Page 5 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

D alton’s bag hits the floor with a soft thud, but it feels like a bomb going off in my carefully constructed little bubble of independence.

He doesn’t ask where to put it. He doesn’t need to.

The entire energy of my house just tilted like he owns the ground he walks on—and the air I breathe.

Even the walls seem to straighten like they’ve been given orders.

He closed the door like it was settled, like he’s decided something for both of us—like my house, my rules, my space have just been annexed by his presence.

The air tightens, my sanctuary tilting off-axis under the weight of him.

There’s a gravity to him, and suddenly it’s pulling everything in my world slightly off center.

It’s not just that he’s here. It’s how he’s here.

Unapologetic. Solid. Like a monument someone planted in the center of my open floor plan.

Even the subtle scent of his cologne—something sharp and clean with a hint of cedar—edges into the corners of the room like it belongs here more than the sage I burned this morning.

I hate how easily he fits here. And I hate even more how part of me doesn’t want him to leave. This was supposed to be my space, my rules—but I didn’t say no. Not really.

I used to mock the forced proximity trope—until I could hear Dalton breathing down the hall and wondered if maybe those authors were onto something.

Maybe there’s a kind of magic in proximity—the way tension coils tighter when you can hear someone breathing from the next room.

If I play this right, I might just find out if the fantasy holds up to the hype.

I fold my arms and lean against the counter, watching him like a rabbit sizing up a wolf.

He’s standing with that same combat-ready stillness, shoulders loose but every muscle coiled beneath his worn T-shirt, like the house itself is some new op and I’m the asset he’s been assigned to monitor.

If he were any more textbook stoic protector, I’d have to start charging tuition.

"So what, you just move in and start alpha-ing all over the place like this is some territorial pissing contest?"

He doesn’t even glance up. "If you’re worried I’m going to rearrange your spice rack, don’t be. I won’t touch your cayenne."

"You shouldn’t even know I own cayenne."

"I read your labels while you were upstairs."

"That’s borderline invasive."

"So is someone trying to kill you, but here we are."

The man doesn’t rattle. He doesn’t blink. Just starts opening cabinets until he finds a glass, fills it with water, and downs it like he didn’t just walk into the lion’s den wearing an arrogant glower and tactical boots.

"You want to tell me what the actual plan is? Or are we just going to wing this while you patrol my house like some sexy drill sergeant with control issues?"

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A flicker. Barely there, but there, nonetheless. "You really think I’m sexy, huh?"

"I think you’re bossy."

We stare at each other, a beat too long.

It’s like that time I challenged him to a drinking game at Gideon’s barbecue and ended up confessing I thought his eyes looked like bad decisions and heartbreak.

He hadn’t said a word then either, just stared me down the same way—like he was memorizing the lines he couldn’t cross.

Something sparks in the air between us. Not sharp, not yet, but full of friction.

The kind that builds and builds until it burns.

"There are two bedrooms," I say finally. "Guest room’s upstairs, other end of the hall. Try not to reorganize my bookshelves while you’re in there."

He pushes off the wall, picking up his duffel. "I'll put my things there, but I won't be that far away."

I wait until he disappears up the stairs before exhaling. This isn’t going to be easy. Dalton Calhoun in my space, in my air, for God knows how long? He’s quiet and grim and former-military through and through. And me? I’m loud and chaotic and allergic to being told what to do.

A few minutes later, I step into my room, leaving the door cracked just enough for airflow—or plausible deniability.

I undress slowly, deliberately. The cotton of my T-shirt slides over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake as the cooler air wraps around my bare arms. The silence feels loaded, like the walls themselves are listening.

I peel my clothes off one layer at a time, aware of the hush, aware of the crack in the door, aware of him.

There’s a strange thrill in knowing the door is cracked—maybe he’ll look, maybe he won’t—but either way, the anticipation tightens in my belly.

The familiar space of my bedroom feels foreign, suspended in breathless expectation.

My pulse flutters just beneath the surface, a hum of nerves and want tangled together with reckless curiosity.

I slide my leggings down, peeling them over skin flushed and prickling with goosebumps, toe them aside, and reach for my camisole.

Each movement feels like a dare, deliberate and slow.

A whisper of invitation I pretend I’m not making.

Not just for him. Not entirely for me either.

But God, I hope he’s watching. Because somewhere beneath the teasing bravado, there’s something fierce and hungry aching to be seen.

Just... because. Because I know how his eyes track me, and because it’s been a long time since anyone made my heart skip for reasons other than adrenaline and fear.

I slip into a camisole and boy shorts, then crawl under the covers, staring at the ceiling.

I don’t sleep. Eventually, I pad down to the kitchen, lured by the promise of chocolate or maybe just a distraction. I open the fridge and grab the last slice of cheesecake from last week’s girls’ night. Bite one goes in before I even realize I’m not alone.

Dalton leans against the opposite counter, the moonlight catching the hard cut of his jaw and the bare muscle of his chest. For a second, it hits me low and hot—the primal flash of want I’ve been pretending not to feel since the moment he walked through my front door.

It’s not fair how good he looks, how steady he is while I’m vibrating with adrenaline and need.

Like a shadow given form, bare-chested and silent, he looks carved from something old and elemental, like he doesn’t belong in the soft corners of my kitchen at all.

And yet, he does. Too well. That quiet stillness of his isn't just practiced—it’s who he is.

It makes me feel like I’m on display, like he sees everything without giving away a single damn thing himself.

I wish he'd say something snarky, break the tension with one of his deadpan comebacks.

Instead, he just stands there, unreadable and so painfully composed it makes my bones ache.

"Jesus!" I nearly fling the plate.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry. "Didn’t mean to startle you."

"Do you always move like a panther? Or is that just a special talent you save for creeping up on women in their kitchens?"

"You were making a lot of noise for someone trying not to wake a house."

"I was not."

He shrugs, steps closer. "You always eat cheesecake in your underwear?"

"You always lurk half-naked in the dark?"

"Didn’t realize modesty was going to be a problem."

"It’s not."

We’re too close. The space between us hums, stretches, threatens to snap. I set the plate down—no, I drop it. It clatters to the counter, forgotten.

"Kari..."

I make the first move. Fingertips pressing into the muscular contours of his bare shoulder, I lean in and capture his mouth with mine. Our hungry exchange is reckless, wild, and an utter departure from what we've always been. But it feels inevitable.

His strong hands grip my waist, spinning me to plant me against the cold marble counter. The icy surface bites into my overheated skin, sending shivers racing up my spine. The unyielding smoothness presses into the backs of my legs, anchoring me as my pulse kicks into overdrive.

As we kiss fervently, I feel the rough drag of his jeans rubbing against my exposed thighs, creating a delicious friction that causes me to gasp.

His skilled hands roam over my body, calloused palms firmly claiming every inch they touch, making me feel unusually soft and sensitive – as if each nerve ending is bared, craving more.

He presses his body closer to mine with urgency, his mouth hot and demanding as it devours mine. Lifting me with ease onto the countertop, he tugs my legs around his hips and deepens our kiss – bruising and brutal in all the right ways.

"This is a bad idea," he mutters against my lips while unbuttoning his fly.

"Then stop."

He doesn't. Thank God, he doesn't. I know he's clean per Team W protocol, and he has nothing to worry about where I'm concerned.

Our clothing is pushed aside, our breaths transform into desperate gasps for air.

With a firm grip on my hips, he thrusts into me in one powerful stroke, eliciting a sharp cry that's muffled by his mouth.

He pushes forward with force and precision, stretching me beyond limits and filling me completely.

My head lolls back against the cabinet with a soft thud that goes unnoticed, my senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating, white-hot pleasure coursing through me.

Each powerful thrust rocks me against the counter, the marble cold beneath my thighs.

My skin sears beneath his iron grip as I cling to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders for stability in a chaos-laden night.

His need is animalistic, growls vibrating against my throat as he moves with a punishing rhythm—desperate, frenzied. It’s as if he’s trying to bury every unspoken rule we’ve lived by, every line we swore not to cross, deep inside me. And I let him. No. I need him too.

Unable to hold back a moan, it reverberates through the quiet kitchen before being swallowed by his unyielding kiss.

My body clenches tightly around him, muscles quivering and racing toward an explosive climax.

Our exchange is messy, fast-paced, and completely feral—but it perfectly encapsulates us.

The way he touches me isn't gentle; it's all-consuming. I arch into him, fingernails biting into his back as I cry out into the devastating kiss. He drives deep one last time, filling me with a sharp movement that extinguishes my breath and replaces it with searing heat.

Our passionate encounter is swift, chaotic, and rough—everything that it shouldn't be, and yet somehow, exactly what I needed. The way he moved, the way he took me—there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Just pure, undiluted hunger unleashed.

I felt each thrust like a claim, every bruising kiss like a demand, and somewhere between the broken gasps and the clawed fingertips, I knew this wasn’t just a release—it was a brand.

A mark I couldn’t scrub away. Even now, my skin sings with the imprint of him, my breath still unsteady, my heart still racing like it’s trying to catch up to what just happened.

My body aches, not in pain, but in memory—of how wholly he possessed me. How wholly I let him.

But it means everything.

As he growls my name during his shuddering release, I can't help but think this was worth every second of fear, risk, and disorder.

Then he pulls away—too fast, too final. The absence of his body is a shock to mine, like slamming into cold air after heat. I’m still trembling, still cracked wide open. And he’s already gone, like it meant nothing. Like I’m the mistake.

"We crossed a line. It doesn’t happen again."

I freeze. "It's okay Dalton. I haven't been with anyone since my last physical and I've been on birth control for years."

"That's not the point," he growls.

He doesn’t look back as he disappears down the hall.

I’m left standing half-naked in my kitchen, heart hammering and soul screaming.

The marble is still cool beneath my thighs, and the scent of him—cedar and sin—lingers in the air like smoke from a fire I didn’t mean to start but couldn’t bring myself to put out. My legs are shaky as I step away from the counter, like I’ve just come down from a fall I didn’t see coming.

I grab a dish towel, clutching it like a lifeline, and start wiping the counter with hard, determined strokes.

I scrub hard enough to erase fingerprints, like if I can just clean enough, I can undo what I let happen.

What he walked away from. What I let him take.

It's not about the mess. It’s about pretending I have control.

About channeling every ounce of humiliation and hurt into something that isn’t crying like a damn fool in my kitchen. "I won't cry. I won't cry."

But my voice cracks, and so does the last of my resolve. But I do cry. Of course I do.