Page 46 of Ranger's Honor
Dalton is posted across the room, barely a shadow, but his presence wraps around me like a tether, anchoring me in the chaos. My pulse steadies—not much, but enough. I draw breath and hold it, feeling the thread of him stretch across the distance, taut and unbreakable. Always. His energy hums across my skin, fierce and tightly wound.
Lightning cracks the sky open in a blinding flash, illuminating the rafters with a skeletal glow. The whole warehouse pulses white for a breathless heartbeat, casting shadows like ghosts high above us. The sharp ozone tang of the storm punches through the air, and the answering rumble of thunder rolls in behind it like the earth itself is growling.
Gage’s voice crackles through the comms. "Movement. One klick."
My breath catches. It’s not surprise—it’s anticipation, sharp and electric. My heart kicks hard in my chest, a hammering echo that drowns out the rain for a second. I press my back tighter to the crate, fingers curling into the worn edges, grounding myself in something real.
Dalton shifts, his silhouette all tense muscle and lethal intent. I don’t have to see his face to know his jaw’s clenched, that his wolf is snarling beneath his skin. The air hums between us, a tether stretched taut across distance and danger.
I exhale slowly through my nose, forcing control back into my limbs. This is it—the moment we’ve planned for. My pulse won’t slow, but my mind sharpens. I glance down at the screen. Still stable. No new pings. But I know they’re coming.
I whisper, not into the comm, but into the space between us: “Let’s finish this."
My stomach turns to lead, cold and heavy, as if the ground beneath me has moved a fraction of an inch off its axis. For a split second, the world tilts—just enough to make my balance falter and my breath stutter. The air thickens around me, laced with salt, rust, and something darker—something like dread curling at the edges of my vision.
Dalton adjusts his stance slightly, a flicker of tension rippling through his shoulders. I see the glint of his blade, the brutal calm in his silhouette. His wolf is close to the surface—I can feel it vibrating in my bones.
Another flash of lightning slices the sky open, bathing the warehouse in a stark white glow that fades just as fast. Then—footsteps. Boots striking metal—slow, deliberate, echoing through the vast hollow space like a countdown. Controlled. Measured. Intentional. Each step sends a vibration up through the floor and into my bones, a rhythmic drumbeat ofinevitability that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. Whoever's coming isn't rushing. He knows exactly where he's going—and he expects nothing to stand in his way.
The Reaper has arrived.
My breath catches sharp, heart spiking in my chest like a snare pulled tight. For one fractured second, every horror from the files flashes through my mind—names, patterns, lifeless eyes. He’s here. Real. And I’m not just bait anymore; I’m the wall between him and what he thinks he can take.
And I brace myself, lungs tight with anticipation. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one about to explode in here. Every instinct I have, human and wolf, goes still, sharpening to a single point of awareness. My hand hovers over the trackpad, the trap set and waiting.
CHAPTER 18
DALTON
Lightning flashes again, bleaching the sky in jagged, silver fire as I stalk through the chaos outside the warehouse. Wind howls around me, pushing the rain sideways in sheets that blur the edges of the shattered yard. Kari is inside, but she’s not alone. Somewhere in the dark, Rush and Gideon are moving to intercept the Reaper’s backup—men scattered across the property like roaches flushed into the open. I trust them to cut those bastards down before they get close.
Dawson's rifle is nested in a distant perch, high above the yard, eyes sharp and scope trained. Gage runs point in the mobile command unit parked half-hidden down the road, locked onto our comms and heartbeat feeds, tracking every change in this bloody chess match. Every sound, every breath, every movement—we’re wired together in this storm.
Lightning ignites the night sky. It’s not a flicker—it’s a detonation, the sky splitting open with a roar that shakes my ribs. The crack of thunder that follows doesn’t echo—it slams, deep and resonant, vibrating through my bones like the toll of some ancient war drum. My ears ring. My eyes narrow against the blast of light, and for half a second, the storm renders everything stark and colorless.
I taste metal on the back of my tongue. The scent of ozone slices through the air—sharp, electric, like the breath of something unholy waking up. My breath stutters in my throat, lungs locking against the pressure building inside my chest. The hair on my arms lifts, skin crawling with awareness.
And then—I see him.
A lean silhouette steps from behind the shipping containers, moving like a shadow peeled from the storm heading towards the warehouse. Coyote-lean, braced like a loaded spring, his eyes gleam like twin embers caught in the flash. The aura he carries is pure intent—clever, manipulative, patient, scavenger. The Reaper.
I move to intercept. No sound. No warning. One heartbeat I’m crouched in the dark; the next, the world explodes into thunder and muscle and change.
The mist rises fast, curling up from the ground, thunder cracking through it as my wolf takes over. It rolls over me—color and lightning, sound and heat—no pain, only instinct. My paws hit concrete, claws biting for traction.
And the coyote has already shifted and is moving towards me.
He launches, and I meet him mid-air—fangs bared, bodies colliding with bone-jarring force. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and we slam to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fury.
Concrete meets my spine like a battering ram, the shock exploding behind my eyes. Pain radiates through my ribs as they shudder under the weight of him.
Rain-slick pavement turns treacherous beneath us; my claws scrabble for grip, catching nothing but wet stone. Blood floods my mouth, thick and metallic, and my shoulder screams from the violent angle of impact, the joint torqued near its limit.
I hear his breath—ragged, guttural, feral—so close it all but scorches the fur at my neck. He’s snarling now, low and unrelenting, all instinct and bloodlust. Without warning, his weight tilts, and his teeth snap beside my ear. A warning. A promise. I twist violently beneath him, pain blooming bright and white-hot as muscle and sinew strain. Bone grinds against bone. Fury burns through my limbs as I heave us into another roll.
The rain hits hard, sharp as needles, washing through the heat of our struggle. It slaps my face, mixing with blood and the stink of violence—wet fur, copper, sweat, and something darker. Ozone thickens the air, heavy with the threat of another strike. My nerves are stripped raw, every sensation amplified until the world narrows to sound, scent, and movement.
His fur brushes mine—coarse, soaked, rank with blood and fury. I feel it like a brand. A warning. The storm rages around us, but it's nothing compared to the war breaking loose inside my chest. Rage surges through me—hot and primal—driven by instinct, by the bond I refuse to name, by the threat he still poses to her.
