Page 13

CHAPTER 12

GIDEON

T he scent of flour clings to the air, warm and heavy, layered over butter and yeast—and something brighter that clings to Maggie like sunlight off of steel. She isn’t brittle today. She’s sharp, self-contained, humming with a kind of focused calm that makes my chest tighten in ways I don’t have names for.

I stand in the bakery kitchen, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour, watching Maggie work the bread dough with the kind of quiet concentration that always disarms me. Her motions are firm but graceful, a rhythm of push and fold that speaks of muscle memory and control. She has her hair twisted into a loose knot that’s already failing, a few golden strands escaping to cling to the soft skin along her jaw. My chest tightens at the sight—not with worry, but with something more grounded. Want. Awe. The sharp-edged need to step into her space and offer my steadiness to match hers.

She doesn’t glance at me, but I know she feels me. Her awareness of me is too acute to miss the weight of my gaze. She just keeps working, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll move first.

I step behind her. "You’re pushing too hard on it," I murmur.

Maggie doesn’t look up. “Are you going to mansplain gluten development to me now, Ranger? You do remember I'm the one who graduated top of her class at pastry school, right?”

“I remember. I'm just offering backup.”

I move closer, my chest brushing her back with slow, deliberate contact, body heat seeping into her spine. My hands slide around to cover hers, large and warm, a steady weight over her fingers. My touch doesn’t jolt—doesn’t startle. It folds over hers like it’s always belonged there, guiding her hands through the dough with practiced pressure. Not forceful. Just confident. Certain. Like a current she doesn’t have to fight, only follow. The rhythm changes as our hands move together, slow and grounding, like muscle memory re-learning intimacy one fold at a time. My breath is at her ear, not quite touching but impossibly close, and she doesn’t pull away. She leans in, steady and sure, letting the contact hold—not because she needs the help, but because something in the warmth of my presence whispers that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t have to hold it all alone.

The dough compresses under our touch, pliant and warm, a rhythm settling between us like a second heartbeat. Maggie isn’t brittle—she’s fire held in check, focused and sure—but her body leans into mine, drawn by something deeper than want. Her breath hitches as my hands slow, my thumbs brushing lightly over the sides of her wrists, a silent coaxing more than a command. I lean in, lips near her ear, the words threading into her skin like silk over wire, my voice low enough to blur the line between suggestion and promise.

“You’re tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” Her voice is clipped, but the way her body eases against mine says something different. It says she needs this. The steadiness. The connection. Me.

“You could tell me to stop,” I say.

“You wouldn’t.”

“No,” I agree. “I wouldn’t.”

* * *

Dalton’s voice crackles through the comm clipped to my belt. “Perimeter clear. Gage is looping the west side.”

I answer with a low, “Copy.”

The team’s all in now—Dalton, Gage, Deacon, Rush. Full recon mode. Dalton and Gage are in San Antonio—in fact, they’re staying at Maggie's loft. Deacon and Rush are still at Team W’s remote ranch outside the city. Maggie’s sleepy bakery has turned into ground zero for something a hell of a lot bigger than spoiled sugar.

My phone buzzes.

Deacon: Confirmed. Chas Warren’s directing the operation under the Grangers’ order through one of their shell corps. Payroll hit last week.

Rush: Warehouse leased two blocks from the pier. Same shell. Same scent.

Maggie pulls back from me, dusting her hands on a towel. “So I’m officially a blip on the Texas Rangers’ radar, huh?”

I meet her eyes. “Not just a blip.”

She folds her arms. “Let me guess—I’m not a civilian in this anymore.”

I kiss the tip of her nose. “Exactly.”

She pushes me away and scoffs, pacing. “Great. I just love that for me. So now I’m bait? Is that it?”

“You’re not bait,” I say evenly. “You’re a variable in a hostile op. You think Chas is working alone? The Grangers don’t hire small-time screwups unless they serve a bigger purpose. And you... your shop... it’s not random.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

The bell over the alley door jingles, a brittle sound against the tension laced thickly through the kitchen. My head snaps toward the sound. An unscheduled delivery. I reach behind my back, fingers brushing the edge of my concealed weapon out of habit, and nod once toward Maggie without speaking.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask. Just moves to the far side of the counter and stands ready—calm, focused, sharper than ever. She isn’t brittle. She stands braced.

Dalton steps in from the front of the shop, eyes already scanning. We exchange a look—one of those wordless, tactical flashes Team W has honed to muscle memory.

The door at the back of the kitchen, the alley entrance used for deliveries and back exits, opens. A vulnerability I’ve begun to mentally clock whenever I hear it.

I move through the kitchen and into the rear delivery area, my stance locking into something still, dominant, unshakable. The man standing just inside the open back door clutches a clipboard and a crate—but it isn’t just the unfamiliar face that raises every internal alarm I have. It’s the way his eyes flit too fast around the space, the way his fingers grip the crate like it’s a lifeline. Wrong. Shifty. Not the same guy as yesterday—and nowhere near confident enough to be legitimate.

“You’re late,” I say flatly.

The man freezes, eyes wide and wild. Then, without another word, he bolts—crate thudding to the floor as he shoves through the alley door and sprints down the back lot, feet scrambling for traction.

“Really?” I mutter.

I don’t hesitate. Don’t need to shift into my wolf form. The man inside me is more than enough. I charge after him, boots pounding the pavement, the sound a drumbeat of inevitability. The runner zigzags toward the street, but I’m faster. Smarter. Trained.

He’s fast. Sloppy. Feet pounding pavement, breath ragged. But I’ve trained for worse terrain. I sprint past a stack of rusted bins, closing the gap with unrelenting speed, and intercept him just behind a dumpster. Without breaking stride, I grab the collar of his jacket, spin him, and pin him hard against the brick wall with a forearm across his chest. The clipboard slips from his fingers, but I catch it mid-fall, my grip unyielding.

The guy’s voice cracks. "I—I was just paid to drop the crate!” he wheezes.

“For who?” I growl.

“I don't know. I picked it up from a warehouse near the marina. I know nothing else. I swear.”

My grip tightens. “Who paid you?”

“I don’t know names. They gave me a location. Warehouse. Marina district.”

“Address.”

“Pier thirty-seven. Old cannery building.”

The minute I divert my attention, the man bolts. I let him go. He has nothing more to tell us.

Dalton catches up, breath steady. “What’s at thirty-seven?”

My jaw tightens. "Pier thirty-seven. Old cannery. That’s all I got. “Let’s find out."

I tap my earpiece. “Gage, track the van in the alley and stay with Maggie.”

“Got it. Where are you and Dalton headed?”

“An old cannery near the marina.” I turn to Dalton. “Up for a little recon?”

Dalton grins. “Always.”

* * *

The warehouse reeks—mildew clinging to the rafters, salt crusting the corners of broken crates, secrets hanging in the air like fog that refuses to lift. Someone has strewn empty pallets across the concrete floor in haphazard piles, as if they left in a hurry. Near the back wall, a whiteboard leans at an angle, half-erased notes smudged beneath a tangle of red string and pushpins.

On it, a map of Galveston. Circled in red: Sea Salt I said no. It happens all the time.”

“But you’re one of the last holdouts. You became the block. That makes you dangerous.”

She leans back, arms crossed. “And what? You care because Kari does?”

“I care because you matter. To her. To me.”

She holds my gaze, not blinking, as the weight of my words sinks in. Her expression isn’t afraid—it’s steady, calculating, full of things she hasn’t said yet. Her eyes scan my face like she’s mapping every line, every twitch, every truth I’m not voicing. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but firm.

“You mean that?”

I don’t flinch. “Every word.”

She nods once, slowly, then looks back at the map. “Now what?”

“Now, I burn down anyone who gets close.”

* * *

That night, the four of us gather in the loft, the air thick with a quiet intensity that never quite eases. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but pressure—like the city itself is holding its breath. Maggie sits cross-legged on the couch, her back resting against me and nursing a mug of something hot. Her eyes flick occasionally to the windows as if expecting the silence to break with a sound that hasn’t yet come.

Gage leans against the far wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp and distant. Dalton perches on the kitchen island, body coiled like a runner waiting for a starting gun. And I—I sit with Maggie leaning against me, one arm wrapped around her, my hand resting lightly on her waist, my body thrumming with restrained energy.

The light is low, the room too still, and none of us say it out loud, but we all feel it. Something is coming. And it’s close.

Then comes the howl.

Low and primal, it rises from beyond the loft windows—a sound that doesn’t belong to the streets or the surf or any part of the city Maggie has ever called home. It threads through the air like an ancient summons, not loud, but so distinct it sinks into the bones. Not the sound of a stray dog or distant coyote. This is deeper. Wilder. A voice pulled from the marrow of something old—too knowing, too deliberate.

The others freeze. The silence that follows isn’t hollow—it bristles with the aftershock of recognition.

Maggie straightens slowly, her heart already thudding, and turns toward me. My jaw is tight. My eyes hold an ethereal light she hasn’t seen before.

I stand instantly. Dalton and Gage are already reaching for their weapons.

“Check it. Go light. Stay sharp.”

Dalton and Gage nod, both leaving their guns on the island. “Copy that.”

The front door clicks shut behind them with a soft finality, the sound echoing through the loft like a quiet lock sliding into place. Maggie and I stand still for a moment, the hum of the city beyond the glass muted by distance and insulation. Inside, the air carries the faintest trace of cinnamon and ozone, tension coiling low and slow between us.

She turns to me, arms still folded tight across her chest, her gaze fierce despite the questions rising behind her eyes. I don’t move toward her. Not yet. I watch the way her jaw sets, the way her chest rises and falls in tight, measured breaths. I can feel the storm gathering inside her before she even speaks.

“They left their guns,” she says. “You told them to go unarmed. That makes little sense unless you know something I don’t.”

I don’t answer right away. The moonlight spills across my features as I step forward, the silver light catching in my eyes until they shimmer with gold. Not just reflection—a glimmer from within, alive and unmistakable. Her breath hitches, something primal seems to be stirring in her chest. She sees it—not imagined, not refracted. Real.

I step closer now, unhurried, each footfall measured. The glow in my eyes hasn’t faded—it shimmers faintly in the dim light, too subtle to mistake now that she’s seen it. Her pupils dilate, her stance shifts, and still she doesn’t back away.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say quietly.