Page 8 of Ranger’s Honor (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #4)

KARI

D alton steps just inside the doorway, probably to triple-check the perimeter again, and for a beat, I stay put—my fingers brushing my lips like I can still feel the almost of his mouth on mine.

My chest tightens, equal parts frustration and something dangerously close to hope—a kiss, maybe even a confession, something real to cut through all the tension we keep pretending isn’t there.

Dammit, why didn’t he just do it? Why didn’t I?

The moment vibrated with tension, so tightly wound it felt like a bowstring about to snap.

But no. He pulled away, and now I’m left replaying it like some lovesick idiot with a slow-motion button, heart pounding and skin buzzing, because for a second I thought he might actually kiss me.

The air between us had gone thick and charged, like a storm about to break, and I’d wanted it. More than I should.

But then he blinked, turned away, and now the only thing brushing against my lips is disappointment.

I rub the back of my neck, willing the flush to fade.

Whatever that moment was, it’s gone now.

Back to business. Back to pretending we don’t feel what we feel.

But does he feel what I feel? Or is that just more wishful thinking on my part?

I can’t help the tight coil of tension that wraps around my chest as I watch the door swing shut behind him.

I follow him back to the house and enter, picking up immediately on his scent.

The house smells like him—leather, sagebrush, and something darker I haven’t named yet.

I draw in a breath, sharp and shallow, before pushing off the doorframe and heading back toward the living room.

Because once he gets that look in his eye, the one that says something's not sitting right, there's no stopping him.

I should be offended that he doesn't trust my locks or camera placements—but I’m not.

He’s not wrong. This place was built for comfort, not confrontation—exactly how I wanted it.

I told Gideon I wouldn’t live in a prison, and I meant it.

Maybe I underestimated the cost, but I needed a space that felt like mine, not a daily reminder of everything that could go wrong.

When I first moved in, Gideon tried to turn it into a bunker—rattling off specs for motion sensors and ballistic film like we were prepping for war.

I shut that down fast. He compromised with a few basics, but I never let him turn my sanctuary into a fortress.

Maybe I should’ve. But I needed this place to feel normal.

I drop back onto the couch and pull my laptop across my knees.

My fingers move automatically, tapping in a string of commands that unlock the folders I’ve been ignoring for weeks and now start to dissect.

It’s like peeling back layers of someone else’s mind—or in this case, someone who died for what they uncovered.

Sookie wasn’t just playing around in dangerous waters.

She dove straight into the deep end with cinder blocks tied to her feet.

The files are all timestamped post-mortem. My chest tightens as the truth clicks into place—Sookie’s work didn’t end with her death because I haven’t let it. I’m the only one updating them now, keeping her investigation alive line by line, building on what she started.

I picture her as Sutton described—hunched over her laptop, caffeine in hand, humming off-key as she dug into something big.

That strange mix of indie and jazz used to annoy me when I heard it in the background of her recordings.

Now, I’d give anything to hear it again.

I never met her, but after weeks of combing through her files, I feel like I did.

The flash drive Sutton gave me after she died holds the untouched originals. I’ve kept it that way—copied everything to my laptop so I could work without risking corruption. Which means if the files are being accessed, it’s through me.

The thought makes my skin crawl. It’s not just system vulnerability—it’s personal.

Someone could be watching in real time, tracking every keystroke, studying me through the same files I’m analyzing.

My neck prickles with the certainty of it.

Whoever’s still playing in this arena has found a way into my system.

And that’s starting to seriously piss me off.

I dive into the metadata, scanning IP trails and packet paths until my eyes blur.

My fingertips ache from the repetition, but I press on, adrenaline creeping under my skin.

There’s a flicker in the data stream—a repeated relay through a local switchpoint that shouldn’t exist. It’s too clean, too consistent.

I isolate it, narrow my focus, and follow the breadcrumb.

The screen pulses with confirmation, and a chill rolls down my spine as my stomach sinks like a stone.

This isn’t just a loose thread. It’s a noose, tightening fast.

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

The words spill out before I can stop them, my voice tight with disbelief.

My chest squeezes with a sharp twinge of dread, like my ribs are shrinking in on themselves.

I press my palms to the edge of the desk, grounding myself against the sudden rush of adrenaline.

If this lead is real—and everything in my gut says it is—then we’re standing on the edge of something big. Something dangerous.

The thought of walking into it alone makes my stomach twist in ways that have nothing to do with the case and everything to do with Dalton because I know for damn sure he won't let me go in alone.

He and my brother and the rest of the team will not allow what happened to Sookie to happen to me.

.. not while there is breath left in their bodies.

I watch as another file is accessed and downloaded.

Then the connection terminates in an unregistered node that loops back to a warehouse that's being used as a seafood distribution center just outside of Galveston. Officially, it moves blue crab and Gulf shrimp. Unofficially? It’s got the digital signature of a shell corporation that shares a backend with three known smuggling fronts flagged in the Team W database.

I flag the location, tag the suspicious files, and keep digging.

If Sookie had eyes on this before she died, she either got too close to whoever runs it or figured something out they didn’t want getting out.

And if someone’s still trying to see what was in her cache or what I’ve found out since her death, that means the operation didn’t die with her.

"Dalton," I call out, not looking up. "We’ve got a local node rerouting through a flagged smuggling front. Seafood warehouse off Seawall Boulevard."

His boots echo down the hallway before he appears, arms crossed, gaze sharp. "You sure?"

"No jackass. I just made it up so I could see your smiling face." He growls. I ignore it, and continue, "I traced metadata loops through an unlisted router that matches the signature you guys have on Operation Driftline."

"How do you know about Operation Driftline?"

"I make it my business to know what my brother's working on that could get him and the rest of you killed."

"That's classified information."

"I'm family. Deal with it."

He doesn’t move for a beat. Then says, "That location was cleared. Months ago."

I glance up. "Well, someone forgot to tell the bastards using it. It’s hot again."

His expression tightens, and that vein in his temple pulses—like it’s daring me to comment. I cross my arms and arch a brow, caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant admiration.

It shouldn’t be attractive. It absolutely is.

The tension between us thrums like a wire pulled too tight—sharp, humming, one snap away from unraveling everything.

I wonder—just for a breathless second—what it would feel like to press my fingers to that pulse and watch him flinch. Would he step back? Or lean in?

That damn vein. Why is that hot? I curse myself for noticing, for the tiny thrill that sparks low in my belly just watching it twitch. It's ridiculous. It's a stress vein. And yet, here I am, wondering what it would feel like under my fingertips.

"You sit tight," he says, already heading for his go-bag. "Make sure the doors are locked and don't open them for anyone unless you know them personally."

"Excuse you?"

He pauses. Turns back slowly. "We're stretched pretty thin at the moment. Officially, this case and watching over you isn't on the books. I need to go check it out. Alone. You’re not coming."

"Dalton."

"No."

I shoot to my feet, throwing him a glare sharp enough to slice through Kevlar. "You think I’m going to park my ass on the couch and knit doilies while you play cowboy with cartel scum?"

"No," he says, voice low, dangerous. "I think you’re going to stay alive. And right now, that location is a risk multiplier. I go in alone, I assess, and I get out. You coming with me puts a target right where they want it."

I open my mouth to argue. He closes the space between us in two strides.

"This isn’t a debate, and my decision is final."

The tension between us spikes again—not just from the argument. From the way his breath brushes mine, from the heat of his body, from the way I hate how much I like being this close to him.

"You’re infuriating," I mutter.

"Good. You’re safer when you’re pissed at me."

He turns and disappears into the hallway, and I want to throw something—maybe a pillow, maybe the damn laptop—just to have some kind of release.

Instead, I sit back down and dig further, frustration curling tight in my chest like a clenched fist. I should be used to this by now—the holding back, the hiding, the constant guessing game—but somehow, it still stings.

Part of me wants to scream, part of me wants to cry, and the rest?

The rest wants to get even. So I refocus, shove all that tangled emotion into the back of my mind, and dive deeper into the data like it can give me something solid to hold on to.

That’s when I find it. Buried in a file labeled P2S_vault—a scanned image, old-school, as if someone had digitized a page from a journal. I recognize the handwriting as Sookie’s. Loopy and elegant, always a little slanted to the right.

He sees me. Really sees me. And that scares the hell out of me, because the last time someone looked at me like that, it ended in handcuffs and heartache. But he doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. Or broken. Just complicated. And somehow, that feels safer than safe.

I blink. A rush of heat climbs my neck, breath catching in my throat. Read it again.

It’s not a case note. It’s personal—and it guts me a little. Like I’ve accidentally opened a diary instead of a data cache, and now I’m intruding on a heartbeat I was never meant to hear. A pang lodges somewhere deep—part jealousy, part grief, part instinct to protect what’s already gone.

Who the hell was she writing about? It reads as if it was someone in law enforcement.

But she never mentioned anyone by name. And the tone of the note—it isn’t casual.

It’s confessional. Intimate. It reads like a love note penned in the quiet between sirens, written by someone who knew the cost of vulnerability and risked it anyway.

My stomach knots. Did she love him? Did he know? And why the hell didn’t she ever tell Sutton or leave a name behind? That kind of omission doesn’t feel accidental—it feels like protection. Or warning.

I hesitate. My hand hovers over the keyboard.

Dalton would want to know.

But something stops me. Not because I don’t trust him, but because it feels like a secret Sookie gave me, and it’s not mine to hand over. Not yet.

I encrypt the file, label it something harmless, and bury it three folders deep—far enough that he won’t find it unless he’s deliberately looking. And if he’s looking, we’ve got a much bigger problem.

Outside, his truck engine turns over. The low rumble crawls under my skin, vibrating through the walls and up from the foundation—a phantom echo that shouldn’t reach me this deep in the house, but somehow does. Like a warning, I feel in my bones.

I hover near the window, palm on the glass like I can stop him by willing it.

I can’t. But I also know I’m not unprotected.

Before he left, Dalton checked every lock, armed the perimeter alarms, and pressed a spare mag into my hand.

His fingers lingered just long enough for me to feel the weight of it, solid and cold, before I slipped it into my pocket.

“Stay sharp,” he’d said quietly, eyes locking on mine like he was memorizing the way I looked in that moment. “You’re safe here. But if anyone tries the door, you make sure they regret it.”

The mag and the gun are still there now, heavy against my thigh—a silent reminder of what he expects me to do if anyone gets too close.

So I stand there and watch him drive off into something I can’t see, can’t control—and maybe can’t come back from. The low rumble fades, but the pulse of it still runs through the floorboards. I close the laptop, my heartbeat a little too fast.

I tell myself it’s the caffeine. Or the cold air. Or the fact that I’m hiding something from a man willing to put himself between me and whatever fresh hell I just uncovered.

But deep down, I know better. Whatever Sookie found didn’t just get her killed—it left a trail wide enough for someone else to follow. And I’ve just picked up the scent.