Page 25 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

DALTON

L ightning flashes again, bleaching the sky in jagged, silver fire as I stalk through the chaos outside the warehouse.

Wind howls around me, pushing the rain sideways in sheets that blur the edges of the shattered yard.

Kari is inside, but she’s not alone. Somewhere in the dark, Rush and Gideon are moving to intercept the Reaper’s backup—men scattered across the property like roaches flushed into the open.

I trust them to cut those bastards down before they get close.

Dawson's rifle is nested in a distant perch, high above the yard, eyes sharp and scope trained. Gage runs point in the mobile command unit parked half-hidden down the road, locked onto our comms and heartbeat feeds, tracking every change in this bloody chess match. Every sound, every breath, every movement—we’re wired together in this storm.

Lightning ignites the night sky. It’s not a flicker—it’s a detonation, the sky splitting open with a roar that shakes my ribs.

The crack of thunder that follows doesn’t echo—it slams, deep and resonant, vibrating through my bones like the toll of some ancient war drum.

My ears ring. My eyes narrow against the blast of light, and for half a second, the storm renders everything stark and colorless.

I taste metal on the back of my tongue. The scent of ozone slices through the air—sharp, electric, like the breath of something unholy waking up. My breath stutters in my throat, lungs locking against the pressure building inside my chest. The hair on my arms lifts, skin crawling with awareness.

And then—I see him.

A lean silhouette steps from behind the shipping containers, moving like a shadow peeled from the storm heading towards the warehouse.

Coyote-lean, braced like a loaded spring, his eyes gleam like twin embers caught in the flash.

The aura he carries is pure intent—clever, manipulative, patient, scavenger. The Reaper.

I move to intercept. No sound. No warning. One heartbeat I’m crouched in the dark; the next, the world explodes into thunder and muscle and change.

The mist rises fast, curling up from the ground, thunder cracking through it as my wolf takes over. It rolls over me—color and lightning, sound and heat—no pain, only instinct. My paws hit concrete, claws biting for traction.

And the coyote has already shifted and is moving towards me.

He launches, and I meet him mid-air—fangs bared, bodies colliding with bone-jarring force. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and we slam to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fury.

Concrete meets my spine like a battering ram, the shock exploding behind my eyes. Pain radiates through my ribs as they shudder under the weight of him.

Rain-slick pavement turns treacherous beneath us; my claws scrabble for grip, catching nothing but wet stone. Blood floods my mouth, thick and metallic, and my shoulder screams from the violent angle of impact, the joint torqued near its limit.

I hear his breath—ragged, guttural, feral—so close it all but scorches the fur at my neck.

He’s snarling now, low and unrelenting, all instinct and bloodlust. Without warning, his weight tilts, and his teeth snap beside my ear.

A warning. A promise. I twist violently beneath him, pain blooming bright and white-hot as muscle and sinew strain.

Bone grinds against bone. Fury burns through my limbs as I heave us into another roll.

The rain hits hard, sharp as needles, washing through the heat of our struggle.

It slaps my face, mixing with blood and the stink of violence—wet fur, copper, sweat, and something darker.

Ozone thickens the air, heavy with the threat of another strike.

My nerves are stripped raw, every sensation amplified until the world narrows to sound, scent, and movement.

His fur brushes mine—coarse, soaked, rank with blood and fury.

I feel it like a brand. A warning. The storm rages around us, but it's nothing compared to the war breaking loose inside my chest. Rage surges through me—hot and primal—driven by instinct, by the bond I refuse to name, by the threat he still poses to her.

My jaws snap for his throat, targeting the vulnerable hollow just beneath his chin. My fangs slice through rain and fur, missing by inches. He jerks away, his canines grazing my shoulder in a shallow strike as he twists, protecting his belly with the reflex of a predator who’s survived worse.

We roll again, locked in a brutal rhythm—teeth flashing, breath steaming in the storm-drenched dark. The ground disappears beneath us. Everything else fades. There is no strategy here. No tactics. Only the desperate, savage need to win. To end this. To kill or be killed.

He’s fast. Too fast.

But I’m stronger.

We crash through the warped side door, rain chasing us in on gusts that smell of rust and oil. The cavernous space swallows the sound of our claws as they click against the concrete, rain still driving sideways through the shattered windows high above.

We break apart and circle, muscles coiled, water slicking our fur. His eyes burn with something beyond rage. This isn’t just a job for him. This is personal.

He lunges low and fast. I feint left, then pivot, snapping my jaws around his shoulder, bone crunching under the force. He shrieks—a sharp, feral yip—but twists free before I can finish it. Blood floods my tongue. Hot. Metallic. Sharp.

He wheels and slashes across my flank, deep enough I stumble. Pain flashes white through my ribs, but my wolf barely flinches. I shake it off and leap, slamming him to the floor.

He rolls us. We crash into a support beam with a wet crack, steel groaning around us. His teeth tear at my neck. I rip into his side.

We’re matched.

Rain floods the warehouse floor, pooling in uneven cracks and running in rivulets between shattered pallets and scattered debris.

The metallic scent of blood mingles with rust and smoke, thick enough to choke on.

Thunder shakes the rafters, and the wind shrieks through broken panes and twisted steel like a goddamn war cry—wild, savage, relentless.

The tang of brackish marsh water seeps in from the storm-battered coast, blending with the salt-laced air and the distant scent of decaying seaweed.

Somewhere beyond the ruined structure, a storm surge crashes against the seawall, the sound muffled but unmistakable—Galveston reminding us just how close we are to the edge.

And then I hear her.

Not a scream. Not a sob. Not even her voice.

Keystrokes.

Steady. Relentless. Sharp as gunfire.

The sound cuts through the chaos, so clean and precise it shouldn’t exist in a place like this—like light piercing a battlefield.

She’s still going. Still fighting. Each tap is a lifeline, a digital heartbeat hammering through the storm, anchoring me to something stronger than bloodlust. Stronger than rage.

It’s not just background noise—it lives in me.

The rhythm thrums through my chest, syncing with my own pulse, beating back the darkness trying to take hold.

For a moment, I’m not teeth and fury. I’m not the beast locked in combat.

I’m a man, and she’s the reason I’m still breathing.

She grounds me, stitches my fraying edges together with nothing but that sound. That goddamn beautiful sound.

And that clarity? It changes everything.

The next time the Reaper charges, I don’t just react—I anticipate.

Her steady rhythm sharpens my instincts, tempers my rage.

My movements shift from blind aggression to brutal precision, calibrated to end this fast and clean.

Because every second I keep him distracted is a second she has to finish the upload.

And I’ll be damned if I let him take that from her. From us.

And still, she types.

The storm howls. My body aches. My vision pulses red.

But that rhythmic clatter of keys keeps driving through the haze, through the roar of wind and the scent of death, guiding me back to myself one keystroke at a time.

It’s her strength—unshakable, impossible—that fills my chest with something so sharp it hurts.

Pride.

Fierce and staggering.

I swallow hard, the taste of blood thick on my tongue, because I know if I fail here, if I fall, that sound will stop. She won’t get out. And neither will I.

It’s not fear that twists in my gut. It’s finality. That brutal, unflinching knowledge that my survival isn’t mine anymore. It’s hers. It’s bound to her breath, her pulse, her heartbeat tapping across that keyboard like war drums.

She believes in me.

And that means I sure as hell can’t afford to lose.

I can smell her. Feel her. The threads between us pulse with energy, tightening like a snare around my chest.

She’s uploading the full drive. I feel it in my bones, in the electrical hum buzzing at the edges of my awareness—every keystroke like a war drum against my spine.

The Reaper lunges again. I dodge—barely—his fangs grazing the side of my jaw, leaving a hot sting in their wake.

My breath rips in and out, each inhale a fight, each exhale edged with fire and panic.

My leg gives under me without warning, the joint folding in a jolt of white-hot agony that tears straight through the muscle.

I hit the ground hard, claws scraping for purchase, the pain sharp enough to blur the world for a second.

Blood slicks the concrete beneath my paws, warm and sticky.

The copper tang rises thick in my throat, mixing with the acrid scent of ozone, sweat, and wet fur.