Page 10 of Ranger's Honor
“You’ll be uncomfortable.”
“I’ve been worse.”
She moves past me, slow and deliberate, brushing my arm with hers as she crosses to the far side of the kitchen. The faint heat of her lingers, a teasing reminder of how close she’d have to be for me to feel more. Her voice drifts back, low and edged like a dare.
“Your choice, soldier. But don’t blame me if I scream in the night.”
My jaw tightens. I track her without meaning to, my gaze snagging on the subtle sway of her hips, the set of her shoulders, the easy defiance in her posture. The air between us still carries the faint bite of citrus shampoo, undercut by something warmer, wilder and hers alone.
The quiet swells until it’s a pressure system, thick and electric, like the seconds before a storm breaks. Every instinct says this stopped being standard protocol the moment she walked in. Now it’s a live wire, hissing and sparking, and I’m the fool with both hands clamped on the bare ends—half-hoping she makes me hold on.
CHAPTER 3
KARI
Dalton’s bag hits the floor with a soft thud, but it feels like a bomb going off in my carefully constructed little bubble of independence. He doesn’t ask where to put it. He doesn’t need to. The entire energy of my house just tilted like he owns the ground he walks on—and the air I breathe. Even the walls seem to straighten like they’ve been given orders.
He closed the door like it was settled, like he’s decided something for both of us—like my house, my rules, my space have just been annexed by his presence. The air tightens, my sanctuary tilting off-axis under the weight of him. There’s a gravity to him, and suddenly it’s pulling everything in my world slightly off center.
It’s not just that he’s here. It’s how he’s here. Unapologetic. Solid. Like a monument someone planted in the center of my open floor plan. Even the subtle scent of his cologne—something sharp and clean with a hint of cedar—edges into the corners of the room like it belongs here more than the sage I burned this morning.
I hate how easily he fits here. And I hate even more how part of me doesn’t want him to leave. This was supposed to be my space, my rules—but I didn’t say no. Not really.
I used to mock the forced proximity trope—until I could hear Dalton breathing down the hall and wondered if maybe those authors were onto something. Maybe there’s a kind of magic in proximity—the way tension coils tighter when you can hear someone breathing from the next room. If I play this right, I might just find out if the fantasy holds up to the hype.
I fold my arms and lean against the counter, watching him like a rabbit sizing up a wolf. He’s standing with that same combat-ready stillness, shoulders loose but every muscle coiled beneath his worn T-shirt, like the house itself is some new op and I’m the asset he’s been assigned to monitor. If he were any more textbook stoic protector, I’d have to start charging tuition.
"So what, you just move in and start alpha-ing all over the place like this is some territorial pissing contest?"
He doesn’t even glance up. "If you’re worried I’m going to rearrange your spice rack, don’t be. I won’t touch your cayenne."
"You shouldn’t even know I own cayenne."
"I read your labels while you were upstairs."
"That’s borderline invasive."
"So is someone trying to kill you, but here we are."
The man doesn’t rattle. He doesn’t blink. Just starts opening cabinets until he finds a glass, fills it with water, and downs it like he didn’t just walk into the lion’s den wearing an arrogant glower and tactical boots.
"You want to tell me what the actual plan is? Or are we just going to wing this while you patrol my house like some sexy drill sergeant with control issues?"
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A flicker. Barely there, but there, nonetheless. "You really think I’m sexy, huh?"
"I think you’re bossy."
We stare at each other, a beat too long. It’s like that time I challenged him to a drinking game at Gideon’s barbecue and ended up confessing I thought his eyes looked like bad decisionsand heartbreak. He hadn’t said a word then either, just stared me down the same way—like he was memorizing the lines he couldn’t cross. Something sparks in the air between us. Not sharp, not yet, but full of friction. The kind that builds and builds until it burns.
"There are two bedrooms," I say finally. "Guest room’s upstairs, other end of the hall. Try not to reorganize my bookshelves while you’re in there."
He pushes off the wall, picking up his duffel. "I'll put my things there, but I won't be that far away."
I wait until he disappears up the stairs before exhaling. This isn’t going to be easy. Dalton Calhoun in my space, in my air, for God knows how long? He’s quiet and grim and former-military through and through. And me? I’m loud and chaotic and allergic to being told what to do.
A few minutes later, I step into my room, leaving the door cracked just enough for airflow—or plausible deniability. I undress slowly, deliberately. The cotton of my T-shirt slides over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake as the cooler air wraps around my bare arms. The silence feels loaded, like the walls themselves are listening. I peel my clothes off one layer at a time, aware of the hush, aware of the crack in the door, aware of him.
There’s a strange thrill in knowing the door is cracked—maybe he’ll look, maybe he won’t—but either way, the anticipation tightens in my belly. The familiar space of my bedroom feels foreign, suspended in breathless expectation. My pulse flutters just beneath the surface, a hum of nerves and want tangled together with reckless curiosity.
