Page 24 of Ranger's Honor
The night echoes me—each growl I loose is answered by the wind shoving through the trees. Overhead, the storm builds, lightning cracking open the dark clouds, spilling brief flashes of silver and shadow. Thunder rolls through the night, syncing with the low rumble in my chest, amplifying the warning that carries across the land. Stay back.
Only when I’ve pushed the perimeter far enough that no threat could slip close without crossing my scent do I ease back toward the house. The glow from the kitchen window cuts through the dark, pulling me in.
She’s still there. Still safe. And every mark I’ve laid down tonight makes damn sure it stays that way.
CHAPTER 9
KARI
The kitchen is quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the sort of silence that settles too deep, like it knows something I don’t. It mirrors the sharp edge of last night—Dalton slipping out to run the perimeter, the storm rising with him, lightning cracking the sky. I’d feigned sleep when he came back, heard his steps pause at my door, felt the weight of his gaze before he moved on.
Now it’s morning, but the quiet sits heavy, thick with everything we didn’t say. My pulse stumbles under it. The pressure builds, dense and unmoving, until it’s under my skin and behind my ribs, stretched tight like a breath I forgot to release.
This isn’t the natural stillness of a new day. It’s the kind that follows something breaking. The air still carries the remnants of the storm—damp, restless, and faintly metallic, clinging to the walls like a warning. Every creak feels too sharp. Every breath, too loud. It’s like the whole house is bracing, holding itself as tightly as I am.
This silence has teeth. It wraps around me with invisible fingers, cold and deliberate, raising the hairs on my arms as it goes. The storm is gone, but the scent lingers—wet concrete,charged air, something metallic beneath it all. The tile is cool beneath my feet, and the overhead light hums just enough to needle at the edges of my nerves. This isn’t peace. It’s the aftermath. The space where noise should be, but isn’t.
It’s not just quiet—it’s emptied out. A hush that carries intent, like the house is listening. Waiting. The stillness is thick, dense enough to sink into, and the air feels colder than it should. I wrap my arms around myself as the chill seeps through my skin, grounding me. The light hums on, steady and low, as if even the wiring is reluctant to break the quiet. Outside, darkness crowds the windows, close and unmoving, like it’s waiting too.
The kitchen is quiet. Not the easy kind, but the kind that settles heavy, like it’s holding its breath. On the counter, a folded slip of paper waits by the coffee pot.
Kari—Checking the perimeter again. Security’s armed. Doors locked. Don’t open for anyone but me.—D
No scent of fresh coffee, just the used pod from the last mug the bastard made for himself. The fridge hums, the wall clock ticks, and that’s all.
He’s gone. Again. But not without making sure I’m locked down. I can still picture him last night, striding in from the storm after his patrol, damp hair pushed back, scanning the room like a predator scenting the wind. I kept my eyes shut, but I could feel him pause at my door, his presence looming in the frame like a shadow stretching across the room. His footsteps had been slow, deliberate, moving through the house like he was imprinting every sound and scent into memory.
Now it’s morning. The security system light blinks steady by the back door, the perimeter armed just like his note promised.A small, weighted thing sits in my pocket—the spare mag he’d pressed into my hand before leaving last night. Cold, solid, and impossible to ignore.
Still, the space feels too empty. Too still. And his absence gives me room I haven’t had in days. Room to maneuver.
I pull my laptop toward me. The files I decrypted yesterday sprawl across the screen, each one a breadcrumb I’ve been chasing too long. I sort by timestamp. My stomach twists when I spot a fresh upload.
Another breach—barely hours after the last. The one that nearly gutted our data. We’re losing ground.
Heat surges up the back of my neck as I click open the folder. One video file. One document, coded in cartel shorthand. I run the translation, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. Not rumor. Not exaggeration. Confirmation.
A memory slices in—me watching one of the video files that Sookie had. A survivor’s voice cracked as she described the sound of a metal door slamming, followed by a silence so complete it felt final. That same silence wraps around me now, tight and suffocating.
Sookie’s face flashes in my mind—not from her bylines, but from the thought of her final moments. She’d known what she was up against and chased it anyway. I feel the weight of that choice settle on me.
I scan the last lines of the file. Coordinates. A marshland on the edge of the island. Industrial. Active.
I open a fresh note and scrawl on the pad by the fridge:
Dalton—Found another location. Going to take a look. Coordinates on the computer.—K
Leggings, black hoodie, sneakers. GPS tracker in my pocket. Laptop open on the table, cursor blinking like it knows I shouldn’t be doing this.
As I cross the kitchen, a shadow shifts across the window, faint but deliberate. A moment later comes the soft sound of boots on the porch. My pulse skips. For one long breath, I freeze, debating whether to bolt.
The doorknob turns. The back door opens.
Dalton fills the frame, damp from the run, wild around the eyes, chest still rising like he hasn’t caught his breath. His breathing is ragged, loud in the silence, and a wave of heat rolls off him, thick with adrenaline and sweat. The scent hits me first—earth, salt, the sharp tang of exertion—grounding and electric all at once. Sweat clings to him in a sheen that outlines every hard muscle beneath the sweat suit, and something in the fierce set of his jaw thrills and unsettles me all at once.
His eyes lock onto mine with a heat that steals the breath from my lungs. For one disoriented second, I forget the danger, forget my fury. I only feel the punch of awareness between us, as sharp and hot as it’s ever been.
He picks up the note; scans it. "You’re not going anywhere."
