Page 10 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

I feel it before I see it, before the wind changes or the creak of the old house settles into silence. My skin prickles. My wolf paces. And the longer the front door stays shut, the harder it is to breathe.

Dalton said he'd be gone a couple hours, tops.

I clung to that—hoped for a check-in, a smart-ass text, even just a heads-up that he was delayed.

Anything that might anchor me in the waiting and remind me he was still out there, still okay.

A couple is two. It's been four—and every tick past that second hour has dragged like barbed wire over my nerves.

At first, I told myself not to panic. That maybe he stopped to check a perimeter route or got caught in some digital dead zone where cell signals go to die. But each minute past the third hour scraped a little more harshly against my nerves.

Now, I can’t shake the thought—what if he’s not okay?

What if something went wrong? The question burrows under my skin, sharp as splinters.

My pulse skitters, my stomach clenches, and I swear the air gets thicker just from letting the fear in.

I press my hand against my chest like I can physically hold myself together, but it doesn't help—not when every instinct in me is screaming that something is off.

I clutch the throw pillow tighter against my stomach, the fabric rough and familiar against my palms. The air feels too still.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears, a dull, anxious rhythm that matches the restless stir of my wolf beneath the surface.

Her pacing sharpens, frantic, urging me toward the door.

What if I never see him again? The question guts me, leaves a hollow echo where my calm used to be.

My lungs seize. A band of pressure clamps down over my ribs, sharp and unrelenting.

The thought is so sharp, so brutal, it steals the breath right out of me.

I flatten my hand against my sternum, pressing hard against the ache blooming there, like that pressure might keep everything from unraveling.

That one dark fear has already sunk its teeth in.

The thought hits hard—sharp, unexpected. My breath stutters. It’s not just worry—it’s dread, cold and rising, like a blade pressed to my spine. It knots in my gut, not like fear, but warning—like my body senses something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

I press my palm to the windowpane and stare into the dark, the cool glass biting at my skin like a warning.

The night outside feels dense, like it’s pressing inward, thick with silence and something I can’t name.

My breath fogs the glass in a shallow puff, and for a moment, I imagine I’m staring into the eye of something watching back.

. There's no movement, no headlights, no shadows slinking past the live oak near the curb.

Nothing but the distant rumble of surf and the occasional rustle of wind through the palmettos.

"You're spiraling," I mutter to myself, turning from the window. "He can take care of himself. He's probably just being overcautious. Like he always is."

My wolf doesn't buy it. She's pushing at the edges of my control now, urging me to do something—pace, shift, howl—anything but sit still. The need to move, to act, to find him is a rising tide in my blood, the pull of Dalton as my fated mate thrumming in my chest with sharp, unrelenting force.

Unease hums under my skin, prickling sharp at the back of my neck, winding tighter with each breath—a warning I can’t shake.

It’s not a bond, not yet, but something in me is already tuned to him, keyed to the space he should occupy.

And tonight, that instinct is screaming.

Like a shadow pressing close, it tells me he’s out there… hurting.

I pace the living room, unable to sit still.

The open laptop on the coffee table blinks with Sookie’s files, a too-familiar reminder of everything I’ve already combed through and can’t unsee like they’ve got something smart to say.

I slam it shut with a sharp snap, the finality of it echoing louder than it should in the quiet room.

Not now. Not when it feels like leaving the laptop open might invite more darkness in.

Shutting it is the only thing I can control right now—a line drawn, a barrier against spiraling. Against helplessness.

I need Dalton home. Well, not home exactly, not for him, but I need him here.

My hand shakes when I pick up my phone. No texts. No updates. No smart-ass remarks about how I need to stop leaving the porch lights on because it ruins his perimeter shadowing.

Where the hell are you?

I’m halfway to shifting. I can feel it building in my spine, the pull of fur and instinct, the pressure of change rising fast.

And then the back door creaks.

I whirl, heart in my throat. A split second of frozen shock pins me in place—recognition slams into me before logic can catch up.

My wolf stills, instincts flaring bright and hard.

It’s Dalton. I feel it in my bones before my brain can process the image—injured, stumbling, but alive.

Dalton. My breath catches, and instinct surges faster than reason.

Mist clings to the threshold, swirling in iridescent tendrils of violet and gray, thick with the coppery tang of blood and the electric bite of danger.

It parts just enough to reveal the bulk of him stumbling through—still barefoot and bare-chested, blood smeared down one arm and a fresh cut blooming red along his shoulder.

The mist remains for a moment longer, trailing off his skin like it’s reluctant to let go.

He’s human again—naked, clothes destroyed by the shift, every inch of him marked by the fight he survived to get here.

Dalton.

Relief hits so fast I nearly go to my knees.

He catches himself on the frame, panting—sharp, shallow breaths like he’s just sprinted through hell and barely made it out.

The scent that follows him is blood and iron, salt and fury, thick enough to choke on.

My pulse skitters. For a second, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel the sheer weight of relief crash into me like a wave I didn’t see coming.

His eyes flick to mine. They’re wild—amber-shot, glowing faintly even in the dark.

“Don’t shift,” he growls, voice rough and feral. “I’m okay.”

I don't listen. I run.

My arms go around his waist and he stiffens like he’s ready to fight me off, but then my hands slide up his back and he sags, just a little.

“You’re bleeding,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the pressure of a thousand fears I hadn't dared to name.

The sight of blood—his blood—unleashes something inside me.

Not panic, exactly. More like a fury wrapped in terror.

My knees go weak and my fists clench with the need to do something, anything, to make it stop.

My wolf snarls, a guttural sound only I can hear, demanding retribution against whatever did this to him.

I push it down, barely. But the shake in my hands betrays me as I reach for him. “What happened?”

“Ambush. I handled it.”

I don’t ask how. I already know.

“Sit,” I order, dragging him toward the kitchen. “You’re getting cleaned up or I swear to God I’ll call Gideon and tell him you’ve been an idiot.”

That gets a grunt that might be a laugh. Or pain. I don’t care which.

He drops into a chair, and I get to work—clean cloth, warm water, antiseptic that’ll sting like hell.

The rag soaks through my fingers as I wring it out, steam curling upward like breath.

I press it to his side, and blood blooms anew, stark red against white cotton.

The antiseptic burns my nose, sharp and clinical, clashing with the acrid tang of his wounds—metallic and primal, the kind of scent that could drag him straight back to Kandahar and the sting of combat.

His skin is fever-warm under my touch, the muscles beneath twitching with restrained power and pain.

I move carefully, trying not to hurt him, but also desperate to feel that steady pulse beneath his skin—to reassure myself he’s still here.

Still solid. Still mine to hold together.

His breath hisses out when I dab at the gash along his ribs.

“Didn’t realize romance writers had a trauma response kit under the sink,” he mutters.

“I write about dramatic proposals and emotionally constipated billionaires. You think I don’t know how to patch a hero back together?”

His lip quirks, just barely. But the tension stays coiled in his shoulders.

“You okay?” I ask, softer this time. “Really?”

He doesn’t answer.

I keep cleaning in silence until I reach the deep scratch near his collarbone. The one still weeping blood. I press the cloth there gently.

Dalton flinches.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

He doesn’t look at me. His jaw tenses, shoulders rigid, like he’s bracing for something. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than meeting my eyes—like facing me might make it real.

“I almost lost control,” he says, and a dozen images flash through my mind—each one worse than the last. A blood-slicked alley.

His body crumpled in shadow. A scream I never got to make.

My stomach twists, and I have to fight the urge to hold him tighter, as if I could anchor us both to this moment, to this reality where he made it home.

“I was close to not coming back at all.”

The words hit harder than they should. My chest tightens.

I drop the cloth, step between his knees, and press my palm to his chest—skin to skin, over the wild beat of his heart.

“You came back.”

His hand covers mine. Big. Warm. The heat of his skin bleeds into my palm, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

A tremor shudders through him—not from pain, but from whatever he's still carrying inside. The contact grounds us both, but it also splinters something fragile in me, because I can feel the war still raging behind his eyes, the part of him that’s still out there fighting.

His palm dwarfs mine, rough and steady and grounding, and for a second, all I can think is how that touch is the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

I press a little harder, not to reassure him—but to anchor myself too.

Then my gaze drops—to the hard line of his thigh, the curve of muscle dusted with dirt and dried blood, the subtle tension in the way he holds himself.

And suddenly, I can’t look away.

Dalton Calhoun is naked from the waist up, every inch of him lean, hard, and covered in scrapes and bruises that somehow only make him look more dangerous—and more real. And he’s absolutely, gloriously, naked from the waist down, too.

My mouth goes dry.

We had sex in the kitchen last night, but it was urgent and frenzied and dark. I didn’t see him. Not like this.

He adjusts his position slightly and my gaze flicks up. Our eyes lock. Heat scorches through me so fast I nearly stumble back.

His lips twitch. “See something you like?”

I lift my chin, refusing to blush. “I’m just making sure you didn’t shift any parts off, cowboy.”

That earns a rough laugh, and just like that, some of the tension bleeds out of the room, but not all of it.

Because we’re still close. Too close. And my hand is still on his chest, his heartbeat pounding beneath my palm like a drum.

“I had to,” he says, low.

“What?”

“Come back.”

My throat tightens.

“You’re not the only one doing this, Dalton.” I feel the truth of it settle into my chest as I say it, fierce and certain. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I don't look away. I'm not just offering comfort—I’m making a promise.

His eyes lift to mine. There’s heat there.

And something else—something deeper... something hungry.

It’s the kind of look that makes my breath stutter, that crawls beneath my skin and sets my pulse racing.

That hunger? It’s not just lust—it’s possession, promise, a silent vow that hits me low and deep and leaves me unsteady on my feet.

He leans in just enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, sugar.”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

I don’t flinch when he rises, when his body cages mine against the edge of the counter, when his scent wraps around me like smoke and steel and something wild just under the surface.

His nose grazes my temple. “You're making it really hard for me to remember you're Gideon's little sister and just walk away.”

“Then don’t.”

I feel him go still beneath my hands, like the air between us thickens, charged with something unspoken and enormous.

The only sound is our breath—mine shallow, his ragged—and the faint creak of wood beneath our weight, like the house itself is holding still, waiting.

It’s not just hesitation—it’s a storm held at bay by sheer will.

His muscles tense like a man standing at the edge of something irreversible, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a low, rough vow that skims across my skin and sinks deep into my bones.

“I can't. Not tonight.”

My breath catches because I know exactly what that means—the breathless anticipation curling low in my belly, the throb of emotion clenching at my heart and lungs, the sharp sting of knowing how close we came to something that could have changed everything.

And I know exactly what it costs him to say it—know how hard it is for a man like Dalton to admit he almost didn’t make it, to crack that steel armor even for a second.

That knowledge hits hard, making everything inside me stumble before coming back with a strong and steady rhythm.

I know that because underneath all his control and calm, he’s bleeding in more ways than one—and still, he chose to come back to me.

Heat rushes through my chest, my limbs trembling from adrenaline and emotion, the air between us too heavy to breathe and too full to ignore.