Page 21 of Ranger's Honor
My mouth goes dry.
We had sex in the kitchen last night, but it was urgent and frenzied and dark. I didn’t see him. Not like this.
He adjusts his position slightly and my gaze flicks up. Our eyes lock. Heat scorches through me so fast I nearly stumble back.
His lips twitch. “See something you like?”
I lift my chin, refusing to blush. “I’m just making sure you didn’t shift any parts off, cowboy.”
That earns a rough laugh, and just like that, some of the tension bleeds out of the room, but not all of it.
Because we’re still close. Too close. And my hand is still on his chest, his heartbeat pounding beneath my palm like a drum.
“I had to,” he says, low.
“What?”
“Come back.”
My throat tightens.
“You’re not the only one doing this, Dalton.” I feel the truth of it settle into my chest as I say it, fierce and certain. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I don't look away. I'm not just offering comfort—I’m making a promise.
His eyes lift to mine. There’s heat there. And something else—something deeper... something hungry. It’s the kind of look that makes my breath stutter, that crawls beneath my skin and sets my pulse racing. That hunger? It’s not just lust—it’s possession, promise, a silent vow that hits me low and deep and leaves me unsteady on my feet.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, sugar.”
“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”
I don’t flinch when he rises, when his body cages mine against the edge of the counter, when his scent wraps around me like smoke and steel and something wild just under the surface.
His nose grazes my temple. “You're making it really hard for me to remember you're Gideon's little sister and just walk away.”
“Then don’t.”
I feel him go still beneath my hands, like the air between us thickens, charged with something unspoken and enormous. The only sound is our breath—mine shallow, his ragged—and the faint creak of wood beneath our weight, like the house itself is holding still, waiting. It’s not just hesitation—it’s a storm held at bay by sheer will. His muscles tense like a man standing at the edge of something irreversible, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a low, rough vow that skims across my skin and sinks deep into my bones.
“I can't. Not tonight.”
My breath catches because I know exactly what that means—the breathless anticipation curling low in my belly, the throb of emotion clenching at my heart and lungs, the sharp sting of knowing how close we came to something that could have changed everything.
And I know exactly what it costs him to say it—know how hard it is for a man like Dalton to admit he almost didn’t make it, to crack that steel armor even for a second. That knowledge hits hard, making everything inside me stumble before coming back with a strong and steady rhythm. I know that because underneath all his control and calm, he’s bleeding in more ways than one—and still, he chose to come back to me. Heat rushes through my chest, my limbs trembling from adrenaline and emotion, the air between us too heavy to breathe and too full to ignore.
CHAPTER 8
DALTON
The nightmare grabs hold before I know I’ve slipped under, dragging me down with the sound of my own ragged breath and the sharp, metallic tang of fear in my mouth.
Screams echo—familiar and torn, weaving into the low thrum of distant chopper blades and the dry staccato of rifle fire. The sky is a swirling inferno of orange and ash, a palette of hell lit by the detonation of an IED too close to the compound. Heat scorches my skin, blistering and choking, even as I force myself forward. I'm back in Kandahar, where the stink of scorched blood, diesel, and burned canvas makes the back of my throat clench.
Ben’s broken body drags behind me, his boots leaving twin trails of red on sunbaked gravel. Bullets cut through the smoke like angry wasps, tearing past with sonic screams. My legs are lead. My arms are jelly. But I keep crawling, keep pulling, because to stop is to die.
Only now, I see a flash of something else in the haze—dark curls matted with blood. A figure lying just beyond the reach of my hand. She’s face down, unmoving, surrounded by the twisted wreckage of what used to be a shelter wall. I drop the bodyI’m hauling and sprint toward her, lungs seizing. Not Ben. Not Marshall.
Kari.
My pulse spikes, chest tightening like I’ve taken a direct hit. The world stops, suspended in a single beat of terror and recognition.
