Page 14 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

B y the time we get back to my place, my legs are shaky, and the adrenaline that carried me through the warehouse has bled off, leaving a strange, hollow ache in its place. The silence in the truck is a weight between us—thick, taut, and unyielding.

Dalton’s posture is rigid, eyes locked on the road ahead.

Something stirs in my chest—part fear, part longing, part the ache that’s been lodged there since he first tore into my world and refused to let go.

His jaw is set, his focus absolute, but it’s not regret I see in him.

Not for the claiming bite. He doesn’t look like a man wishing he could take it back—he looks like a man who’d do it again without hesitation.

And that’s the truth that makes my pulse jump.

Because for Dalton to claim me without speaking to Gideon first isn’t just breaking some unspoken rule between them—it’s tearing it to shreds.

And he would have, even if it meant burning that bridge, because he knows as well as I do: we’re fated. The bond’s already in our blood.

I steal glances at him when I think he won’t notice, catching the steady control in the way his hands grip the wheel, the contained power in the way his shoulders hold.

The low hum of the tires fills the cab, a steady counterpoint to the energy rolling off him.

Outside, the last streaks of daylight fade into the dark, the sky bruised purple and deepening.

Neither of us speaks, but the air between us is alive—charged with the promise of something already decided. Dalton isn’t second-guessing. He’s already claimed me. And no force, not even Gideon, will make him let go.

I keep my hands clenched in my lap and my eyes forward.

Let the silence hold whatever it needs to for now.

Whatever it was that carried me through the warehouse has bled off, leaving only ache and a strange hollowness.

I don’t say much, and neither does Dalton.

He drives like he's still in mission mode—quiet, focused, one hand on the wheel, the other braced against his thigh like he’s physically holding himself together.

When we get to my house and step inside, the silence wraps around us again, thick and knowing.

"Go take a shower," he says, voice low, rough. "I’ll check the perimeter."

I hesitate, unsure what to make of the distance in his tone. "Dalton."

He doesn’t look at me. "Please, Kari, just do as I ask."

The quiet plea hits harder than it should. I nod and head for the primary bath, closing the door behind me because I know locking it would do no good if he wanted to enter. He could break it down without blinking.

The shower hisses to life, steam curling toward the ceiling as I strip off what’s left of my clothes.

My ribs ache, my thighs are bruised, and there’s a fresh bite in my neck that pulses with every heartbeat.

My chest feels tight—not because I think Dalton is slipping away, but because I know exactly where he stands.

He’s not going anywhere. The bond between us is set in stone.

What keeps me rooted under the spray is the fear of what that bond will do to Gideon. Of how it will change things between the two men who matter most to me.

I press my forehead to the tile, knees trembling, the ache in my body nothing compared to the weight in my chest. The water is warm enough to sting but not hot enough to burn—exactly like the place I’m stuck in now.

Tears come faster than I expect, and I let the sound of the water swallow them whole.

Until I feel him behind me.

Dalton’s hands settle on my hips like he’s asking permission. For half a second, something in me flinches like a memory, old and sharp, clawing for a foothold. But it slips away beneath the steady warmth of his touch, eclipsed by the way he holds me—not like I’m simply forgiven, but wanted.

His fingertips are feather-light, barely there, as if he’s afraid I might break beneath the weight of anything more.

The contact sends a ripple through me, equal parts comfort and ache.

I stiffen for a breath, overwhelmed by the storm crashing inside me: relief that he’s here, that I’m not alone in this wreckage; curiosity at a gentleness I never expected; suspicion, quiet and stubborn, whispering that maybe this isn’t devotion at all, but guilt.

Even with all of that flooding my system, I don’t pull away. I lean back, just enough for my spine to meet his chest, and I exhale. He catches that breath like it means something to him—and maybe it does.

But as he steps fully into the stream, he’s already stripped bare—no shirt, no barriers. Heat pours off him in waves, and I feel every inch of him press flush against my back.

The hard wall of his chest, the sculpted tension in his arms as they cage me in, the slow press of muscle to skin—it's a quiet claim, no words needed.

He doesn't speak. He just starts to work, lifting the bar of soap and running it down my arms in long, careful strokes.

Every movement is precise, reverent, as though washing me is the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

And when his fingers work through my hair, massaging gently at my scalp, I close my eyes and let myself fall into the rhythm of his touch—slow, grounding, and impossibly tender.

He washes my hair with his fingers. Works conditioner through the ends. Rinses gently. Then wraps a towel around me and lifts me off the floor before I can protest. He carries me like something sacred, not speaking until I’m laid out on the bed and he’s dried me off with another towel.

He brushes damp curls away from my cheek. "Sleep. I’ve got you."

I do.

When I wake, the bedroom smells like cedar and soap. Dalton’s standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the frame. Watching me like he’s memorizing something.

"Creepy," I croak, then smile. "But also very hot."

His mouth twitches. "You drooled on the pillow."

I roll to my side and pull the covers up dramatically. "A woman shares her soul and her saliva and this is the thanks she gets."

He pushes off the doorframe with a smile and walks in. "Get dressed. There’s coffee."

I do as he asks, head downstairs and pad into the kitchen wrapped in his T-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs, still warm from sleep and him.

The scent of him clings to the fabric—cedar, worn leather, and a note I can’t quite identify— warm, electric, and uniquely him, but I crave it all the same.

He's already at the counter, mug in hand, looking so damn domestic it nearly undoes me.

I let my gaze linger a beat too long before dragging it away and grabbing the whipped cream from the fridge.

I top my coffee with a dramatic flourish, the hiss and swirl loud in the quiet room, then raise the mug and take a deliberately slow sip. I make eye contact over the rim, my lips curving into a grin as I let a dollop of cream rest on my top lip.

His gaze drops to my mouth, darkens. A thrill sparks low in my belly, chased by something softer, vulnerability maybe, or the ache of wanting to be seen and chosen for more than the fire I flash when I’m cornered.

"You’re gonna be the death of me," he mutters, voice low and rough.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," I tease, running my finger along the rim and licking off a stray bead of cream.

He growls—a real, low rumble of sound that does things to my insides—and before I can react, he leans in and kisses me.

It’s quick, but charged, tasting of coffee, heat, and a hunger that scares me with how much I want to believe it means something more than heat and instinct.

I want it to be something deeper. Something terrifying. Something real.

By the time I finish my second cup, I’m back at the laptop. Dalton prowls the house, checking windows, looking agitated.

"You know you can sit down, right?"

"Not when you’re in the open like this."

"I’m at my dining table. Not a sniper’s perch."

"Same thing."

I roll my eyes and return to the file. The code recovered overnight is heavier than anything we’ve pulled before—more detailed, more dangerous.

The thread is starting to unravel everything.

One name keeps coming up. A judge. Local.

Galveston-based. Someone who signed off on the suppression of half a dozen smuggling charges tied to the same ports Sookie flagged in her notes.

Judge Robert Lynn. Conservative. Untouchable. Until now.

My fingers go numb on the keyboard. It’s him. The one whose ruling cost Sookie her life. I swallow hard, pulse thudding in my throat like a war drum set to memory.

My breath stutters as the name burns across the screen, bold and damning. I’ve seen it before—listed under court appointments, public rulings, tidy verdicts wrapped in legal jargon—but this time, it reads like a threat. Like a betrayal dressed up in robes and gavels.

I grip the edge of the table as a slow, pulsing ache blooms beneath my sternum. This man didn’t just look the other way—he orchestrated a cover-up. He let traffickers walk. He gave the Reaper safe passage through the goddamn legal system.

A part of me wants to scream. Another part wants to curl in on itself and weep.

I blink hard and force myself to think. Strategize. The evidence is heavy—weighty enough to crush someone if it falls in the wrong hands. This is no longer about breadcrumbs. It’s a goddamn avalanche.

And it’s mine to deliver.

I begin to cross-reference timestamps and IP logins.

The firewall bounces once, twice—then cracks.

I’m in. The correspondence folder is damning—PDFs, transcripts, money trails that should’ve been shredded but weren’t.

Someone wanted these buried and didn’t expect someone like me to dig them back up.

Dalton notices the change in my posture. "What is it?"