Page 15 of Ranger's Honor
So I draw the line. Again. Even if it scorches itself across my chest like a brand—a searing cut of restraint over a fantasy I nearly let breathe.
Just for a second, I see it play out—her mouth parting for mine, her nails carving down my back, the way she whispered my name like a challenge and a prayer.
I shut it down. Force my pulse into something steady. Because if I don’t hold that line now, I never will.
Even if it leaves a scar deeper than any battlefield ever has.
Because this line? It’s not about safety anymore.
It’s about control.
And I’m losing more of mine every time she looks at me like I’m something more than a weapon on two legs. And the worst part is, I’m not sure I have the strength to stop her when she finally decides to cross it.
CHAPTER 5
KARI
Dalton steps just inside the doorway, probably to triple-check the perimeter again, and for a beat, I stay put—my fingers brushing my lips like I can still feel the almost of his mouth on mine. My chest tightens, equal parts frustration and something dangerously close to hope—a kiss, maybe even a confession, something real to cut through all the tension we keep pretending isn’t there. Dammit, why didn’t he just do it? Why didn’t I?
The moment vibrated with tension, so tightly wound it felt like a bowstring about to snap. But no. He pulled away, and now I’m left replaying it like some lovesick idiot with a slow-motion button, heart pounding and skin buzzing, because for a second I thought he might actually kiss me. The air between us had gone thick and charged, like a storm about to break, and I’d wanted it. More than I should.
But then he blinked, turned away, and now the only thing brushing against my lips is disappointment. I rub the back of my neck, willing the flush to fade. Whatever that moment was, it’s gone now. Back to business. Back to pretending we don’t feel what we feel. But does he feel what I feel? Or is that just more wishful thinking on my part?
I can’t help the tight coil of tension that wraps around my chest as I watch the door swing shut behind him.
I follow him back to the house and enter, picking up immediately on his scent. The house smells like him—leather, sagebrush, and something darker I haven’t named yet. I draw in a breath, sharp and shallow, before pushing off the doorframe and heading back toward the living room. Because once he gets that look in his eye, the one that says something's not sitting right, there's no stopping him.
I should be offended that he doesn't trust my locks or camera placements—but I’m not. He’s not wrong. This place was built for comfort, not confrontation—exactly how I wanted it. I told Gideon I wouldn’t live in a prison, and I meant it. Maybe I underestimated the cost, but I needed a space that felt like mine, not a daily reminder of everything that could go wrong. When I first moved in, Gideon tried to turn it into a bunker—rattling off specs for motion sensors and ballistic film like we were prepping for war. I shut that down fast. He compromised with a few basics, but I never let him turn my sanctuary into a fortress. Maybe I should’ve. But I needed this place to feel normal.
I drop back onto the couch and pull my laptop across my knees. My fingers move automatically, tapping in a string of commands that unlock the folders I’ve been ignoring for weeks and now start to dissect. It’s like peeling back layers of someone else’s mind—or in this case, someone who died for what they uncovered. Sookie wasn’t just playing around in dangerous waters. She dove straight into the deep end with cinder blocks tied to her feet.
The files are all timestamped post-mortem. My chest tightens as the truth clicks into place—Sookie’s work didn’t end with her death because I haven’t let it. I’m the only one updating them now, keeping her investigation alive line by line, building on what she started.
I picture her as Sutton described—hunched over her laptop, caffeine in hand, humming off-key as she dug into something big. That strange mix of indie and jazz used to annoy me when I heard it in the background of her recordings. Now, I’d give anything to hear it again. I never met her, but after weeks of combing through her files, I feel like I did.
The flash drive Sutton gave me after she died holds the untouched originals. I’ve kept it that way—copied everything to my laptop so I could work without risking corruption. Which means if the files are being accessed, it’s through me.
The thought makes my skin crawl. It’s not just system vulnerability—it’s personal. Someone could be watching in real time, tracking every keystroke, studying me through the same files I’m analyzing. My neck prickles with the certainty of it. Whoever’s still playing in this arena has found a way into my system. And that’s starting to seriously piss me off.
I dive into the metadata, scanning IP trails and packet paths until my eyes blur. My fingertips ache from the repetition, but I press on, adrenaline creeping under my skin. There’s a flicker in the data stream—a repeated relay through a local switchpoint that shouldn’t exist. It’s too clean, too consistent. I isolate it, narrow my focus, and follow the breadcrumb. The screen pulses with confirmation, and a chill rolls down my spine as my stomach sinks like a stone. This isn’t just a loose thread. It’s a noose, tightening fast.
"You’ve got to be kidding me."
The words spill out before I can stop them, my voice tight with disbelief. My chest squeezes with a sharp twinge of dread, like my ribs are shrinking in on themselves. I press my palms to the edge of the desk, grounding myself against the sudden rush of adrenaline. If this lead is real—and everything in my gut says it is—then we’re standing on the edge of something big. Something dangerous.
The thought of walking into it alone makes my stomach twist in ways that have nothing to do with the case and everything to do with Dalton because I know for damn sure he won't let me go in alone. He and my brother and the rest of the team will not allow what happened to Sookie to happen to me... not while there is breath left in their bodies.
I watch as another file is accessed and downloaded. Then the connection terminates in an unregistered node that loops back to a warehouse that's being used as a seafood distribution center just outside of Galveston. Officially, it moves blue crab and Gulf shrimp. Unofficially? It’s got the digital signature of a shell corporation that shares a backend with three known smuggling fronts flagged in the Team W database.
I flag the location, tag the suspicious files, and keep digging. If Sookie had eyes on this before she died, she either got too close to whoever runs it or figured something out they didn’t want getting out. And if someone’s still trying to see what was in her cache or what I’ve found out since her death, that means the operation didn’t die with her.
"Dalton," I call out, not looking up. "We’ve got a local node rerouting through a flagged smuggling front. Seafood warehouse off Seawall Boulevard."
His boots echo down the hallway before he appears, arms crossed, gaze sharp. "You sure?"
"No jackass. I just made it up so I could see your smiling face." He growls. I ignore it, and continue, "I traced metadata loops through an unlisted router that matches the signature you guys have on Operation Driftline."
"How do you know about Operation Driftline?"
