Page 29 of Ranger's Honor
He brushes damp curls away from my cheek. "Sleep. I’ve got you."
I do.
When I wake, the bedroom smells like cedar and soap. Dalton’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the frame. Watching me like he’s memorizing something.
"Creepy," I croak, then smile. "But also very hot."
His mouth twitches. "You drooled on the pillow."
I roll to my side and pull the covers up dramatically. "A woman shares her soul and her saliva and this is the thanks she gets."
He pushes off the doorframe with a smile and walks in. "Get dressed. There’s coffee."
I do as he asks, head downstairs and pad into the kitchen wrapped in his T-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs, still warm from sleep and him. The scent of him clings to the fabric—cedar, worn leather, and a note I can’t quite identify—warm, electric, and uniquely him, but I crave it all the same. He's already at the counter, mug in hand, looking so damn domestic it nearly undoes me. I let my gaze linger a beat too long before dragging it away and grabbing the whipped cream from the fridge.
I top my coffee with a dramatic flourish, the hiss and swirl loud in the quiet room, then raise the mug and take a deliberately slow sip. I make eye contact over the rim, my lips curving into a grin as I let a dollop of cream rest on my top lip.
His gaze drops to my mouth, darkens. A thrill sparks low in my belly, chased by something softer, vulnerability maybe, or the ache of wanting to be seen and chosen for more than the fire I flash when I’m cornered.
"You’re gonna be the death of me," he mutters, voice low and rough.
"You say that like it’s a bad thing," I tease, running my finger along the rim and licking off a stray bead of cream.
He growls—a real, low rumble of sound that does things to my insides—and before I can react, he leans in and kisses me. It’s quick, but charged, tasting of coffee, heat, and a hunger that scares me with how much I want to believe it means something more than heat and instinct. I want it to be something deeper. Something terrifying. Something real.
By the time I finish my second cup, I’m back at the laptop. Dalton prowls the house, checking windows, looking agitated.
"You know you can sit down, right?"
"Not when you’re in the open like this."
"I’m at my dining table. Not a sniper’s perch."
"Same thing."
I roll my eyes and return to the file. The code recovered overnight is heavier than anything we’ve pulled before—more detailed, more dangerous. The thread is starting to unravel everything. One name keeps coming up. A judge. Local.Galveston-based. Someone who signed off on the suppression of half a dozen smuggling charges tied to the same ports Sookie flagged in her notes.
Judge Robert Lynn. Conservative. Untouchable. Until now.
My fingers go numb on the keyboard. It’s him. The one whose ruling cost Sookie her life. I swallow hard, pulse thudding in my throat like a war drum set to memory.
My breath stutters as the name burns across the screen, bold and damning. I’ve seen it before—listed under court appointments, public rulings, tidy verdicts wrapped in legal jargon—but this time, it reads like a threat. Like a betrayal dressed up in robes and gavels.
I grip the edge of the table as a slow, pulsing ache blooms beneath my sternum. This man didn’t just look the other way—he orchestrated a cover-up. He let traffickers walk. He gave the Reaper safe passage through the goddamn legal system.
A part of me wants to scream. Another part wants to curl in on itself and weep.
I blink hard and force myself to think. Strategize. The evidence is heavy—weighty enough to crush someone if it falls in the wrong hands. This is no longer about breadcrumbs. It’s a goddamn avalanche.
And it’s mine to deliver.
I begin to cross-reference timestamps and IP logins. The firewall bounces once, twice—then cracks. I’m in. The correspondence folder is damning—PDFs, transcripts, money trails that should’ve been shredded but weren’t. Someone wanted these buried and didn’t expect someone like me to dig them back up.
Dalton notices the change in my posture. "What is it?"
"A goddamn goldmine. This judge buried every indictment tied to the cartel's smuggling routes and basically supplied theReaper with victims and customers for his services. The damn judge is still active. Still ruling. Still clean on paper."
Dalton swears under his breath.
