Page 16 of Ranger's Honor
"I make it my business to know what my brother's working on that could get him and the rest of you killed."
"That's classified information."
"I'm family. Deal with it."
He doesn’t move for a beat. Then says, "That location was cleared. Months ago."
I glance up. "Well, someone forgot to tell the bastards using it. It’s hot again."
His expression tightens, and that vein in his temple pulses—like it’s daring me to comment. I cross my arms and arch a brow, caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant admiration.
It shouldn’t be attractive. It absolutely is. The tension between us thrums like a wire pulled too tight—sharp, humming, one snap away from unraveling everything. I wonder—just for a breathless second—what it would feel like to press my fingers to that pulse and watch him flinch. Would he step back? Or lean in?
That damn vein. Why is that hot? I curse myself for noticing, for the tiny thrill that sparks low in my belly just watching it twitch. It's ridiculous. It's a stress vein. And yet, here I am, wondering what it would feel like under my fingertips.
"You sit tight," he says, already heading for his go-bag. "Make sure the doors are locked and don't open them for anyone unless you know them personally."
"Excuse you?"
He pauses. Turns back slowly. "We're stretched pretty thin at the moment. Officially, this case and watching over you isn't on the books. I need to go check it out. Alone. You’re not coming."
"Dalton."
"No."
I shoot to my feet, throwing him a glare sharp enough to slice through Kevlar. "You think I’m going to park my ass on the couch and knit doilies while you play cowboy with cartel scum?"
"No," he says, voice low, dangerous. "I think you’re going to stay alive. And right now, that location is a risk multiplier. I go inalone, I assess, and I get out. You coming with me puts a target right where they want it."
I open my mouth to argue. He closes the space between us in two strides.
"This isn’t a debate, and my decision is final."
The tension between us spikes again—not just from the argument. From the way his breath brushes mine, from the heat of his body, from the way I hate how much I like being this close to him.
"You’re infuriating," I mutter.
"Good. You’re safer when you’re pissed at me."
He turns and disappears into the hallway, and I want to throw something—maybe a pillow, maybe the damn laptop—just to have some kind of release. Instead, I sit back down and dig further, frustration curling tight in my chest like a clenched fist. I should be used to this by now—the holding back, the hiding, the constant guessing game—but somehow, it still stings. Part of me wants to scream, part of me wants to cry, and the rest? The rest wants to get even. So I refocus, shove all that tangled emotion into the back of my mind, and dive deeper into the data like it can give me something solid to hold on to.
That’s when I find it. Buried in a file labeled P2S_vault—a scanned image, old-school, as if someone had digitized a page from a journal. I recognize the handwriting as Sookie’s. Loopy and elegant, always a little slanted to the right.
He sees me. Really sees me. And that scares the hell out of me, because the last time someone looked at me like that, it ended in handcuffs and heartache. But he doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. Or broken. Just complicated. And somehow, that feels safer than safe.
I blink. A rush of heat climbs my neck, breath catching in my throat. Read it again.
It’s not a case note. It’s personal—and it guts me a little. Like I’ve accidentally opened a diary instead of a data cache, and now I’m intruding on a heartbeat I was never meant to hear. A pang lodges somewhere deep—part jealousy, part grief, part instinct to protect what’s already gone.
Who the hell was she writing about? It reads as if it was someone in law enforcement. But she never mentioned anyone by name. And the tone of the note—it isn’t casual. It’s confessional. Intimate. It reads like a love note penned in the quiet between sirens, written by someone who knew the cost of vulnerability and risked it anyway.
My stomach knots. Did she love him? Did he know? And why the hell didn’t she ever tell Sutton or leave a name behind? That kind of omission doesn’t feel accidental—it feels like protection. Or warning.
I hesitate. My hand hovers over the keyboard.
Dalton would want to know.
But something stops me. Not because I don’t trust him, but because it feels like a secret Sookie gave me, and it’s not mine to hand over. Not yet.
