Page 27 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

R ain still falls like a whisper, the storm finally spent, but my lungs fight for each breath, heavy with smoke, blood, and something ancient—something claimed.

Sweat stings the shallow cuts on my skin, and each step feels like I’m moving through water thick with ash.

The metallic tang of blood mixes with the damp, electric scent left in the storm’s wake, every inhale scraping down my throat as exhaustion drags at my bones.

My legs barely hold me as Dalton and I stagger from the warehouse, our steps uneven, the memory of claws on concrete and snarls snapping through the dark still crashing around in my skull.

I falter when my foot catches on jagged rubble, and Dalton's arm instantly locks around my waist to steady me. His breath shudders against my temple.

"You with me?" he rasps in a low voice.

I nod, though I’m not sure I am. My hand presses harder against his chest, grounding myself in the weak but steady thump of his heart. He leans into me slightly, his weight a mirror to mine, as if we're the only things keeping each other from collapsing.

For one suspended moment, our eyes meet. His are bloodshot, wild around the edges, but locked on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"We made it," I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Soaked and silent. My hand stays glued to his chest like I need to keep checking that he’s breathing.

He is, but just barely.

Ahead of us, headlights slash through the fog as Rush and Gideon roll in—their truck cutting a slow arc across the warehouse lot, engine rumbling low, headlights spearing through the mist like a warning. They leap out the moment they spot us, boots hitting pavement in synchronized urgency.

"Jesus Christ," Gideon mutters, catching me before my knees give. His voice sparks a complicated rush—relief that my brother’s here, dread for the lecture I know is coming. My body wants to fold into the safety he represents, but pride locks my spine even as his hands steady me. His gaze skims for injuries, and when his jaw tightens, it’s not from concern—it’s fury, directed squarely at Dalton.

"What the hell were you thinking? Letting her go in there alone?"

Dalton doesn’t flinch. "That's where the last of the data was—the stuff that Sookie didn’t have.”

“That's what I was thinking, but why did she have to get it?” asks Gideon, clearly annoyed.

“She’s alive so I don't know what you're bitching at me about?" snarls Dalton.

"You were supposed to protect her, not drag her into..."

"Let me be clear big brother, I dragged myself," I cut in, my voice rough but steady. "This was my call, Gideon. I planned it. I led the Reaper here. Dalton and the rest of you had my back. The Reaper never had a chance."

His gaze swings back to me, hard and wounded all at once. "You’re my sister."

"Exactly," I say. "And I knew what I was doing. You made sure I knew how to take care of myself, and you've always said there's nobody better at this kind of thing than Team W."

Gideon presses his lips together, torn between frustration and pride. He looks at Dalton one more time, then back at me, nodding once.

"Then let’s make sure it counts."

Rush whistles low, his eyes flicking toward the warehouse before settling on Dalton's blood-smeared face. "That was one hell of a fight. You two okay?"

Dalton doesn’t respond right away. His jaw flexes, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, like he's still in fight mode.

"We’re standing," I answer for both of us, voice hoarse.

Rush steps closer, his usual calm edged with something harder. "Standing's not the same as okay. You look like you both went ten rounds with the devil."

Dalton finally lifts his eyes, sharp, but with humor dancing in them. "Felt more like fifteen."

Rush’s hand claps his shoulder, firm. "You did what needed doing. But you’re not carrying it alone. Not this time." He turns to me, his voice gentler. "You held your ground, Kari. Your mate and your brother should be proud."

"We are. I'm just glad it's done," Dalton rasps.

"At long last, the Reaper is dead," Gideon growls. "Let’s get this place cleaned up before it draws flies—or worse."

Deacon materializes from the shadows, sniper rifle slung across his back, his face grim and unreadable. His gaze flicks to the warehouse, then back to us. "Sniper nest’s clear. I’ll help sweep the yard."

"Feed’s clean," Gage confirms, jogging up from the mobile command unit, tablet in hand. "No digital evidence of the transformation. I already started scrubbing the satellite echo."

Dalton nods once, tight and exhausted. "Burn the hard drives. I want the only record of this in her hands."

"Copy that," Gage says, already turning away.

I hesitate, then step closer. "Gage—thank you. For cleaning the feed. For watching our backs."

He pauses and glances over his shoulder, eyebrows lifting in something close to surprise. "You got it."

My fingers twitch at my side. "Everything I downloaded... it matters. Sookie died for it. People need to see what she uncovered."

Gage’s expression softens, and he nods slowly. "I saw some of it while scrubbing. The files you decrypted from her archive—if the world knew half of what that syndicate is capable of..."

"They will," I say quietly. "But not all at once. I need to get it right."

He nods again. "Then I’ll make sure the only trail left is yours. And it’ll lead exactly where you want it to."

"Copy that."

I glance back toward the warehouse. My laptop is still inside. I’ll retrieve it myself. Later. Right now, I need air. I need space. I need to be more than the woman who barely lived through her own story.

We don’t say goodbye. No one here needs to. When the cleanup starts, Dalton takes my hand, and we leave.

Galveston smells like salt and memory, laced with the briny tang of the Gulf.

The distant crash of surf and the faint cries of gulls thread through the thick, humid air, a reminder of the sea’s nearness.

Warm breezes curl through the streets, carrying traces of seaweed and sunbaked sand—a softer echo of the storm’s chaos.

The moment we step inside, a strange stillness settles over me.

The air is heavy with silence and memory—echoes of the choices that led us here.

No one's perfume lingers. No voices haunt the walls.

Just the quiet hum of a house that has seen too much and is still standing anyway.

I draw a breath, steady and deep, trying to remember who I was the last time I crossed this threshold—and who I am now, carrying a truth that isn't mine, but matters all the same.

I wander the house in a slow circuit, my fingertips grazing over surfaces: the dented doorframe from where I dropped my gear that first night, the coffee mug I always reach for when I’m staring down a deadline, still resting in the drying rack.

The memories don’t belong to anyone but me.

The weight of the truth I uncovered presses into every familiar thing, reshaping it.

After making a security check of the perimeter, Dalton watches me from the hallway without speaking.

His gaze follows every step I take, his expression unreadable but heavy with something I feel more than see.

When I finally stop in front of the framed photo on the entry table—me, Maggie, and a beach bonfire behind us—he comes up behind me and rests his hand lightly on my back.

"You don’t have to do this tonight," he says.

"I do. I have to start while it’s still fresh. Before I bury it."

He doesn't argue. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, then leads me to the couch like we’re walking together through something sacred.

He sits. Pulls me down with him. Our bodies sag into each other like two structures held together by proximity. My house is still standing, still quiet, like nothing ever happened. But everything’s different. I’m different. We both are.

I don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, I write.

I sit cross-legged on the living room floor with the laptop balanced on the coffee table and Dalton stretched out on the couch behind me, silent but near. The first sentence comes slow—aching and deliberate. The second floods out with a dam break of memory.

I write about the day Sutton showed up on my doorstep, eyes hollow but burning with urgency, a thumb drive clenched in her hand.

I write about the files she gave me, the evidence Sookie had gathered—the men in suits smiling while orchestrating horrors beneath the surface of respectability.

I write about the silence that followed Sookie’s murder and the burden Sutton passed to me.

I write about what it means to carry someone else’s truth when they no longer can, and the cost of seeing it through.

Words pour out in fits and starts. My fingers cramp. My vision blurs. Sometimes I stop, close the lid, and bury my face in Dalton’s thigh until the shaking passes. He never asks if I’m okay. He just slides his hand into my hair and lets me breathe.

I rewrite one paragraph eight times. Another I can’t bring myself to touch. It feels sacred.

Grief isn’t linear, and neither is this process.

Sometimes I curse at the screen. Other times I smile through the tears, imagining the kind of woman Sookie must have been—fearless, unrelenting, too clever for her own good.

I picture her poring over files with fury in her veins, calling out injustice with a steady voice and sharp eyes.

I never met her, but I carry her work now.

I carry the weight of everything she left behind.