Page 38 of Ranger's Honor
Kari jolts, her hand grabbing the dash. “What...”
“Sniper.”
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Just ducks low on instinct.
My foot slams the gas pedal harder. Gravel and dirt kick up beneath the tires as the engine howls. She doesn’t panic—doesn’t even flinch beyond that one perfect move. Her body moves with instinctive precision, dropping low, one hand braced against the dash, the other curling around the case like she’s shielding something sacred. And goddamn if that doesn’t hit me square in the chest.
She trusts me. Completely. My chest tightens, lungs refusing to expand for a beat as the weight of that trust hits like a sucker punch. My hands curl around the wheel, knuckles bleaching white, the need to keep her safe winding through me so tight it feels like a current surging just beneath my skin.
She follows my commands without hesitation, no second-guessing, no fear overtaking reason. And it’s not blind faith; it’s earned, carved from everything we’ve already been through. In that breathless second, I’m not just the man protecting her, I’m the one she believes will win, the one she chooses to believe in when the bullets fly. That kind of faith? It’s heavy. It’s fire. It makes my pulse roar louder than the engine.
It rattles me more than the sniper’s bullet ever could. And it makes something savage inside me uncoil, stretch, demand blood. Good girl.
I wrench the wheel hard, tires spitting gravel as we veer off the highway onto a narrow service road that runs parallel to the water. The truck skids but holds. I’m out before we’ve even fully stopped.
I don’t think. I move.
Clothes hit the dirt. The mist surges from the ground in a rush of heat and thunder, thick with color as it coils around my legs and climbs higher, devouring the air, the light, the sound. It swallows me whole.
My body answers the call without hesitation—seamless, fluid. One heartbeat I’m flesh and bone, the next I’m fur, fang, and instinct sharpened to a blade’s edge. The shift is instant. Painless. Absolute.
Inside the mist, there’s no before and after—only the crackle of energy, the hum of power crawling over my skin as it reshapes, reclaims. When the swirling haze finally breaks, I’m no longer human.
I am wolf—an apex predator with a mate to protect. I launch myself straight at the sniper, teeth bared, fury honed to a single, lethal point.
The sniper’s high in a deer stand. It’s a good placement—unmapped, camouflaged, elevation for range. He’s not expecting a wolf.
And if it’s the Reaper—if that bastard came in person—then this is more than strategy. It's personal. It’s war. The son of a bitch doesn’t just kill—he unravels, takes what you love and makes it bleed.
He’s a coyote-shifter, all shadows and cunning, and something about this—about him—feels too personal. Too deliberate. It’s not random, not opportunistic. This strike hadweight behind it, like he knew what she meant to me and wanted to carve it out. That thought needles at the edge of my instincts, sharp and unwelcome. But he doesn’t understand that I won’t stop. I’ll tear him apart and paint the fucking mangroves with his blood. Because this time, it’s not just an op. It’s my mate.
He fires once, missing by a mile.
I launch from the base of the tree with a savage burst of momentum, claws digging into bark as I scale high enough to lunge. A blur of motion, the wind slicing past, and then, impact.
I crash into him, jaws locking on his forearm, the crunch of bone muffled beneath his scream. My claws tear across his chest as we plummet together through the branches, slamming hard into the underbrush.
He hits the ground stunned, bleeding, one leg twitching. He tries to crawl, but I’m already on him again, low and growling, every hair on my body bristling with rage. There’s no escape. Not for him.
I don’t kill him. Yet. I drag him by the ankle, back toward the truck, fury humming in every muscle. Kari’s out now, crouched by the truck door, watching with eyes wide and unblinking.
I drop the unconscious bastard at her feet.
The mist swirls again, thunder and lightning snapping inside it, colors breaking like oil on water. I hit the ground bare and breathing hard, skin steaming. The scent of blood and earth clings to me, sharp and metallic in the salt-heavy air. My lungs burn from the shift, my body alive with residual power.
Through the haze, I feel her eyes on me—hot, unflinching. Her breath hitches, soft but sharp enough for me to catch. There’s no fear. Only heat. Curiosity. Something primal. Her gaze drags over the tension still locked in my muscles, the scrape along my ribs—and something changes, subtly. Not fear, but something deeper. Seeing me like this—untamed, not entirely human—touches a place in her I’m certain no one else hasreached. I catch the flicker of heat, the jolt of recognition, and the weight of everything we’ve survived condensed into that single look. It’s not revulsion. It’s connection. And it slams into my chest with the pull of gravity.
The wild hasn’t settled. I feel it stir in her too—desire threaded with awe—and it sears through me like a second sun catching fire beneath my skin.
Kari doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
She pulls her jacket off and tosses it to me. “You’ve got blood all over you.”
“Not mine.”
She looks down at the sniper who appears to be in shock, then at me. “Is he cartel?”
“Doubtful. He's probably the Reaper’s.” I crouch, roll the man over, pat him down. Nothing in the pockets, but his phone’s still warm. “He wasn’t here to watch. He was here to stop us from leaving.”
