Page 13 of Ranger's Honor
"Lovely. Just the news I wanted to wake up to."
"Did you sleep well?"
She glances at me over her coffee mug. "Yes, and you?"
"Your brother didn’t bring me here to sleep." My voice is colder than I mean it to be.
"I don't imagine he wanted you fucking his sister in the kitchen, but that didn't seem to stop you."
I resist the impulse to wince or try to make it better for her. Better has to be her life without me in it. Her voice is quiet, but not cold. Tired and hurt. That’s worse. Not knowing the best way to deal with the fallout from last night, I choose to ignore it.
"Your back alley’s a problem. I want to put a live alert motion grid back there, something that’ll ping Team W servers if anyone lingers too long. And I’ll add layered access protocols to your internal network."
She sips her coffee. Still no eye contact. "Do what you need."
I grit my teeth. "Kari…"
"It’s fine, Dalton. You made it obvious that last night was a mistake. Let’s just pretend it never happened and move on."
There’s a pulse in my jaw that won’t stop. I nod, more to myself than her, and go back to the laptop. But nothing about the keys under my fingers feels like progress. I’m floundering. Not because I crossed a line—I’ve done that plenty of times in the field. No, it’s because this time, the line was one I drew myself. And I crossed it because for one goddamn second, I didn’t want to hold back anymore.
She’s Gideon’s sister—someone I swore I’d protect, not touch. I remember the exact moment he made me promise—years ago, crouched behind a blown-out dumpster in a dust-choked Juárez alley. We'd just neutralized a target linked to the cartel, hands slick with blood and the metallic sting of cordite in the air. Gideon, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, grabbed my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye.'If it ever comes to it, Dalton, keep her safe. No matter what.'
I'd promised him I would, and I'd meant it. I still do. What I didn’t count on was how fucking hard it would be.
She’s my charge, she's also the one woman who makes me forget why I built those walls in the first place.
I pull up another satellite overlay and start marking ingress points along the side yards. The shrubs along the west wall give too much cover—perfect for anyone trying to lurk undetected. A rusted-out shed near the fence line offers concealment and could be rigged for surveillance or worse. The gate latch on the north side is ornamental garbage—looks secure, but a good bump would pop it open. I flag it for replacement.
My gut twists—not in fear, but in recognition. These vulnerabilities aren't theoretical. They're textbook. I’ve seen this layout before, too many times, in too many compromised safehouses. This place wasn’t built for defense. It was built for comfort. And now, it's a goddamn liability.
I pause the overlay and scan the perimeter again. My eyes catch on the angle of the neighbor’s roofline—just high enoughand close enough for someone with a drone or a long lens to get full visuals into her bedroom. I make a note. I imagine a scenario—how quickly someone could cross the back alley, hop the fence, slip through the shadows beneath the hedges. My spine stiffens.
The scent of cut grass and distant Gulf salt drifts in through the slightly cracked window. It should be calming. It isn't. The contrast only heightens the unease crawling along my skin.
I note proximity to neighboring rooftops, angles of approach, how easily someone could scale the east trellis without triggering her porch lights. I even flag the utility access hatch behind the air conditioner—exactly the kind of overlooked detail a seasoned op would exploit.
Every new red dot on the map sharpens the tension winding tighter in my chest. Not just because of the threat they represent—but because I can feel the distraction creeping in again. Kari. Her voice, her mouth, her body pressed to mine. The danger she poses to my focus is just as real.
I exhale slowly and refocus, expanding my map with proposed camera points and fallback routes. I might not be able to protect my control around her, but I’ll sure as hell protect her from everything else.
Kari sets her mug down, but the soft clink sounds louder than it should. She crosses the room and reaches for a notepad near the fridge. Her arm brushes mine. I don’t move.
She scrawls something down—probably a grocery list—and then finally, finally looks at me.
"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird."
My eyes flick to hers. Blue, bright even when she’s exhausted. I shake my head. "You didn’t. I did."
She crosses her arms. "You’re not the only one with regrets. Doesn’t mean I regret all of it."
My breath catches. "What part do you not regret?"
"The part where you looked at me like I wasn’t a problem to solve. Just... a woman. One you wanted."
Her words cut clean, sharp enough to breach the walls I’ve spent years fortifying. Pressure builds in my chest, jaw tight, pulse faltering. It’s the kind of truth that settles in your bones—undeniable, irreversible. A low, restless ache coils beneath my ribs—regret, need, something tangled in between. I feel it deep, all the way through. The control I usually wear like armor? It’s fraying fast.
She sees it too. That’s the worst part. She always does. The silence between us stretches, taut and unyielding. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Just holds my gaze like she’s still waiting for me to admit it aloud. That she was never just a job. Just an op.
