Page 28 of Ranger's Honor
She glances back at me, hair disheveled, lips parted, eyes burning with a shared ache. Perhaps we're both survivors of some carnage, and this is the only way we know how to feel alive.
"Don't let go," I murmur.
I wrap my hand around her hair once more, tilting her head back so that I can claim her mouth again. Messy and possessive, pouring every desperate, beautiful, and ugly thing I have into her. Our climaxes barrel towards us, a whirlwind of bone, blood, grief, and hope, tearing me apart. Her voice breaks around my name like both a curse and prayer before she collapses against the wall.
I turn her to face me, and she clings desperately to me; arms locked tight around my neck as if holding onto me for dear life. We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, inhaling each other's essence until our realities blur into one. Eventually, it seems as though the world has shrunk down to just the sound of our hearts beating in tandem.
Then, soft, fierce and final. "You can't lose me. I'm not letting you," she says, voice quivering from the aftershocks.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders; her gaze locks onto mine with unwavering certainty. She doesn't beg; she asserts her claim.
The bond between us flares, hot and complete, flooding my chest until it feels like my throat is tightening painfully. I don't speak because if I do so now, I won't survive whatever comes next.
CHAPTER 11
KARI
By the time we get back to my place, my legs are shaky, and the adrenaline that carried me through the warehouse has bled off, leaving a strange, hollow ache in its place. The silence in the truck is a weight between us—thick, taut, and unyielding.
Dalton’s posture is rigid, eyes locked on the road ahead. Something stirs in my chest—part fear, part longing, part the ache that’s been lodged there since he first tore into my world and refused to let go. His jaw is set, his focus absolute, but it’s not regret I see in him. Not for the claiming bite. He doesn’t look like a man wishing he could take it back—he looks like a man who’d do it again without hesitation.
And that’s the truth that makes my pulse jump. Because for Dalton to claim me without speaking to Gideon first isn’t just breaking some unspoken rule between them—it’s tearing it to shreds. And he would have, even if it meant burning that bridge, because he knows as well as I do: we’re fated. The bond’s already in our blood.
I steal glances at him when I think he won’t notice, catching the steady control in the way his hands grip the wheel, the contained power in the way his shoulders hold. The low hum ofthe tires fills the cab, a steady counterpoint to the energy rolling off him. Outside, the last streaks of daylight fade into the dark, the sky bruised purple and deepening.
Neither of us speaks, but the air between us is alive—charged with the promise of something already decided. Dalton isn’t second-guessing. He’s already claimed me. And no force, not even Gideon, will make him let go.
I keep my hands clenched in my lap and my eyes forward. Let the silence hold whatever it needs to for now. Whatever it was that carried me through the warehouse has bled off, leaving only ache and a strange hollowness. I don’t say much, and neither does Dalton. He drives like he's still in mission mode—quiet, focused, one hand on the wheel, the other braced against his thigh like he’s physically holding himself together.
When we get to my house and step inside, the silence wraps around us again, thick and knowing.
"Go take a shower," he says, voice low, rough. "I’ll check the perimeter."
I hesitate, unsure what to make of the distance in his tone. "Dalton."
He doesn’t look at me. "Please, Kari, just do as I ask."
The quiet plea hits harder than it should. I nod and head for the primary bath, closing the door behind me because I know locking it would do no good if he wanted to enter. He could break it down without blinking.
The shower hisses to life, steam curling toward the ceiling as I strip off what’s left of my clothes. My ribs ache, my thighs are bruised, and there’s a fresh bite in my neck that pulses with every heartbeat. My chest feels tight—not because I think Dalton is slipping away, but because I know exactly where he stands. He’s not going anywhere. The bond between us is set in stone.
What keeps me rooted under the spray is the fear of what that bond will do to Gideon. Of how it will change things between the two men who matter most to me.
I press my forehead to the tile, knees trembling, the ache in my body nothing compared to the weight in my chest. The water is warm enough to sting but not hot enough to burn—exactly like the place I’m stuck in now. Tears come faster than I expect, and I let the sound of the water swallow them whole.
Until I feel him behind me.
Dalton’s hands settle on my hips like he’s asking permission. For half a second, something in me flinches like a memory, old and sharp, clawing for a foothold. But it slips away beneath the steady warmth of his touch, eclipsed by the way he holds me—not like I’m simply forgiven, but wanted.
His fingertips are feather-light, barely there, as if he’s afraid I might break beneath the weight of anything more. The contact sends a ripple through me, equal parts comfort and ache. I stiffen for a breath, overwhelmed by the storm crashing inside me: relief that he’s here, that I’m not alone in this wreckage; curiosity at a gentleness I never expected; suspicion, quiet and stubborn, whispering that maybe this isn’t devotion at all, but guilt.
Even with all of that flooding my system, I don’t pull away. I lean back, just enough for my spine to meet his chest, and I exhale. He catches that breath like it means something to him—and maybe it does.
But as he steps fully into the stream, he’s already stripped bare—no shirt, no barriers. Heat pours off him in waves, and I feel every inch of him press flush against my back.
The hard wall of his chest, the sculpted tension in his arms as they cage me in, the slow press of muscle to skin—it's a quiet claim, no words needed. He doesn't speak. He just starts to work, lifting the bar of soap and running it downmy arms in long, careful strokes. Every movement is precise, reverent, as though washing me is the only thing anchoring him to the moment. And when his fingers work through my hair, massaging gently at my scalp, I close my eyes and let myself fall into the rhythm of his touch—slow, grounding, and impossibly tender.
He washes my hair with his fingers. Works conditioner through the ends. Rinses gently. Then wraps a towel around me and lifts me off the floor before I can protest. He carries me like something sacred, not speaking until I’m laid out on the bed and he’s dried me off with another towel.
