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

DALTON

G ideon is going to lose his shit—his mate and his kid sister? God help me. He’ll go cold first—measured, clipped words, no expression—and then he’ll pace, crack his knuckles, and assign blame like it’s a tactical maneuver.

I’ve seen it before—like the time Kari broke her wrist cliff diving in Costa Rica on a dare from her writing group. I still remember the call—static-ridden, rushed, her voice bright with forced cheer. “It’s just a sprain, Dalton. No big deal.”

But it was a big deal. She’d landed wrong, and the pain had kicked in halfway up the rocks.

I could hear it in her breath, the little catch she tried to hide.

“Don’t tell Gideon,” she’d added, like I wouldn’t immediately get him involved.

When I’d told him anyway, he’d gone full cold-operational mode.

Booked the fastest flight out, roused half of Team W like they were deploying, and damn near wore a hole in the floor pacing the aisle on that private jet.

I remember Kari trying to joke about it when we showed up—waving her cast like it was a party favor, pretending the whole thing was nothing.

But even then, beneath the sass, there was that flicker of fear in her eyes.

The one that said she knew she’d gone too far this time.

And Gideon? He didn’t yell. He just stood there, jaw tight, and told her she was grounded.

Like she was still a kid, like that would have stopped her.

On the return flight home, Gideon had paced the aisle of the private jet, assigning and reassigning blame like he was commanding a tribunal.

No one was safe—not the pilot, not the locals, not the writing group, not even Kari’s poor editor who’d approved the trip in the first place.

And under it all, there was panic, masked by control.

Because that’s what Gideon does when the people he loves are in danger.

What I wish he’d do in this situation? Realize it isn't anyone's fault except the Reaper's.

That none of us could have seen this coming.

That none of us knew Kari had started working on it again.

The last any of us knew, she had put it away—never to see the light of day again.

There was no way we could have seen it coming.

And that hopefully, we're not already three steps behind.

Kari stomps upstairs like she’s not the reason we’re in this mess, and I lean against the front door, arms crossed, fighting the urge to kick something solid.

Preferably a wall—or maybe the smug tech bastard who cracked her laptop.

If I ever get my hands on the asshole behind the breach, I’ll make damn sure they wish they’d never touched a keyboard.

I should be halfway across the Gulf right now.

Team W had an infiltration op lined up—precision, coordination, the kind of mission I don’t just thrive in, but live for.

Babysitting isn’t in the job description, but that doesn’t matter now.

The op can wait—she can’t. Kari’s safety just leapfrogged every black-flag priority on the board.

Not because she’s Gideon’s sister, but because she matters. To all of us.

Not that she’s a child. Far from it. She’s smart, stubborn, and sharp-tongued as hell.

But that’s part of the problem. Kari Bonham’s got more fire than caution, more guts than armor.

And it’s why Gideon called me. She never waits for permission.

That’s what makes her extraordinary—and infuriating.

And it’s why protecting her will take more than a locked door and a loaded weapon.

The Reaper doesn’t make idle threats. He doesn’t send text messages or play games.

If he’s watching her, it means he’s already chosen her as a target.

That also means Maggie—her well-meaning, blissfully nosy houseguest and Gideon's mate—was sitting next to a human bullseye.

Getting Maggie out of here was non-negotiable.

But Kari? She's flat out refused to leave. Of course she did. And here’s the rub—my protective instincts are at full throttle, screaming to lock her down and take control.

But Kari isn’t the type to be protected quietly.

She’s independent, relentless, and allergic to being sidelined.

Like the time she snuck into one of Gideon’s debriefs just to prove a point—wig, fake credentials, and all.

I’d been stationed outside the conference room when I caught sight of her slipping past security with a too-casual gait and a laminated badge that looked suspiciously homemade.

I pulled her aside just before she reached the door.

“Nice try, Bonham,” I’d said, arms crossed.

She had the nerve to grin. “Worth a shot. I had questions.”

She always does. And she never waits for permission to ask them. That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem. And figuring out how to keep her alive without bulldozing her spirit is going to take more strategy than any op I’ve ever been on.

I scan the room again, eyes landing on her laptop. Compromised and closed, but still there. Still a threat. I’m already thinking through next steps—burner laptop, fresh security protocols, multiple sweeps for bugs and traces. I’ll rework her network myself if I have to.

Footsteps above. Closet doors sliding, drawers opening, a thud of something heavy hitting the bed. Probably a duffel. She’s rearming the place, not pretending this is a sleepover anymore.

I drop my go-bag near the couch and roll my shoulders, trying to shake the taut readiness curling along my spine, the kind that doesn’t ease until the threat’s neutralized.

Controlled. Like every op I’ve ever walked into—blurry objective, unstable terrain, high-stakes risk.

But this time, the terrain isn’t a hostile landscape or fortified compound.

It’s Kari—unpredictable, sharp, and way too important.

And the objective? Keep her breathing. Keep her safe. Even if it kills me.

The silence stretches, not oppressive but charged, like something waiting to be said.

I need a distraction, something to keep my hands busy while my brain churns through scenarios I don’t want to face.

I move into the kitchen and flick on the overhead light.

Her fridge hums. The space is neat, like her mind—meticulous but filled with a kind of beautiful chaos underneath.

I remember a Fourth of July party at Gideon’s house a few years ago—Kari barefoot on the back porch, lemon tart in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other while arguing about whether or not fictional characters should be allowed to cheat death.

She had a million opinions and one laugh that made every guy at the party look twice.

I didn’t look. Not directly. Never for long.

But I felt it—sharp and sudden, like a hit to the ribs.

She was radiant, and I wanted her in a way I hadn’t let myself feel in years.

I’d swallowed it down, buried it deep. Because she was Gideon’s sister.

Off-limits by every code I live by. A man of honor cannot be having lascivious dreams about his best friend's little sister, which is why I built a wall so thick I rarely dream or fantasize about her anymore.

Her laugh lit up the night. I remember thinking it was too damn bright for someone like me to want.

The sound of her boots descending the stairs pulls me back to the here and now.

She comes down the stairs with a steaming mug in hand—must’ve snagged it from the bedroom vanity or heated it upstairs—casual like we’re prepping for a stakeout-slash-slumber party.

“The weapons are loaded and stashed around the house and the waterproof mascara is back in the bathroom drawer where it belongs. We’re ready. ”

I lift an eyebrow. “You planning to dazzle them into surrender or just blind them with that waterproof mascara and wait for the perfect shot?”

She shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Why not both? It’s called multitasking, Calhoun. You should try it.”

“I’ll be too busy keeping you alive.”

“Oh, so that’s what all this grunting and glaring is about. And here I thought it was your version of flirting.”

“Files locked down?”

“Please. What kind of amateur do you think I am?”

“Just verifying. I don’t make assumptions.”

She folds her arms. “So now what? You patrol the house every half hour while I pretend to sleep?”

“I've reset your security cameras—play your cards right and I won't tell Gideon you deliberately set up a blind spot."

"How do you know I did it or that the blind spot behind the house was deliberate?"

I grin. "I didn't specify where it was." Kari at least has the honesty to look chagrinned. "I've had the cameras sweep the perimeter, stepped up their schedule, reset your Wi-Fi, and re-secured every entry point. Then I decide if your bedroom’s defensible enough for you to stay in it alone.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You planning on sleeping at all?”

“I sleep when the house and you are safe.”

She watches me a beat. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Safer than dealing with Gideon if something happens to you.”

“Charming,” she mutters. “You always this romantic with your dates?”

“I don’t date.”

“Oh? And here I thought you were just waiting for me to mature.”

I glance at her. “You think this is a joke, but it’s not. The Reaper plays for keeps.”

Her expression changes—sharpens. “I know that.”

“I don’t think you do. Not the way I do.”

“Then teach me.”

The words land between us like a lit match. Not flirty. Not sarcastic. Just… real. A dare and a plea at the same time. My jaw tightens.

“I’m not your trainer, Kari. I’m your shield.”

“Fine. Then shield me smarter.”

She’s infuriating. But she’s not wrong.

“I’ll start with the network,” I say, dragging out my portable tech kit and unzipping it on the counter. “Reset the router, trace for anomalies. You got a landline?”

She blinks. “What am I, ninety?”

“Could’ve fooled me. This place has the insulation of a bomb shelter.”

“I prefer the term ‘charmingly weatherproof.’ After all, we do live in Galveston. In case you missed it, we see our share of bad weather.”

I crouch by the router, plugging in a diagnostic tool. “Any chance you used the same password for multiple accounts?”

“Dalton, please. I’m not an amateur.”

“That’s not a no.”

She huffs. “I used different passwords. Mostly.”

I glance up at her. “Mostly?”

She offers a sheepish smile. “There’s a system. You wouldn’t get it. It’s a writer thing.”

I shake my head and refocus on the diagnostics.

“You always this bossy when you’re off-duty?”

“Only when my favorite pain in the ass is involved.”

She snorts. “So I bring out the best in you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m always this charming… and I’m never off-duty.”

She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “That sounds lonely.”

It is. But not in the way people think. It’s not the silence or the isolation.

It’s knowing I could be in a room full of people, and none of them would see me the way she does.

Not really. Not like Kari—who reads between the lines, who challenges me and gets under my skin with every smart-ass remark and sharp-eyed glance.

And maybe that’s the worst part. That now, with her so close, I feel that loneliness sharper than ever. But that’s the job.

System clear. For now. I power down the tool and rise.

“You’re good?” she asks, quieter this time.

“No. But it’s manageable.”

“You know you don’t have to stay.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You could’ve sent Gage or Deacon.”

I look at her hard. “He didn’t want just anyone watching your six. He wanted someone who wouldn’t let their guard down.”

Her eyes flicker. “And you don’t?”

“Not when it counts.”

That hangs between us, heavier than anything we’ve said so far.

Her phone buzzes on the counter where she set it down.

She checks the screen. “Another unknown number.”

I take it from her, tap the screen to open the message.

Nice try. We’re always watching.

She pales. My gut clenches.

I delete the text, toss the phone on the counter. “We lock this down, Kari. Tonight.”

“Okay.”

Her voice is quiet. Steady. But her eyes are wide.

I walk to the front door and flip the deadbolt. One last check of the locks, the windows, the shadow lines outside. Then I turn to her.

I take one last breath before I speak, steadying the war that churns in my gut.

The image of her flinching at that message is burned behind my eyes.

No matter how many ops I’ve handled, no matter how many targets I’ve tracked or threats I’ve neutralized, none of it feels like enough when it comes to Kari.

I’m not used to caring this much. Not like this.

And it concerns me that it might somehow compromise my effectiveness.

“You sleep in your room,” I say. “I’ll move the couch in front of the stairs and sleep there.”

She gives me a look. “And if I don’t want to sleep alone?”

Her voice isn’t flirty this time—there’s a shadow behind it, a tension that wasn't there before. I glance at her, trying to read the truth under the casual tilt of her chin.

I cross my arms. “You saying that because you’re scared, or because you think I’ll fold?”

Her eyes flash—but it’s not defiance I see. Vulnerability, maybe. And it guts me, because I’ve spent my whole life reading threats—but I’ve never been good at reading her.

She shrugs, but it’s too deliberate. “Maybe both. Maybe I just don’t want to feel like I’m in this alone.”

That hits me in the chest harder than I expect. I swallow back the urge to close the distance. “You’re not alone. Not while I’m here.”

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “I just… I don’t want to wake up to another message and not have backup.”

“Then I'll stay in the hall.”

“You’ll be uncomfortable.”

“I’ve been worse.”

She moves past me, slow and deliberate, brushing my arm with hers as she crosses to the far side of the kitchen. The faint heat of her lingers, a teasing reminder of how close she’d have to be for me to feel more. Her voice drifts back, low and edged like a dare.

“Your choice, soldier. But don’t blame me if I scream in the night.”

My jaw tightens. I track her without meaning to, my gaze snagging on the subtle sway of her hips, the set of her shoulders, the easy defiance in her posture. The air between us still carries the faint bite of citrus shampoo, undercut by something warmer, wilder and hers alone.

The quiet swells until it’s a pressure system, thick and electric, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

Every instinct says this stopped being standard protocol the moment she walked in.

Now it’s a live wire, hissing and sparking, and I’m the fool with both hands clamped on the bare ends—half-hoping she makes me hold on.