Page 47 of Ranger's Honor
My jaws snap for his throat, targeting the vulnerable hollow just beneath his chin. My fangs slice through rain and fur, missing by inches. He jerks away, his canines grazing my shoulder in a shallow strike as he twists, protecting his belly with the reflex of a predator who’s survived worse.
We roll again, locked in a brutal rhythm—teeth flashing, breath steaming in the storm-drenched dark. The ground disappears beneath us. Everything else fades. There is no strategy here. No tactics. Only the desperate, savage need to win. To end this. To kill or be killed.
He’s fast. Too fast.
But I’m stronger.
We crash through the warped side door, rain chasing us in on gusts that smell of rust and oil. The cavernous space swallowsthe sound of our claws as they click against the concrete, rain still driving sideways through the shattered windows high above.
We break apart and circle, muscles coiled, water slicking our fur. His eyes burn with something beyond rage. This isn’t just a job for him. This is personal.
He lunges low and fast. I feint left, then pivot, snapping my jaws around his shoulder, bone crunching under the force. He shrieks—a sharp, feral yip—but twists free before I can finish it. Blood floods my tongue. Hot. Metallic. Sharp.
He wheels and slashes across my flank, deep enough I stumble. Pain flashes white through my ribs, but my wolf barely flinches. I shake it off and leap, slamming him to the floor.
He rolls us. We crash into a support beam with a wet crack, steel groaning around us. His teeth tear at my neck. I rip into his side.
We’re matched.
Rain floods the warehouse floor, pooling in uneven cracks and running in rivulets between shattered pallets and scattered debris. The metallic scent of blood mingles with rust and smoke, thick enough to choke on. Thunder shakes the rafters, and the wind shrieks through broken panes and twisted steel like a goddamn war cry—wild, savage, relentless.
The tang of brackish marsh water seeps in from the storm-battered coast, blending with the salt-laced air and the distant scent of decaying seaweed. Somewhere beyond the ruined structure, a storm surge crashes against the seawall, the sound muffled but unmistakable—Galveston reminding us just how close we are to the edge.
And then I hear her.
Not a scream. Not a sob. Not even her voice.
Keystrokes.
Steady. Relentless. Sharp as gunfire.
The sound cuts through the chaos, so clean and precise it shouldn’t exist in a place like this—like light piercing a battlefield. She’s still going. Still fighting. Each tap is a lifeline, a digital heartbeat hammering through the storm, anchoring me to something stronger than bloodlust. Stronger than rage.
It’s not just background noise—it lives in me. The rhythm thrums through my chest, syncing with my own pulse, beating back the darkness trying to take hold. For a moment, I’m not teeth and fury. I’m not the beast locked in combat. I’m a man, and she’s the reason I’m still breathing. She grounds me, stitches my fraying edges together with nothing but that sound. That goddamn beautiful sound.
And that clarity? It changes everything. The next time the Reaper charges, I don’t just react—I anticipate. Her steady rhythm sharpens my instincts, tempers my rage. My movements shift from blind aggression to brutal precision, calibrated to end this fast and clean. Because every second I keep him distracted is a second she has to finish the upload. And I’ll be damned if I let him take that from her. From us.
And still, she types.
The storm howls. My body aches. My vision pulses red. But that rhythmic clatter of keys keeps driving through the haze, through the roar of wind and the scent of death, guiding me back to myself one keystroke at a time. It’s her strength—unshakable, impossible—that fills my chest with something so sharp it hurts.
Pride.
Fierce and staggering.
I swallow hard, the taste of blood thick on my tongue, because I know if I fail here, if I fall, that sound will stop. She won’t get out. And neither will I.
It’s not fear that twists in my gut. It’s finality. That brutal, unflinching knowledge that my survival isn’t mine anymore. It’shers. It’s bound to her breath, her pulse, her heartbeat tapping across that keyboard like war drums.
She believes in me.
And that means I sure as hell can’t afford to lose.
I can smell her. Feel her. The threads between us pulse with energy, tightening like a snare around my chest.
She’s uploading the full drive. I feel it in my bones, in the electrical hum buzzing at the edges of my awareness—every keystroke like a war drum against my spine.
The Reaper lunges again. I dodge—barely—his fangs grazing the side of my jaw, leaving a hot sting in their wake. My breath rips in and out, each inhale a fight, each exhale edged with fire and panic. My leg gives under me without warning, the joint folding in a jolt of white-hot agony that tears straight through the muscle. I hit the ground hard, claws scraping for purchase, the pain sharp enough to blur the world for a second. Blood slicks the concrete beneath my paws, warm and sticky. The copper tang rises thick in my throat, mixing with the acrid scent of ozone, sweat, and wet fur.
