Page 3 of Ranger's Honor
By the time Maggie walks in, I’ve already plastered a smile on my face and am pretending to scroll on my phone.
She hands me the heated wrap. “You okay? You look like someone just stole your last Twinkie.”
“Plot twist,” I say lightly. “Turns out my heroine’s been in love with the villain this whole time. Now I have to figure out how to redeem a man who literally burned down her whole world.”
Maggie wrinkles her nose. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
“Because love is messy. And complicated. And occasionally flammable.”
She snorts. “Go to bed, Shakespeare. Since Gideon's out of town, I thought I'd crash in your guest room. We can have a girls' weekend."
"Sounds good," I say distractedly.
"Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won't. Night, Mags.”
The moment she’s gone, I toss the neck wrap onto the chair and pull my laptop back out. The screen is still dark because I turned it off earlier, not because it failed me—but it feels tainted now, like touching it again might trigger another message. I don’t dare open it. Instead, I power it down completely, holding the button a second longer than necessary, just to make sure.Then I slide it away like it’s radioactive and sit there, shaking just enough to make my knees knock.
My fingers hover over my phone, itching to call Gideon. Or Dalton. Or anyone who knows how to turn fear into a plan. But if I do? They'll pull me out, hide me away, lock me down under the pretense of protection.
And I’ll lose the only thing I still have—control.
More importantly, I’d be pulled away from the truth. Sookie died trying to bring the Reaper to justice or at least shine a bright enough light on him that law enforcement could. And countless people have been killed by him. The Reaper is a stone-cold killer who kills for money.
I grip the edge of the table and take a few deep breaths, forcing air into my lungs one count at a time. Inhale—hold—exhale. Again. My palms are slick against the wood, my heartbeat loud in my ears. I try to steady the chaos ricocheting through my chest, but the feeling doesn’t go away. It just waits—tense and low, like a tremor under the floorboards. Ready to blow. I squeeze the edge tighter, grounding myself with the bite of pressure against my fingertips. I’m not falling apart. Not yet. But I’m close.
The Reaper—or someone close to him—has found me. And suddenly, the walls of my house feel like paper. My skin itches. My stomach roils. I’m not alone—not really.
I need to understand what’s in those files first. What Sookie died trying to expose. It’s not enough to inherit the trail she left—I have to walk it, even if it leads somewhere dark. If Sutton trusted me with her friend's files, then I feel as if I owe them both more than fear and hesitation. Someone has to finish what Sookie started, don't they? Whether or not I feel ready, it looks like that someone is me.
I don’t know how long he’s been watching. I don’t know if he’s in my camera, my Wi-Fi, or parked on the street in somenondescript van. But I know this: whoever The Reaper is, he’s already inside. Inside my system. Inside my house. Inside my life. He knows who I am. Most likely where I live. But most importantly, what I’m working on. And worst of all—he knows what I have or at least I have what Sookie had.
He’s watching.
I get up, every nerve raw and screaming, my senses stretched so tight it feels like they might snap. I move room to room like I’m being hunted. Check the front door. Then the back. Again. I pull the curtains tighter, making sure not a single sliver of moonlight seeps through the gaps. I peek behind one end, careful not to disturb the window coverings, but the glass becomes a mirror in the dark, my own reflection blinking back at me like a stranger. The shadows outside don’t move, but that’s what unnerves me most—they’re too still, like the calm before something awful. Every creak of the house sounds amplified, deliberate, like the walls themselves are trying to whisper secrets I’m not ready to hear. I strain to listen, but all I hear is the sound of my own shallow breathing.
My fingers slip into the drawer beside the fridge and close around the grip of my handgun before I’ve consciously decided to reach for it. It’s instinct, bone-deep and automatic. Cold steel comfort. This is Texas—we don’t reach for knives when bullets work faster.
I stand in the center of my kitchen, barefoot in yoga pants with my Glock held low but ready, like I’m auditioning for the world’s most anxiety-ridden version of Home Defense Barbie. The safety’s off. My finger’s resting along the frame, not the trigger—just like Gideon taught me. But my pulse is screaming, and the chill racing through my body has nothing to do with poor trigger discipline.
There's a knock at the door.
I jump, my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. For one ridiculous second, I think he’s here. That he didn’t just send a warning—he came to deliver on it.
Another knock.
Three slow raps. Confident. Measured. Military.
Definitely not a pizza guy. I glance at the wall clock. 12:23 a.m. I creep to the door and peek through the side window.
And there he is…Dalton Calhoun.
All six-foot-something of muscled, tactical-grade wolf shifter, standing on my porch like he’s not the human embodiment of a growl. The man has no right looking that gorgeous at this hour. Broad shoulders, camo pants, black T-shirt stretched across his chest like it was stitched with military precision. His stance screams predator.
I open the door an inch and narrow my eyes. “Tell me you’re not here to mansplain how to make coffee at midnight.”
“Your brother sent me.”
