Page 12 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

T he kitchen is quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the sort of silence that settles too deep, like it knows something I don’t.

It mirrors the sharp edge of last night—Dalton slipping out to run the perimeter, the storm rising with him, lightning cracking the sky.

I’d feigned sleep when he came back, heard his steps pause at my door, felt the weight of his gaze before he moved on.

Now it’s morning, but the quiet sits heavy, thick with everything we didn’t say. My pulse stumbles under it. The pressure builds, dense and unmoving, until it’s under my skin and behind my ribs, stretched tight like a breath I forgot to release.

This isn’t the natural stillness of a new day.

It’s the kind that follows something breaking.

The air still carries the remnants of the storm—damp, restless, and faintly metallic, clinging to the walls like a warning.

Every creak feels too sharp. Every breath, too loud.

It’s like the whole house is bracing, holding itself as tightly as I am.

This silence has teeth. It wraps around me with invisible fingers, cold and deliberate, raising the hairs on my arms as it goes.

The storm is gone, but the scent lingers—wet concrete, charged air, something metallic beneath it all.

The tile is cool beneath my feet, and the overhead light hums just enough to needle at the edges of my nerves.

This isn’t peace. It’s the aftermath. The space where noise should be, but isn’t.

It’s not just quiet—it’s emptied out. A hush that carries intent, like the house is listening.

Waiting. The stillness is thick, dense enough to sink into, and the air feels colder than it should.

I wrap my arms around myself as the chill seeps through my skin, grounding me.

The light hums on, steady and low, as if even the wiring is reluctant to break the quiet.

Outside, darkness crowds the windows, close and unmoving, like it’s waiting too.

The kitchen is quiet. Not the easy kind, but the kind that settles heavy, like it’s holding its breath. On the counter, a folded slip of paper waits by the coffee pot.

Kari—Checking the perimeter again. Security’s armed. Doors locked. Don’t open for anyone but me.—D

No scent of fresh coffee, just the used pod from the last mug the bastard made for himself. The fridge hums, the wall clock ticks, and that’s all.

He’s gone. Again. But not without making sure I’m locked down.

I can still picture him last night, striding in from the storm after his patrol, damp hair pushed back, scanning the room like a predator scenting the wind.

I kept my eyes shut, but I could feel him pause at my door, his presence looming in the frame like a shadow stretching across the room.

His footsteps had been slow, deliberate, moving through the house like he was imprinting every sound and scent into memory.

Now it’s morning. The security system light blinks steady by the back door, the perimeter armed just like his note promised. A small, weighted thing sits in my pocket—the spare mag he’d pressed into my hand before leaving last night. Cold, solid, and impossible to ignore.

Still, the space feels too empty. Too still. And his absence gives me room I haven’t had in days. Room to maneuver.

I pull my laptop toward me. The files I decrypted yesterday sprawl across the screen, each one a breadcrumb I’ve been chasing too long. I sort by timestamp. My stomach twists when I spot a fresh upload.

Another breach—barely hours after the last. The one that nearly gutted our data. We’re losing ground.

Heat surges up the back of my neck as I click open the folder. One video file. One document, coded in cartel shorthand. I run the translation, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. Not rumor. Not exaggeration. Confirmation.

A memory slices in—me watching one of the video files that Sookie had. A survivor’s voice cracked as she described the sound of a metal door slamming, followed by a silence so complete it felt final. That same silence wraps around me now, tight and suffocating.

Sookie’s face flashes in my mind—not from her bylines, but from the thought of her final moments. She’d known what she was up against and chased it anyway. I feel the weight of that choice settle on me.

I scan the last lines of the file. Coordinates. A marshland on the edge of the island. Industrial. Active.

I open a fresh note and scrawl on the pad by the fridge:

Dalton—Found another location. Going to take a look. Coordinates on the computer.—K

Leggings, black hoodie, sneakers. GPS tracker in my pocket. Laptop open on the table, cursor blinking like it knows I shouldn’t be doing this.

As I cross the kitchen, a shadow shifts across the window, faint but deliberate. A moment later comes the soft sound of boots on the porch. My pulse skips. For one long breath, I freeze, debating whether to bolt.

The doorknob turns. The back door opens.

Dalton fills the frame, damp from the run, wild around the eyes, chest still rising like he hasn’t caught his breath.

His breathing is ragged, loud in the silence, and a wave of heat rolls off him, thick with adrenaline and sweat.

The scent hits me first—earth, salt, the sharp tang of exertion—grounding and electric all at once.

Sweat clings to him in a sheen that outlines every hard muscle beneath the sweat suit, and something in the fierce set of his jaw thrills and unsettles me all at once.

His eyes lock onto mine with a heat that steals the breath from my lungs. For one disoriented second, I forget the danger, forget my fury. I only feel the punch of awareness between us, as sharp and hot as it’s ever been.

He picks up the note; scans it. "You’re not going anywhere."

I've had it. "Get out of my way."

His jaw tightens. "You were going to sneak out. Alone."

"Sneak? I was the only one here and I left you a note. You decided you needed some air, some space, some something so you left."

He takes a step closer. "That’s not the same thing."

"Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly the same."

His nostrils flare. "What the hell were you thinking?"

I cross my arms. "I was thinking maybe if I got close to that warehouse, I could see something that would help me figure out what's in these files, maybe plant a tracker on something, get eyes on what they’re doing or just get some fresh air."

He growls—an actual growl, low and dangerous. "You don’t even know what’s waiting for you out there."

"Neither do you! But at least I’m trying to find out."

He stalks closer. "You’re going to get yourself killed."

My temper snaps. "And what? You’ll avenge me? Track my scent through the woods like some tragic ghost story? Screw that." My voice cracks with the fury and fear knotting in my gut. "I’m not some fucking memory or high moral code to protect."

The words hit him like a body blow. Dalton flinches—not visibly, not to anyone else, but I see the way his jaw ticks, the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.

And when he finally looks at me, it’s with something raw and wounded behind the fury, something that almost makes me want to take it back. Almost.

"I’m alive, Dalton, not one of the guys you had to leave behind. I get to decide what risks I take. Me, not you, not Gideon, not even the fucking Reaper."

For a split second, my own words echo back at me, harsher than I intended—but I don’t take them back.

Alpha energy rolls off him in waves—tense, explosive, wound tight like a predator about to pounce.

His hands twitch before slamming flat against the doorframe, shoulders bunched as if he’s holding back a snarl or the urge to punch straight through it.

His spine is rigid, every muscle straining under the surface tension of restraint.

His jaw locks, nostrils flaring like he’s one second from putting a hole in the nearest wall.

The atmosphere in the kitchen thickens, tension snapping between us like a cable stretched too tight in a thunderstorm, sparking with unsaid things. My skin prickles. My pulse roars in my ears. My wolf pushes forward, furious and fierce.

Dalton’s eyes narrow. He sees it too—the gold flash in mine.

"Don’t," he says softly.

I blink hard. The pressure recedes. Barely.

He steps forward until we’re nose to nose. "Don’t make me choose between protecting you and trusting you."

My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. "Then stop acting like those are two different things."

The words tear out of me before I can stop them, each one landing with the kind of precision that cuts deeper than volume ever could.

They sear between us, heat and hurt bleeding into the space like wildfire.

My chest tightens as they hang there, heavy and unyielding, vibrating with a force I can’t take back.

A tremor ripples through me, but I refuse to back down. I won’t. The words are mine, and they needed to be said—whether they wound or not.

The silence that follows is thick, oppressive, bristling with the weight of challenge.

They’ve already lodged in it like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

My throat tightens, breath catching as my body hums with the collision of fear, fury, and something dangerously close to surrender.

I hate the way it feels, like I’ve just stripped myself bare in front of him—and worse, that a part of me is waiting, taut with anticipation, to see if he’ll close the distance to punish… or to claim.

Silence.

For one breath.

Then another.

His chest rises, falls. My fists unclench, fingers curling and releasing as though unsure whether to reach for him or shove him back again.

Neither of us moves, suspended in the fragile ceasefire between fury and something more dangerous—understanding.

The war between us isn’t over. If he walks away now, I don’t know if I’ll chase him or let the silence swallow everything we could’ve been.

I want to believe this fight meant something—that it shook something loose instead of pulling us further apart.

The tension smolders low in my gut, heat licking along my nerves like fire crawling through dry grass, a fuse still burning toward detonation.

It simmers just beneath the surface, waiting for the next spark, the next misstep.

But in this breath, this heartbeat, we’re in it together.

For now, we hold the line. And that, somehow, feels like the most fragile miracle of all.