Page 28 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

I write because if I don’t, her death will have been for nothing.

And for a moment, my fingers still over the keys as doubt slips in—what if I get it wrong, what if I fail her a second time?

The weight of that possibility presses hard, but it’s exactly why I keep going, forcing the words out until the truth stands on its own.

As I write, her truth becomes a weapon I can wield like a sword of justice. For two straight days, I write.

Dalton brings me coffee, food I barely taste, and wraps himself around me at night like a living barricade. He doesn't say much, but he doesn't leave my side either. He doesn't have to.

When I finish, I submit the article under my real name—Kari Bonham. I title it "The Silence She Shattered." The piece goes viral within hours. News networks clamor for interviews.

I decline them all because this isn’t my story. It’s Sookie’s.

I dedicate the piece to her. Her photo—one Sutton gave me, tucked into the folder of encrypted files—is the header. I stare at it for hours, committing the lines of her face to memory. Not because I knew her, but because so many of us owe her a debt we can never repay.

She didn’t die in vain.

The next day, we head back to the ranch. The whole team is already there.

Cassidy wraps me in a bone-crushing hug that nearly knocks the wind out of me. "You scared the hell out of us," she whispers fiercely, her cheek pressed to mine. "Next time, give us a heads-up before you decide to take on a cartel and a ruthless assassin."

I laugh, breathless and shaky, clinging to her like a lifeline. "Noted."

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, her smile tremulous. "You did it, Kari. You made it count."

Before I can respond, Maggie sweeps in and cups my face between her hands. "You’re a damn warrior," she says, eyes glistening. "I baked like six loaves of stress bread waiting for news. We’ll eat our way through the trauma."

I huff out a laugh as she kisses my cheek. "I’ll take you up on that."

Sutton lingers behind them, arms crossed but eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. She steps forward slowly, gives me a nod. "You didn’t flinch."

I tilt my head. "Neither did you."

She shrugs, but there's a glint of approval in her expression.

Before I can blink, Maggie kisses my cheek, and even Sutton offers a nod that feels more like a salute. They’re safe. They’re alive. We all are.

Inside, laughter and voices spill from the kitchen. Rush claps Dalton on the back. Gideon hands me a glass of whiskey without asking. Gage throws himself into a chair and sighs so loud it sounds like an exorcism.

Sutton finds me on the porch later, eyes bright. She doesn’t speak at first, just leans against the rail beside me, the quiet between us not uncomfortable but weighted.

"You know," she says after a long moment, "I wasn't sure you were the right one for this. Not at first."

I glance over at her, surprised by the admission. "I know."

Sutton exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. "But I was wrong. You finished what Sookie started. You brought her voice back when they tried to silence it."

"I didn’t even know her," I say, voice low. "I never met her. Never even heard her name until after she died."

"Doesn’t matter," Sutton murmurs. "You gave a damn when it counted. That’s more than most." Her voice tightens, rough around the edges. "I feel like somehow I failed her."

"You didn't."

"I gave you the files because I knew you’d do what I couldn’t. You’d tell her story. You did." She nods, biting the inside of her cheek. "Seeing that piece you wrote... seeing her face up there—it gutted me. In the best and worst way."

My voice is rough when I speak. "I hoped it would make her death stand for something."

"It gave her justice," Sutton says, firmly. "And you gave me the peace I didn’t know I needed. So... thank you."

We stand together a while longer, side by side in silence, watching the sun bleed into the horizon.

I nod, throat tight. "You both deserved at least that much."

"She deserved more. But this... this helps."

The pack run happens at dusk. No words, no countdown. Just a shared look and the sound of thunder whispering over the hills.

The mist rolls up from the ground—rich with twilight, laced with electricity—and pulls us under. Lightning flickers at the edge of vision. Color churns in the air like breath held too long. Then comes the shift. Sudden. Silent. Complete.

My paws hit the earth with a jolt of exhilaration. The world sharpens—scents layered and vivid, heartbeats thudding in the grass, stars bleeding into a purpling sky. I take off without hesitation, the silver of my coat gleaming in the dusk.

Cassidy runs beside me for a stretch, her form sleek and sure, tail brushing mine in quiet greeting.

Maggie howls in the distance, joyful and wild.

Gideon overtakes us both with a bark of challenge, and I chase him for a while, not to win—just to feel the strength in my legs and the rhythm in my body.

Dalton finds me when we crest the far ridge. He doesn’t speak—can’t—but he runs close enough that our sides bump, that his heat floods into me in waves. We descend together, full tilt into the open field, cutting through dew-soaked grass like arrows.

The others howl again, voices layered in a chorus that’s part celebration, part declaration.

We’re still here. Still standing—not just in body, but in the ways that matter most. Every scar, every hard-won breath is proof of how far I’ve come from the woman who once only wrote about danger.

Now I’ve lived through it, grown stronger because of it, and I’ll carry that change into whatever comes next.

It’s not about the hunt.

It’s about the freedom. The unity. The sacred relief of motion and wind and pack.

The air is electric. The world smells clean again. I race beside Dalton, silver to his black, and feel every heartbeat like a drum in my chest. We’re faster than wind, sharper than shadow, untouchable in this moment.

When we return to the ranch, laughing and panting, we head into separate male and female areas and allow our human skins to return with the stars. We pull on our clothes and join the others. Gage is already waiting, shirt rumpled, tablet in hand, expression grim.

Dalton stops short, his body instinctively moving in front of mine, protective. Rush follows close behind and narrows his eyes. "That look better not mean what I think it means."

"Define 'better,'" Gage says without looking up.

Gideon raises an eyebrow. "You’re not usually this dramatic unless someone’s bleeding—or something’s detonating."

"Give him a second," Deacon mutters. "He’s about to ruin our night. I can feel it."

I step up beside Dalton, heart picking up pace. "Gage. What is it?"

Only then does Gage lift his eyes and hold out the tablet.

"We’ve got a problem," he says.

The room stills.

He holds up the screen.

An encrypted message pulses on the feed.

Reaper eliminated. Operations continue. New directive authorized.

Dalton’s jaw ticks. Rush crosses his arms. Gideon mutters a curse under his breath.

Deacon’s eyes narrow. "We barely buried the body."

"They don’t care," Gage says. "They’ve already got another one in place."

Dalton looks at me. "Then we find him."

Rush steps forward, jaw like granite. "Looks like the Reaper was never the end. Just the blade. This guy... he’s the hand that wields it."

Gideon exhales through his nose, muttering another curse. "Son of a bitch."

Deacon cracks his knuckles. "Then we end it."

The room holds its breath as the message dissolves, leaving only a blank screen. Whoever it is the Reaper answers to, he's already waiting.

Aruba

The ocean breeze is soft against my skin, warm and lazy as it drifts over the white sand and candlelit balconies of the private island resort.

Beneath the gentle salt tang, I catch the faint sweetness of tropical blooms, carried on the rhythmic hush of waves against the shore and the distant laughter of lingering guests.

It’s the kind of night you could fall in love with—serene, romantic, the sort of beauty that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

My shoulders loosen, a slow exhale leaving my chest. I kick off my heels, the straps whispering against my skin as I sling them over my shoulder.

Cool sand dusts my toes. A quiet laugh slips out as I watch the last of my friends weave toward their bungalows, wine-drunk and riding the high from the engagement party.

Old habits kick in. I check the maid of honor—water bottle in hand. The bride-to-be—phone plugged in and charging. A quick scan of the group confirms no one’s about to text their ex. Satisfied, I turn toward my villa tucked deeper into the lush landscaping, half-hidden from the main path.

That’s when the breeze dies.

It’s subtle, but my body notices before my mind does. The air feels heavy, weighted. The tiny hairs along my forearms lift.

Then the scent hits me. Sharp. Acrid. Chemical. My throat tightens on instinct, and my stomach pulls in tight, like it’s trying to make itself smaller.

Male voices filter in from the service road behind the resort—low, tense, clipped. The kind of tone that coils in your gut and whispers wrong.

I know I should walk away. I even take a step in that direction.

But curiosity—or maybe something darker—hooks into me.

My pulse is louder now, pushing blood against my ears.

I veer toward the sound, keeping my steps quiet, and slip behind a hedge.

My knees bend instinctively, body lowering as I peer through a break in the foliage.

Three men stand in a tight triangle. One’s wearing the uniform of local law enforcement, his shoulders rigid, palms lifted in a pacifying gesture. The other two are wrong from head to toe—civilian clothes, hard edges, eyes that don’t care who’s watching. One grips a case. The other’s holding a gun.

Heat prickles along the back of my neck. My breath shortens, shallow.

The words are indistinct, but the cadence is unmistakable—no negotiation, just threat.

A flicker of movement. A muffled pop.

The officer drops like a marionette with its strings cut.

I suck in a sharp breath that burns on the way down. My knees lock. My vision tunnels for half a heartbeat before the world slams back into focus.

One of the men turns his head. “Did you hear that?”

I don’t think—I run.

Branches whip at my arms, the sting sharp against bare skin.

My feet slap against the stone path, the impact shivering up my legs.

Shouts explode behind me, chased by the pounding of boots.

My lungs burn as I weave between buildings, duck past outdoor showers, and dive into the shadowy cocoon of a linen-draped cabana.

“Find her!” The voice is closer now, loud enough to vibrate in my ribs.

My heartbeat is a jackhammer in my throat. Every nerve screams move. I sprint toward the front drive, legs pumping on instinct.

A sleek black limo idles under the porte-cochère, its engine a low purr. The driver is leaning against the open door like he’s been waiting for me.

“Please! Airport—now!” My voice cracks on the last word.

He nods once, wordless, and gestures me inside. I scramble in, the chilled leather shocking against my overheated skin. My hands tremble so badly it takes two tries to pull my phone from my bag. I dial.

Cassidy picks up on the second ring. “Sadie? What’s wrong?”

“I saw… I saw them kill a cop! I didn’t mean to! They saw me… Cass, I’m in a limo. I don’t know...”

A soft mechanical hum slices through my words. The partition is sliding down, slow enough to make my stomach sink with every inch.

The man in the front seat isn’t the driver I saw before.

Cold spreads through my chest, radiating outward.

He reaches back, plucks the phone from my hand with an infuriating calm, and ends the call. I lunge for the door handle. Locked.

His gaze finds mine in the rearview mirror. His smile unfurls—slow, deliberate, poisonous. “You should’ve minded your own business and gone to your bungalow.”

We roll over a narrow, arched bridge, the limo slowing. The window slides down with a high, mechanical whine. The night air rushes in, cooler than before, goosebumps racing up my arms. He dangles my phone outside, his eyes on me in the mirror like he’s savoring the moment.

“This is where loose ends go to die,” he says, almost gently, and lets it drop.

I watch it fall, helpless, until the black water swallows it with a faint splash.

The window slides shut. The partition creeps upward again, sealing me off from the front seat until all I can see is my reflection staring back—wide eyes, parted lips, breath hitching in the confined air. A coffin on wheels.