Page 6 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

DALTON

A fter a restless night, I head down to the kitchen to try and establish some kind of normalcy.

Kari’s footsteps are light upstairs, but not light enough to mask the sound of her trying to pretend like she didn’t just get emotionally wrecked in her own kitchen.

I hear the creak of the bathroom door, the snap of a light switch, the brief roar of running water. She’s avoiding me. I deserve that.

The floor beneath me feels colder than it should—a stark contrast to the heat that still clings to my skin like a guilty echo. The cold cuts through me, biting deep as if the house itself is casting judgment.

The chill bites at my soles, grounding me, snapping me out of memory's pull. That cold is a reminder. A warning. And I damn well better pay attention.

The problem—or at least one of them—is that my body still hums with the memory, with the lingering heat of her skin, the taste of her name on my tongue.

But this isn’t about what I want. It never has been.

It’s about what’s safe, what’s smart, and what’s right—and fucking her against the kitchen counter in the middle of a security detail checks exactly none of those boxes.

I scrub a hand over my face and make myself move—one step at a time. I set up the coffee maker, brewing it strong and black, needing the bitter bite to cut through the fog of last night’s disaster. I tell myself it was adrenaline. Proximity. The goddamn cheesecake.

But it wasn’t.

It was her. It’s always been her.

I pull up the encrypted laptop from my go-bag and settle at the table, trying to convince myself that focusing on cartel logistics and threat vectors will override the sound of her moan echoing in my skull.

It won’t. But I map out the residential sector anyway.

Kari’s place isn’t just cozy and charming—it’s exposed.

The back fence is too low, the alley behind it accessible, and the neighboring properties sit close enough to give any asshole with a scope a clear view into her living room.

She comes down twenty minutes later. Not a word. Not a glance. Her hair’s damp and tied in a high ponytail, face bare. She’s in jeans and one of those soft T-shirts she probably sleeps in, and she walks straight past me like I’m made of mist. Which, fair enough. I deserve that too.

"Coffee’s fresh." My voice comes out rough, like gravel under tires.

She pours a cup in silence, doesn’t meet my eyes. The clink of ceramic on the counter feels louder than it should, a tiny punctuation mark on the gulf stretching between us. I catch the way her hand trembles, just a little, when she sets the pot back down.

Her silence cuts deeper than anything she could say outright, and I can’t help but wonder—does she regret it, or is she just trying to pretend it meant less than it did?

I catch myself watching her too closely, trying to read what’s not there.

And maybe that’s what gets to me most—because last night, for one split second, I let myself believe she wanted it as much as I did. Now I’m second-guessing everything.

The absence of her usual sarcasm feels like a warning, and for a guy who reads tactical intent like breathing, that kind of quiet feels like a detonation waiting to happen.

The answer matters more than it should, and that pisses me off.

I wait for the sharp jab, the Kari-brand sarcasm that’s always ready to bite.

But there’s nothing. Just that tight silence that makes my spine ache.

"We need to talk security."

She nods. but doesn’t speak.

"I’m mapping out possible breach points. Whoever’s watching you already got through your firewall. That means they have skills, funding, and likely contacts local enough to stage a secondary breach."

"Lovely. Just the news I wanted to wake up to."

"Did you sleep well?"

She glances at me over her coffee mug. "Yes, and you?"

"Your brother didn’t bring me here to sleep." My voice is colder than I mean it to be.

"I don't imagine he wanted you fucking his sister in the kitchen, but that didn't seem to stop you."

I resist the impulse to wince or try to make it better for her. Better has to be her life without me in it. Her voice is quiet, but not cold. Tired and hurt. That’s worse. Not knowing the best way to deal with the fallout from last night, I choose to ignore it.

"Your back alley’s a problem. I want to put a live alert motion grid back there, something that’ll ping Team W servers if anyone lingers too long. And I’ll add layered access protocols to your internal network."

She sips her coffee. Still no eye contact. "Do what you need."

I grit my teeth. "Kari…"

"It’s fine, Dalton. You made it obvious that last night was a mistake. Let’s just pretend it never happened and move on."

There’s a pulse in my jaw that won’t stop.

I nod, more to myself than her, and go back to the laptop.

But nothing about the keys under my fingers feels like progress.

I’m floundering. Not because I crossed a line—I’ve done that plenty of times in the field.

No, it’s because this time, the line was one I drew myself.

And I crossed it because for one goddamn second, I didn’t want to hold back anymore.

She’s Gideon’s sister—someone I swore I’d protect, not touch.

I remember the exact moment he made me promise—years ago, crouched behind a blown-out dumpster in a dust-choked Juárez alley.

We'd just neutralized a target linked to the cartel, hands slick with blood and the metallic sting of cordite in the air.

Gideon, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, grabbed my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye.

'If it ever comes to it, Dalton, keep her safe. No matter what.'

I'd promised him I would, and I'd meant it. I still do. What I didn’t count on was how fucking hard it would be.

She’s my charge, she's also the one woman who makes me forget why I built those walls in the first place.

I pull up another satellite overlay and start marking ingress points along the side yards.

The shrubs along the west wall give too much cover—perfect for anyone trying to lurk undetected.

A rusted-out shed near the fence line offers concealment and could be rigged for surveillance or worse.

The gate latch on the north side is ornamental garbage—looks secure, but a good bump would pop it open. I flag it for replacement.

My gut twists—not in fear, but in recognition. These vulnerabilities aren't theoretical. They're textbook. I’ve seen this layout before, too many times, in too many compromised safehouses. This place wasn’t built for defense. It was built for comfort. And now, it's a goddamn liability.

I pause the overlay and scan the perimeter again.

My eyes catch on the angle of the neighbor’s roofline—just high enough and close enough for someone with a drone or a long lens to get full visuals into her bedroom.

I make a note. I imagine a scenario—how quickly someone could cross the back alley, hop the fence, slip through the shadows beneath the hedges. My spine stiffens.

The scent of cut grass and distant Gulf salt drifts in through the slightly cracked window. It should be calming. It isn't. The contrast only heightens the unease crawling along my skin.

I note proximity to neighboring rooftops, angles of approach, how easily someone could scale the east trellis without triggering her porch lights. I even flag the utility access hatch behind the air conditioner—exactly the kind of overlooked detail a seasoned op would exploit.

Every new red dot on the map sharpens the tension winding tighter in my chest. Not just because of the threat they represent—but because I can feel the distraction creeping in again. Kari. Her voice, her mouth, her body pressed to mine. The danger she poses to my focus is just as real.

I exhale slowly and refocus, expanding my map with proposed camera points and fallback routes. I might not be able to protect my control around her, but I’ll sure as hell protect her from everything else.

Kari sets her mug down, but the soft clink sounds louder than it should. She crosses the room and reaches for a notepad near the fridge. Her arm brushes mine. I don’t move.

She scrawls something down—probably a grocery list—and then finally, finally looks at me.

"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird."

My eyes flick to hers. Blue, bright even when she’s exhausted. I shake my head. "You didn’t. I did."

She crosses her arms. "You’re not the only one with regrets. Doesn’t mean I regret all of it."

My breath catches. "What part do you not regret?"

"The part where you looked at me like I wasn’t a problem to solve. Just... a woman. One you wanted."

Her words cut clean, sharp enough to breach the walls I’ve spent years fortifying.

Pressure builds in my chest, jaw tight, pulse faltering.

It’s the kind of truth that settles in your bones—undeniable, irreversible.

A low, restless ache coils beneath my ribs—regret, need, something tangled in between.

I feel it deep, all the way through. The control I usually wear like armor? It’s fraying fast.

She sees it too. That’s the worst part. She always does. The silence between us stretches, taut and unyielding. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Just holds my gaze like she’s still waiting for me to admit it aloud. That she was never just a job. Just an op.

Fuck.

That right there is the kill shot. Because she’s right.

In that moment, I didn’t see encrypted files, perimeter breaches or even my best friend's little sister. I saw her. The woman who’s kept me awake more nights than I care to admit.

The one I’ve trained myself not to dream about, not to touch, not to want.

But wanting doesn’t care about training.