Page 24 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

T he moment I step through the door, I see her—curled up on the beat-up leather couch like she belongs here, eyes lighting up as soon as they land on me.

"Kari!" Maggie launches herself across the room, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders.

Her scent—baked apples and cinnamon, always homey and grounding—fills my lungs, sparking a rush of memory so sharp it nearly stops me cold.

Sunday mornings in the tiny duplex we shared after college, the air thick with laughter and cinnamon rolls she insisted on baking from scratch.

The warmth of it slices through the tension knotting my shoulders, a reminder of safety, of belonging—of something that still feels whole in a world that’s about to fall apart.

The smell burrows in and settles low in my chest, tugging something tender and fierce from a place I’d locked down tight., loosening something tight in my chest. My shoulders drop an inch, breath slowing like I’ve surfaced from holding it too long, and for a second, I feel like I can breathe.

I laugh into her hair. "God, it’s good to see you."

She leans back, gives me a once-over, her smile already forming—then freezes. Her gaze snaps to my throat, and I see the exact second recognition dawns in her widening eyes.

"Oh, holy shit," she whispers, and then starts laughing.

"Shut up."

She laughs harder. "You got marked. And let me guess, Gideon is...”

"Losing his damn mind? Absolutely."

She throws her head back, cackling—a sharp, echoing sound that bounces off the walls and lands like a thunderclap in the center of my chest. It’s pure Maggie, big and unfiltered, and somehow it manages to ease the knot of tension burrowed in my spine.

I can practically see Gideon’s scowl in my mind’s eye, jaw locked, fists clenched, as he stalks toward Dalton like a wolf spoiling for blood. The image makes me laugh, too—because it's not just funny, it's grounding. It’s real.

"I wish I’d seen it. Bet he looked ready to strangle Dalton with his own belt, if Rush hadn’t stepped in..."

I shrug. "He tried, didn't work. I had to step between them. Gideon froze when he saw the mark—but then he went tight all over. You could see it happen, like a wire pulled too far. If Dalton had so much as blinked wrong, Gideon would’ve lost it."

Her laughter fades into something softer as she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers lingering just long enough to make my throat catch.

The touch is intimate in a way only Maggie can manage—gentle, grounding, and full of history.

I remember the first time she did that, back when I thought I had the world figured out and she knew I didn’t.

It feels the same now—like she's reminding me I’m not alone. "You okay? Really?"

My throat tightens. I nod. "Getting there."

She nods, understanding all the things I’m not saying.

"Where are Sutton and Cassidy?"

Maggie’s face changes. Serious. "On the road. The Alpha of New Orleans offered sanctuary. They’re heading that way now."

My chest squeezes. "That far?"

"Rush wanted them out of reach. There were whispers someone’s tracking mate pairs. And Cassidy’s still not one hundred percent."

"And you?"

She folds her arms. "I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave Gideon. And I’m damn sure not leaving you."

Emotion crawls up my spine, thick and hot. I grip her hand. "Thank you."

Before she can reply, the rest of Team W files in, the atmosphere darkening as the stakes take over.

Gage clicks a few keys, and the warehouse blueprint flashes onto the main screen—a grainy but detailed schematic of crisscrossing walkways, rust-stained loading bays, and a maze of storage units that look more like industrial coffins.

A faint hum from the speakers buzzes under the image, like the building itself is exhaling.

Rush leans forward, eyes narrowing. Deacon crosses his arms beside him, his jaw clenched. Behind me, Dalton adjusts his stance, the scrape of his boots against the concrete cutting through the tense silence.

"That place looks like it was built for trouble," Maggie mutters, stepping up beside me. "Perfect for a trap. Or a grave."

The air in the room thickens as we stare at the screen, each of us seeing something different—danger, opportunity, an endgame finally within reach.

For me, it lands like a slow surge of static threading through my nerves—part adrenaline, part dread.

I don’t know if I’m ready, but I know there’s no turning back.

"We push the broadcast tonight," he says. "Signal goes out from the marina warehouse. Coordinates are clean, line-of-sight is tight, and we’ve got visual coverage on all four angles. The second they take the bait, we lock it down."

Rush nods. "This is a one-shot deal. Make it count."

Dalton lingers near the back of the room, arms crossed, silent but watching me like I’m already halfway gone. His eyes are locked on me—not with doubt, but something heavier and more protective. I feel it down to my toes, a heat that curls low in my belly and sharpens my focus.

The intensity of his stare doesn’t flinch, not even when the others shift around us, and for a breathless second, it’s like the whole room vanishes.

I square my shoulders, but inside, part of me wavers under the weight of his gaze—both a promise and a warning.

He’s braced to lose me. I’m braced not to let that happen.

His eyes don’t move. His body’s still. But his wolf is pacing.

I meet his stare. Neither of us looks away.

I slide into the chair in front of Gage’s gear and start typing, fingers moving on muscle memory. Every line of code, every upload simulation, every contingency—I run through them all again, double-checking, triple-checking, chasing down the tiniest thread of doubt.

My fingers tremble on the keys, but I force precision.

I focus on the cost of failure—Dalton's face, the implications of the files, the fallout if I miss something. My jaw locks. I blink hard, forcing away the image of lifeless eyes and the chill of merciless precision that’s haunted this entire case. A bead of sweat slips down my temple.

My pulse pounds. This isn’t just code—it’s a trigger, a weapon, a last shot at justice. My nerves are frayed, but my mind is clear. I have to be sharper than the fear.

Thunder rolls low in the distance, a slow, growling warning that rattles the warehouse walls and settles like a chill beneath my skin. The storm isn’t just approaching—it’s watching, waiting, coiling itself into something ready to strike.

"Storm’s rolling in," Deacon mutters, peering out the window.

"Fitting," I say under my breath. I can feel it, too—the pressure drop, the prickle of something coming.

Dalton moves in behind me, close enough that his heat seeps into my back—steady, searing, like a brand waiting to claim.

The contrast is sharp: his warmth against the cold storm air slipping through the building’s cracks.

It sinks into my spine, chasing the chill from my bones, and for a moment, every other sound dulls beneath the pounding of my pulse.

His nearness steals my breath, stirs a slow burn low in my belly, and I grip the desk to steady myself.

The weight of his gaze pins me in place.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.

I can feel the promise in his presence—that he’d break the world before he’d let it claim me.

But he also knows he can’t stop this. Not the trap, not the storm, and not me.

That knowledge flickers in his eyes like a lightning flash—brief, brilliant, and laced with agony.

His jaw tics, a pulse pounding at his temple, but he holds his ground.

It’s killing him, letting me walk this edge alone, but he knows I have to.

And I know he’ll be right behind me the second I fall.

I finish the broadcast trigger, my fingers slick with sweat as they hover over the final keystroke.

The warehouse is silent except for the low hum of Gage’s tech.

With a sharp breath, I press down, and the screen flickers.

One keystroke, and the fake data packet surges out like a live wire, pinging the IPs we want watching.

It feels like unleashing a bloodhound on a scent trail—there’s no calling it back now.

"It’s done," I say. My voice sounds foreign in my throat. Steady but thin. Like it took something from me.

Rush speaks into his comm. "Positions. Now."

Everyone scatters—boots slamming against the floor, jackets rustling, weapons being brought up into ready positions.

The room explodes into motion like a single breath shattering into fragments, each piece hurtling toward its mark with lethal precision.

A rush of cold air spills through the door as it swings open, carrying the scent of rain and ozone, jolting me fully into the now.

The weight of what we’re about to face settles like iron in my gut—but there's no hesitation. Only momentum.

The warehouse is less than a mile from the coast. Old, partially condemned, built like a tomb of rust and sea-salted concrete. I crouch behind a shipping crate, pulse thundering, laptop wired into Gage’s secured uplink.

Rain needles sideways through the broken window slats, stinging against my exposed skin like shards of glass.

The wind howls like something feral, slipping through every crack and seam, wrapping around my body with icy fingers.

I shiver, not just from the cold, but from the volatile charge winding through my veins—the storm outside is nothing compared to the one building inside me.

I bottle it, harness it, forcing the chaos to harden into focus. I need it sharp, not splintered.

Dalton is posted across the room, barely a shadow, but his presence wraps around me like a tether, anchoring me in the chaos.

My pulse steadies—not much, but enough. I draw breath and hold it, feeling the thread of him stretch across the distance, taut and unbreakable.

Always. His energy hums across my skin, fierce and tightly wound.

Lightning cracks the sky open in a blinding flash, illuminating the rafters with a skeletal glow.

The whole warehouse pulses white for a breathless heartbeat, casting shadows like ghosts high above us.

The sharp ozone tang of the storm punches through the air, and the answering rumble of thunder rolls in behind it like the earth itself is growling.

Gage’s voice crackles through the comms. "Movement. One klick."

My breath catches. It’s not surprise—it’s anticipation, sharp and electric. My heart kicks hard in my chest, a hammering echo that drowns out the rain for a second. I press my back tighter to the crate, fingers curling into the worn edges, grounding myself in something real.

Dalton shifts, his silhouette all tense muscle and lethal intent. I don’t have to see his face to know his jaw’s clenched, that his wolf is snarling beneath his skin. The air hums between us, a tether stretched taut across distance and danger.

I exhale slowly through my nose, forcing control back into my limbs. This is it—the moment we’ve planned for. My pulse won’t slow, but my mind sharpens. I glance down at the screen. Still stable. No new pings. But I know they’re coming.

I whisper, not into the comm, but into the space between us: “Let’s finish this."

My stomach turns to lead, cold and heavy, as if the ground beneath me has moved a fraction of an inch off its axis.

For a split second, the world tilts—just enough to make my balance falter and my breath stutter.

The air thickens around me, laced with salt, rust, and something darker—something like dread curling at the edges of my vision.

Dalton adjusts his stance slightly, a flicker of tension rippling through his shoulders. I see the glint of his blade, the brutal calm in his silhouette. His wolf is close to the surface—I can feel it vibrating in my bones.

Another flash of lightning slices the sky open, bathing the warehouse in a stark white glow that fades just as fast. Then—footsteps.

Boots striking metal—slow, deliberate, echoing through the vast hollow space like a countdown.

Controlled. Measured. Intentional. Each step sends a vibration up through the floor and into my bones, a rhythmic drumbeat of inevitability that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

Whoever's coming isn't rushing. He knows exactly where he's going—and he expects nothing to stand in his way.

The Reaper has arrived.

My breath catches sharp, heart spiking in my chest like a snare pulled tight. For one fractured second, every horror from the files flashes through my mind—names, patterns, lifeless eyes. He’s here. Real. And I’m not just bait anymore; I’m the wall between him and what he thinks he can take.

And I brace myself, lungs tight with anticipation. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one about to explode in here. Every instinct I have, human and wolf, goes still, sharpening to a single point of awareness. My hand hovers over the trackpad, the trap set and waiting.