Page 25 of Ranger's Honor
I've had it. "Get out of my way."
His jaw tightens. "You were going to sneak out. Alone."
"Sneak? I was the only one here and I left you a note. You decided you needed some air, some space, some something so you left."
He takes a step closer. "That’s not the same thing."
"Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly the same."
His nostrils flare. "What the hell were you thinking?"
I cross my arms. "I was thinking maybe if I got close to that warehouse, I could see something that would help me figure outwhat's in these files, maybe plant a tracker on something, get eyes on what they’re doing or just get some fresh air."
He growls—an actual growl, low and dangerous. "You don’t even know what’s waiting for you out there."
"Neither do you! But at least I’m trying to find out."
He stalks closer. "You’re going to get yourself killed."
My temper snaps. "And what? You’ll avenge me? Track my scent through the woods like some tragic ghost story? Screw that." My voice cracks with the fury and fear knotting in my gut. "I’m not some fucking memory or high moral code to protect."
The words hit him like a body blow. Dalton flinches—not visibly, not to anyone else, but I see the way his jaw ticks, the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. And when he finally looks at me, it’s with something raw and wounded behind the fury, something that almost makes me want to take it back. Almost.
"I’m alive, Dalton, not one of the guys you had to leave behind. I get to decide what risks I take. Me, not you, not Gideon, not even the fucking Reaper."
For a split second, my own words echo back at me, harsher than I intended—but I don’t take them back.
Alpha energy rolls off him in waves—tense, explosive, wound tight like a predator about to pounce. His hands twitch before slamming flat against the doorframe, shoulders bunched as if he’s holding back a snarl or the urge to punch straight through it. His spine is rigid, every muscle straining under the surface tension of restraint. His jaw locks, nostrils flaring like he’s one second from putting a hole in the nearest wall.
The atmosphere in the kitchen thickens, tension snapping between us like a cable stretched too tight in a thunderstorm, sparking with unsaid things. My skin prickles. My pulse roars in my ears. My wolf pushes forward, furious and fierce.
Dalton’s eyes narrow. He sees it too—the gold flash in mine.
"Don’t," he says softly.
I blink hard. The pressure recedes. Barely.
He steps forward until we’re nose to nose. "Don’t make me choose between protecting you and trusting you."
My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. "Then stop acting like those are two different things."
The words tear out of me before I can stop them, each one landing with the kind of precision that cuts deeper than volume ever could. They sear between us, heat and hurt bleeding into the space like wildfire. My chest tightens as they hang there, heavy and unyielding, vibrating with a force I can’t take back.
A tremor ripples through me, but I refuse to back down. I won’t. The words are mine, and they needed to be said—whether they wound or not.
The silence that follows is thick, oppressive, bristling with the weight of challenge. They’ve already lodged in it like a blade, sharp and deliberate. My throat tightens, breath catching as my body hums with the collision of fear, fury, and something dangerously close to surrender. I hate the way it feels, like I’ve just stripped myself bare in front of him—and worse, that a part of me is waiting, taut with anticipation, to see if he’ll close the distance to punish… or to claim.
Silence.
For one breath.
Then another.
His chest rises, falls. My fists unclench, fingers curling and releasing as though unsure whether to reach for him or shove him back again.
Neither of us moves, suspended in the fragile ceasefire between fury and something more dangerous—understanding.
The war between us isn’t over. If he walks away now, I don’t know if I’ll chase him or let the silence swallow everything we could’ve been. I want to believe this fight meant something—thatit shook something loose instead of pulling us further apart. The tension smolders low in my gut, heat licking along my nerves like fire crawling through dry grass, a fuse still burning toward detonation. It simmers just beneath the surface, waiting for the next spark, the next misstep. But in this breath, this heartbeat, we’re in it together.
