast, too final. The absence of his body is a shock to mine, like slamming into cold air after heat. I’m still trembling, still cracked wide open. And he’s already gone, like it meant nothing. Like I’m the mistake.
"We crossed a line. It doesn’t happen again."
I freeze. "It's okay Dalton. I haven't been with anyone since my last physical and I've been on birth control for years."
"That's not the point," he growls.
He doesn’t look back as he disappears down the hall.
I’m left standing half-naked in my kitchen, heart hammering and soul screaming.
The marble is still cool beneath my thighs, and the scent of him—cedar and sin—lingers in the air like smoke from a fire I didn’t mean to start but couldn’t bring myself to put out. My legs are shaky as I step away from the counter, like I’ve just come down from a fall I didn’t see coming.
I grab a dish towel, clutching it like a lifeline, and start wiping the counter with hard, determined strokes. I scrub hard enough to erase fingerprints, like if I can just clean enough, I can undo what I let happen. What he walked away from. What I let him take. It's not about the mess. It’s about pretending I have control. About channeling every ounce of humiliation and hurt into something that isn’t crying like a damn fool in my kitchen. "I won't cry. I won't cry."
But my voice cracks, and so does the last of my resolve. But I do cry. Of course I do.
CHAPTER 4
DALTON
After a restless night, I head down to the kitchen to try and establish some kind of normalcy. Kari’s footsteps are light upstairs, but not light enough to mask the sound of her trying to pretend like she didn’t just get emotionally wrecked in her own kitchen. I hear the creak of the bathroom door, the snap of a light switch, the brief roar of running water. She’s avoiding me. I deserve that.
The floor beneath me feels colder than it should—a stark contrast to the heat that still clings to my skin like a guilty echo. The cold cuts through me, biting deep as if the house itself is casting judgment.
The chill bites at my soles, grounding me, snapping me out of memory's pull. That cold is a reminder. A warning. And I damn well better pay attention.
The problem—or at least one of them—is that my body still hums with the memory, with the lingering heat of her skin, the taste of her name on my tongue. But this isn’t about what I want. It never has been. It’s about what’s safe, what’s smart, and what’s right—and fucking her against the kitchen counter in the middle of a security detail checks exactly none of those boxes.
I scrub a hand over my face and make myself move—one step at a time. I set up the coffee maker, brewing it strong and black, needing the bitter bite to cut through the fog of last night’s disaster. I tell myself it was adrenaline. Proximity. The goddamn cheesecake.
But it wasn’t.
It was her. It’s always been her.
I pull up the encrypted laptop from my go-bag and settle at the table, trying to convince myself that focusing on cartel logistics and threat vectors will override the sound of her moan echoing in my skull. It won’t. But I map out the residential sector anyway. Kari’s place isn’t just cozy and charming—it’s exposed. The back fence is too low, the alley behind it accessible, and the neighboring properties sit close enough to give any asshole with a scope a clear view into her living room.
She comes down twenty minutes later. Not a word. Not a glance. Her hair’s damp and tied in a high ponytail, face bare. She’s in jeans and one of those soft T-shirts she probably sleeps in, and she walks straight past me like I’m made of mist. Which, fair enough. I deserve that too.
"Coffee’s fresh." My voice comes out rough, like gravel under tires.
She pours a cup in silence, doesn’t meet my eyes. The clink of ceramic on the counter feels louder than it should, a tiny punctuation mark on the gulf stretching between us. I catch the way her hand trembles, just a little, when she sets the pot back down.
Her silence cuts deeper than anything she could say outright, and I can’t help but wonder—does she regret it, or is she just trying to pretend it meant less than it did? I catch myself watching her too closely, trying to read what’s not there. And maybe that’s what gets to me most—because last night, for onesplit second, I let myself believe she wanted it as much as I did. Now I’m second-guessing everything.
The absence of her usual sarcasm feels like a warning, and for a guy who reads tactical intent like breathing, that kind of quiet feels like a detonation waiting to happen. The answer matters more than it should, and that pisses me off. I wait for the sharp jab, the Kari-brand sarcasm that’s always ready to bite. But there’s nothing. Just that tight silence that makes my spine ache.
"We need to talk security."
She nods. but doesn’t speak.
"I’m mapping out possible breach points. Whoever’s watching you already got through your firewall. That means they have skills, funding, and likely contacts local enough to stage a secondary breach."
