Page 31 of Ranger's Honor
Over dinner, the air is warm with the smell of pasta and garlic, but there’s tension beneath it. She gives me a small smile, and I answer with a tight one of my own.
“You could have told me,” I say finally, voice low.
Her fork stills. “You would’ve stopped me.”
“No. I wouldn't. I would have gone with you. You think I’m okay with you walking out there alone? You could’ve been walking into something you couldn’t see coming,” I say, cutting myself off before the rest of what I’m thinking gets out. My jaw tightens. “Next time, you tell me—and we go together, Kari.”
Her eyes flash. “I had to go. You know I did.”
“I don't know that I do, but even if you did, you didn't have to go alone,” I snarl, leaning in, “but understanding you need to do something and letting you go alone are not mutually exclusive.”
"Dalton, you don't own me. You don't get to control every little thing in my life."
"I don't want to control 'every little thing,' but I will make sure that whatever you're doing, you are safe when you're doing it."
"And if I don't agree with you?"
I shrug. "Then I'll make sure it gets done my way."
"You can't do that," she snarls.
I wonder if I should tell her the way her eyes flash when she's really pissed is incredibly sexy. No. Probably not the right time.
Instead I say smoothly, "Try me."
The rest of the meal passes in uneven bursts of conversation, the clink of cutlery punctuating the quiet. By the time the plates are cleared, the worst of my anger has cooled, but the edge is still there, sharp and protective. She drifts to her keyboard, fingers tapping at the keys, while I comb through surveillance feeds and encrypted files. The silence between us isn’t hostile, but it hums with everything we didn’t finish saying.
She heads upstairs first, yawning around a sleepy smile, bare feet scuffing softly on the wood floor. I watch her disappear around the landing, the sway of her hips burned into my mind like a brand. I'm still in the middle of a file when the glow fromher room dims. A few minutes later, the house is quiet, and I can almost imagine she’s already dreaming.
I’m out on the back porch, watching the horizon bleed into darkness, the burn of too many thoughts chewing at my edges, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. The sound slices through the stillness, sharp and insistent—a reminder that peace never lasts long in this world. Rush.
"Talk to me," I answer, already braced.
"Elias Vega’s resurfaced."
The name alone snaps my spine straight. My grip tightens around the phone, that tight surge of heat in my gut rising fast and hot. A flash of memory—Elias bleeding on a concrete floor three years ago, barely conscious and still giving us intel—hits like a gut punch. If he’s resurfacing now, it’s not for nostalgia. It’s because the fire’s getting close.
"Where?"
"South Pier. That busted-ass amusement park they’ve been trying to condemn since forever. Said he’ll talk, but only to you. He’s twitchy as hell. You’ve got a small window."
"Understood. I need someone with their eyes glued to the house and the perimeter."
I hang up and head upstairs, the creak of each stair underfoot muffled by the weight in my chest. The door to the bedroom is cracked, soft light spilling across the floor like a beacon.
She’s curled on the bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, laptop still glowing dimly beside her. The sight of her—bare skin wrapped in one of my shirts, hair wild against the pillow, breath slow and even—hits like a fist to the chest. Mine. I already marked her. Claimed her. And now one of the bastards we’ve been chasing is circling closer.
She stirs as I kneel next to her. "Dalton?"
"Elias Vegas is back. We’ve got a location, the old amusement park on the south pier."
She sits up instantly and I realize I gave her too much information. Her eyes are sharp despite sleep still clinging to her lashes, and something in them guts me. There's a flash of guilt for allowing her to be dragged into this world, twisted up with the admiration I can’t seem to hide. "I’m coming with you."
"No."
"Try again."
"Kari...”
