Page 6 of Ranger's Honor
"Didn’t realize this was going to be a honeymoon."
"You’re going to love the pillow I scream into at night. Very absorbent."
He arches an eyebrow. "You scream a lot, huh?"
"Wouldn’t you like to know."
Before he can answer, Maggie’s voice floats down from upstairs. "Is that Dalton?"
I glance up the stairwell. "Yeah. Rush and Cassidy are coming to take you back to their place. Dalton’s decided to play house with me."
She steps into view, eyebrows rising. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Dalton steps closer, tone firm but gentle. “Maggie, pack your essentials. Cassidy and Rush will be here any minute. They’ll get you somewhere safe.”
Maggie stares at him, then nods. "Okay."
Ten minutes later, headlights sweep the front porch. Cassidy strides in with Rush on her heels. Cassidy hugs Maggie tightly, whispering something only she can hear.
Rush nods to me. "You good with this?"
I glance at Dalton, who’s already rolled his duffel into the corner like this is just another Tuesday. "Not even a little," I mutter. "But he’s already staked his claim, so what choice do I have?"
Cassidy snorts. "Call if you need backup."
As they lead Maggie out, Dalton locks the door behind them and turns to me.
"You’re no fun," I accuse.
"I hear that a lot, and you talk too much."
"People say that, but they also say it’s part of my charm."
I head for the stairs, heart thudding, trying to decide the most appropriate thing to wear to bed in case of an assassination attempt. Upstairs, I open my bedroom door and stare into the space that felt safe this morning. Now it feels like it could easily become a crime scene.
I place my phone in the charger beside my bed. I pull off my clothes and head into the bath. From the bath, I hear it vibrate and buzz. Walking across to the bed, the phone screen lights up.
Unknown Number.
One new text. Two words.
TOO LATE.
And suddenly, I don’t know if I’ll survive the night.
CHAPTER 2
DALTON
Gideon is going to lose his shit—his mate and his kid sister? God help me. He’ll go cold first—measured, clipped words, no expression—and then he’ll pace, crack his knuckles, and assign blame like it’s a tactical maneuver.
I’ve seen it before—like the time Kari broke her wrist cliff diving in Costa Rica on a dare from her writing group. I still remember the call—static-ridden, rushed, her voice bright with forced cheer. “It’s just a sprain, Dalton. No big deal.”
But it was a big deal. She’d landed wrong, and the pain had kicked in halfway up the rocks. I could hear it in her breath, the little catch she tried to hide. “Don’t tell Gideon,” she’d added, like I wouldn’t immediately get him involved. When I’d told him anyway, he’d gone full cold-operational mode. Booked the fastest flight out, roused half of Team W like they were deploying, and damn near wore a hole in the floor pacing the aisle on that private jet.
I remember Kari trying to joke about it when we showed up—waving her cast like it was a party favor, pretending the whole thing was nothing. But even then, beneath the sass, there was that flicker of fear in her eyes. The one that said she knew she’d gone too far this time. And Gideon? He didn’t yell. He just stoodthere, jaw tight, and told her she was grounded. Like she was still a kid, like that would have stopped her.
On the return flight home, Gideon had paced the aisle of the private jet, assigning and reassigning blame like he was commanding a tribunal. No one was safe—not the pilot, not the locals, not the writing group, not even Kari’s poor editor who’d approved the trip in the first place. And under it all, there was panic, masked by control. Because that’s what Gideon does when the people he loves are in danger.
