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CHAPTER 10

GIDEON

I leave Maggie’s bed with regret thick in my chest. Every instinct screams at me to stay—to pull her closer, bury myself in her scent, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist for a few more hours. But I’m not just a man anymore. I’m her protector now, and something—someone—is circling too close. Tomorrow, Dalton and Gage will be in town to help cover ground, but tonight, the responsibility is mine alone. If any threat lingers, it needs to know that Maggie isn’t unguarded; that she belongs to someone who can—and will—fight to keep her safe.

I leave the loft building and make my way down to the dock. With methodical ease, I strip, folding each item as if grounding myself in a familiar routine before the storm. Tucked behind a rusted dumpster where the salt air clings thick and heavy, I fold my clothes and place them in a waterproof bag and hide them beneath a tarp.

Then I reach inward, summoning the presence that lives beneath my skin—ancient, instinctive, coiled like lightning waiting to strike. It’s more than muscle memory now; it’s a bond of blood and bone. The wolf doesn't just rise—it surges, wild and ready, demanding the night like it belongs to it.

It rises fast and feral, a pressure behind my ribs that makes me feel as if my entire body is cracking wide, demanding release. The swirling mist surges around me, curling in supernatural tendrils as color shimmers within it. A crack of thunder rolls over the waves as lightning streaks across the sky like the threads of a spider's web, drawn to the moment my body begins to change.

My bones reform with a soundless ripple, skin giving way to fur, heat blooming down my spine. The pain is brief but biting, sharp-edged and familiar. And when it passes, I stand silent and watchful, all muscle and fang, the moonlight casting silver across my coat.

The skies rumble in harmony as I lope into the shadows—a living, breathing warning cloaked in muscle and menace. With each paw striking the ground, I silently declare my claim to this territory. My presence isn’t just defense. It’s a promise. To any predator foolish enough to get close, it says one thing clearly: you’ll have to go through me.

The moon is low when I hit the beach on which Maggie's building fronts—the sand cold beneath my paws. A misty spray curls around the edges of the surf like a secret whispered in code. In this form, the world slows and sharpens—every grain of sand, every crackle of air and shifting breeze coded into instincts as old as the blood in my veins. Each wave that breaks on the shore carries information: who has passed, what has lingered, how close danger has come. My claws leave purposeful marks in the sand as I prowl along the edge of the surf, head low, senses flaring wide. This is my time, my terrain, and anyone foolish enough to challenge that will meet more than just muscle—they’ll meet wrath.

Except tonight, there’s no calm. The air is too sharp, too charged—like the storm doesn’t just hang overhead but coils around me. The ocean whispers of trespass, and the breeze carries tension through the salt-heavy mist. I feel it before I can even form the thought: something is off. Watching. Waiting. The kind of stillness that doesn’t bring peace, but the eerie quiet before something violent cracks open in the dark.

I scent it the second I pass the old lifeguard station—a thread of scent that snaps taut through my chest. It’s not Team W. It’s not Kari. It’s not local. It’s not right. It’s sharp, predatory, unfamiliar. Rogue. And worse, the lingering scent is an arrogant, deliberate message, not an accident, from whoever left it.

It’s faint, but fresh. Too fresh. Like whoever left it behind did so minutes ago—not hours. It clings to the breeze with a kind of smugness, as if daring someone to notice, to follow. It’s not just territorial; it’s taunting.

I track it toward the north edge of the block—where Maggie's loft stands, warm light still glowing behind drawn curtains. The scent flares again as I near, sour and sharp with arrogance, like rust on old steel. It curls through the air, too deliberate to be passing. I slow near the trash bins, nose to the ground, every muscle coiled tight. The scent lingers there—bold, oily, unbothered by the idea of being found. Then it veers west, pulled like a thread toward the narrow alley behind the bakery, the path precise and unapologetic. Whoever it is, they’ve come close. Too close.

I don’t chase. Not yet. The sun is beginning to send streaks of light over the horizon, heralding the dawn. It’s time I get back to the loft. I shift, pull on my clothes and enter the building. By the time I come upstairs, dawn is encroaching on the day, painting the water pink and orange like a lie.

Maggie is already up. She’s in the kitchen, hair twisted up in a messy knot that probably started as neat but lost the battle somewhere between stress and caffeine. She perches on a stool, tucking one socked foot beneath her other leg, and squints at her laptop while nursing an espresso shot and crunching determinedly through a slice of blackened toast. She looks like someone who lost a fight with her morning but refuses to admit defeat. The moment she spots me entering, her eyes narrow like she’s preparing to add me to her list of problems.

“Let me guess,” she says, waving the toast with mock menace. “You were out brooding under the moonlight, regretting the choice you made last night.”

Ah, so she’s angry about waking up alone. She has no idea what it cost me to leave her, and now’s not the time to tell her.

"Not at all. I was doing my job. In case you've forgotten, someone is trying to sabotage your bakery and I'm trying to figure out who and why. It's become apparent that this is more than someone just trying to drive you out of business. I've talked with the team; Dalton and Gage will be here sometime today and they can keep an eye on things overnight, which will leave me to ravish you at will."

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching her blush and almost spit her coffee onto her laptop screen.

“What makes you think I'll let you do that?” she says, waving her toast like a warning.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I take a sip and level her with my most lascivious stare. "What makes you think you can stop me?" I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “You burning the toast on purpose now?”

“It’s called caramelization, Ranger.”

“It’s called ‘about to set off the smoke detector,’ Cupcake.”

"Don't call me that."

"Don't tell me what to do."

I catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth—a flicker of a smile she clearly doesn’t want me to notice, much less acknowledge. It’s not much, but it’s real. She turns away fast, like she can hide it behind the movement, but I don’t miss the subtle warmth rising in her. It’s there in her posture, the flush crawling up her neck. She might be trying to keep me at arm's length, but her body is saying something else entirely.

* * *

Later that morning, we open Sea Salt she’s venting. Scooping, pouring, slamming plastic lids shut like they’re responsible for every piece of stress weighing her down.

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. She knows I’m here. I can feel it in the way her movements stiffen, the way her shoulder blades lock tight beneath her shirt. Still, she doesn’t look up.

Not until she’s good and ready to.

“Got something you need to say, Ranger?” she asks, dry as dust but not half as subtle as she thinks. She doesn’t even glance up from the bin she’s aggressively re-labeling. I know she’s rattled without seeing her face.

I can feel it rolling off her in waves. The kind of brittle tension that comes from waking up alone and pretending it hadn’t mattered. Like she hadn’t searched for me in the sheets, or checked her phone for a message that never came. And now she’s hiding behind her sass, trying to slap a label on her disappointment just like she’s doing with the sugar bins.

I let her snark stand for a beat, watching the rigid set of her shoulders. Then I answer, voice low and even. “No. Just trying to decide if I should kiss you again or throw you over my shoulder and remind you what last night actually meant.”

That gets her attention. Maggie turns to face me, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more dangerous. I don’t wait for her to decide if she wants this. I already know she does.

I cross the space in two strides, my hand cupping the back of her neck with a possessive, dominant pressure. The first step she takes is hesitant, defiant even—but the next? She melts into me, mouth parted, heat rising off her skin like a storm ready to break.

My mouth claims hers, not with patience, but with purpose—like a man who’s spent all day resisting the urge and finally lets the leash snap. Her lips part on a gasp and my tongue slides against hers, coaxing and demanding at the same time. It’s a deep, consuming kiss that doesn’t need to ask for permission. She finds the front of my shirt, fisting the fabric as if anchoring herself to something solid.

Her knees buckle slightly, and I steady her with an arm at her waist, pulling her flush against me. She tastes like sugar and something wilder, and when she whimpers into my mouth, my pulse detonates.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. A warning. A promise. And her body answers all three.

I lift my head. "Any questions?" I ask in a calm and steady voice. She shakes her head. "Good." I kiss her again and step back before offering her a slick flyer I picked up earlier in the day. “Have you seen these?”

She takes the flyer and looks at them and then up at me, brow furrowed, confused.

“Granger Shores—a brand new beachfront condo development. Spa, gym, rooftop pool.”

She squints. “Are you looking to move to a condo here in town?”

"If I was, I'd be looking to move into a really nice converted warehouse loft with a sexy blonde to warm my bed."

Her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush, color blooming in a fast, telltale rush. I feel the twist of satisfaction coil in my gut. Not because I enjoy embarrassing her—but because I enjoy getting to her. That blush isn’t shame. It’s heat, stirred up from memory, from want. It’s the answer to a question neither of us has been brave enough to ask out loud.

Good. Let her feel it. Let her remember every damn second of last night. Maybe now she’ll stop pretending it hadn’t meant something. Because I sure as hell haven’t forgotten. Not for a heartbeat.

"Then why show it to me?"

“Because their pool’s gonna sit exactly where your mixer is.”

That gets her. Her mouth opens. Closes.

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

“I plan to and often. Two Granger-connected companies have made offers to half this block. You’re the only one left; everyone else has either sold or been forced out. I don't know how to tell you this, but Sea Salt I’m too focused on the scent that hits me when the door cracks open.

Shifter. Wolf.

Not one I know. Not Team W. Not local. But the signature is unmistakable—predatory and pungent, threaded with something oily and chemical like burned plastic. Whoever this is, they’re covering their tracks poorly. Or worse, not at all.

I take the slip and step closer, deliberately invading the guy’s space. “New route?” I ask casually, voice low and edged with something sharper.

The man blinks, caught off guard. “Just filling in.”

“Sure you are.” My eyes narrow as I take in every detail—scuffed boots, a twitchy jaw, the way his fingers keep flexing around the clipboard.

He hands over the flour without another word and turns, walking fast, not quite running.

I don’t follow.

Yet.

Instead, I turn back into the bakery, scent still clinging to my nostrils like a warning.

Maggie is watching me, eyes wide, pulse ticking fast at her throat.

I meet her gaze as I hold up the slip, the paper already curling under my grip. Then I lift the slip to my nose and inhale slowly, deliberately.

“We’ve got another problem,” I mutter, my tone low and lethal. I look down at the slip, then back at the door, jaw tight enough to creak. “And this one? This one reeks of trouble we can’t afford to ignore.”