Page 14 of Ranger’s Justice (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #1)

CHAPTER 13

CASSIDY

T he first thing I notice when I wake up is the soreness. A deep, delicious ache lingers between my thighs, radiating outward through my limbs like a brand. Every inch of my body feels thoroughly used, thoroughly dominated. The second thing I notice is the lingering heat on my skin—the ghost of Rush’s hands, his teeth, his voice murmuring against my throat.

A shiver rolls through me, part satisfaction, part something deeper—something that unsettles me more than I want to admit.

I barely recognize myself, sprawled across his bed, tangled in his sheets, my skin marked with the evidence of what we did. Of what I let him take. Of how much I wanted him to take.

That’s what shakes me the most. Not just how easily he dominated me. Not just how effortlessly I gave in. But how much I craved it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, trying to find the woman I was before Rush Rushton came crashing into my life with his growling orders and his possessive hands. Before he broke through every wall I spent years building and made himself a part of me.

Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it? It’s not just sex. It’s not just an op. It’s him. Us.

The feeling of being watched washes over me. I squirm, muscles protesting as I sit up, pulling the sheet higher over my chest. The air in the room is cool against my bare skin, but it’s not just the temperature that makes a prickle of awareness skate down my spine.

I turn my head, and there he is. Rush stands near the door, arms crossed over his broad chest, legs braced apart like he’s been there for a while. Just watching me.

My pulse jumps. The look on his face isn’t soft. It’s intense, unreadable.

“Been standing there long?” My voice is scratchy with sleep, my body too warm, too attuned to his presence.

“Long enough.”

His voice is steady, controlled, but there’s something underneath it. A tension coiled tight beneath the surface, something he’s barely holding in check.

He’s dressed already—black tactical gear, his weapons strapped into place like the warrior he is. The man is a walking maelstrom, a controlled burn of violence waiting for an outlet. And today? He’ll get it.

I push the hair back from my face, forcing my own emotions into a tight, locked box. Last night is over. Whatever this thing between us is—whatever he thinks it is—I can’t afford to dwell on it.

We have a job to do, and I’ll be damned if I let Rush or anyone else treat me like I’m some fragile little thing that needs to be protected.

I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. “So, what’s the plan?”

His eyes flick over me, assessing. For a second, I swear I see something almost... possessive flash there, but it’s gone as quickly as it surfaced. He nods toward the foot of the bed, where a neatly folded pile of tactical gear sits.

“You’re with us,” he says simply.

A slow breath escapes me. “No argument this time?”

His jaw ticks, and I know the fight still lingers under his skin, but he doesn’t take the bait. “You were going to do whatever the hell you wanted anyway,” he mutters, stepping closer. “I’d rather have you where I can see you.”

Something about the way he says it sends heat curling through me. I shake it off, throwing back the covers and standing—deliberately ignoring the way his gaze darkens when he sees my bare skin. I grab the pile of clothing and gear, determined to focus on what matters.

The mission.

Not the way Rush watches me like he owns me. Not the way my body still hums from what he did to me.

One step at a time.

The staging area is buzzing with movement by the time I step outside.

The Texas sun is cresting the horizon, casting shadows over the gravel lot where the Rangers are gearing up. Weapons are being checked, ammo counted. The air smells like leather, gun oil, and adrenaline.

And the men? They move like wolves before a hunt—calm, methodical, hungry.

I step toward the group, adjusting the tactical vest Dalton tossed at me earlier. It fits snugly, my sidearm strapped securely to my thigh, my hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. I may look the part, but I am so in over my head.

No one gives me the look—the one I’ve been dreading. The ‘you don’t belong here’ look. Instead, they acknowledge me with nods, subtle gestures. Acceptance.

I barely have time to process it before Rush steps up beside me, his presence an unshakable force. “You good?”

I lift my chin. “Yeah.”

He studies me, his gaze flicking over my face, searching for something I don’t have a name for. “You remember the plan?”

I nod. “We recon first, get eyes on the airstrip before we move in. No hero shit.”

Dalton whistles from a few feet away. “Look at that. Sometimes, she listens.”

I shoot him a glare. “Shut up, Dalton.”

He grins. Rush doesn’t.

His fingers brush my wrist—just for a second, just enough to send a jolt of something hot and possessive through me. Then he’s all business again.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, voice low, meant just for me.

I should argue. Should remind him I can take care of myself—sort of. I can shoot and I’m far more comfortable with a handgun than I was before. However, no words surface; the truth remains elusive. I want to stay close to him. Because no matter how dangerous this op is, no matter how much I hate the way my body betrays me around him… Rush is the only place I’ve felt safe since my father died.

And that? That’s even more dangerous than anything waiting for us at that airstrip.

The plan is simple. Or at least, it’s supposed to be.

We hit the compound before the traffickers can move their shipment. Cut them off before they make it to the airstrip. Intercept and neutralize. Fast, clean, no unnecessary risks.

Except nothing ever goes to plan.

I sit in the back of the SUV, my hands resting lightly on my thigh holster, the cool steel of my gun fast becoming a familiar weight against my leg. Rush drives, his grip firm on the wheel, his eyes locked on the road ahead. The convoy is spread out—two more SUVs lead, and a transport vehicle follows, all running dark and silent as we approach the target.

The desert hides the compound deep within cartel territory, where questions go unasked, and bodies vanish without a trace. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned warehouse, but satellite images showed security, armed patrols, and transport vehicles waiting to load the human cargo.

The traffickers aren’t expecting us, which means we need to hit them hard and fast.

I steal a glance at Rush. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the wheel. The look on his face—the quiet, deadly calm—makes my gut twist.

This isn’t just another op for him. It’s personal.

I get it. After seeing what was in that truck and hearing those girls whisper that no one would come for them, I also want revenge.

And Team W? They’re ready to paint the desert in it.

Dalton’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “Coming up on the compound. Looks quiet.”

Too quiet.

Rush exhales slowly through his nose. “They know something’s coming.”

I wriggle in my seat, my fingers curling against my thigh. I hate the anticipation, the crawling weight of waiting for the first shot to fire, for all hell to break loose.

Rush glances at me. “You stay with me.”

It’s not a question.

I bristle. “I know how to follow orders.”

His eyes darken, just for a second, then he flashes me a grin. “Since when?”

The SUV slows to a stop, the other vehicles parking in a staggered formation around us. Gideon and Deacon slip out first, their weapons at the ready, scanning the perimeter.

Rush’s fingers brush my wrist before he grips it lightly, just for a moment. “Stay close.”

I swallow. “Got it.”

Then we move.

The compound is sprawling, a mix of industrial decay and cartel reinforcements. Crumbling concrete walls topped with razor wire. Shipping containers stacked high, forming makeshift barriers. A single warehouse looms ahead, rusted steel doors cracked open just enough for the glow of artificial light to seep through.

Rush and his men move like shadows, silent and efficient, spreading out in a coordinated sweep. I keep my head down, staying low, my heart hammering in my chest, trying very hard not to bungle things. We'll attack swiftly, neutralizing guards before reinforcements arrive.

Simple—only it never is.

Dalton is the first to spot movement. “Two guards, east side,” he murmurs into comms. “Light patrol.”

Rush signals, and within seconds, Gideon and Deacon take them down—one clean shot each, bodies dropping into the sand without a sound.

My pulse kicks up. So far, so good.

We move toward the warehouse entrance, pressing against the walls. Rush signals, counting down on his fingers. Three… Two…

Then everything goes to hell. Gunfire erupts from inside the warehouse.

The first shots slam into the metal doors, ricocheting off the walls. Someone inside was expecting us. The bastards must’ve had lookouts.

Rush shoves me behind cover, his body a solid wall between me and the bullets. “Stay down!”

Like I have a choice.

Gideon and Deacon return fire, taking out two men on the catwalk above. The rest of the team moves fast, sweeping forward, forcing the traffickers back inside. Rush fires a round into the darkness, then motions for us to move.

“Now!”

I follow, my gun raised, my heart slamming against my ribs as we push into the warehouse. The air inside is thick with dust and gunpowder, the sharp stench of sweat and fear clinging to the walls.

And then I see them.

The girls.

There are at least a dozen of them, huddled together in a caged-off section of the warehouse, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling. Some appear to be barely conscious, drugged or too weak to move.

Rush sees them too. His entire body goes rigid, his gun aiming toward the men scrambling to defend their operation.

Dalton curses. “We don’t have time for a standoff.”

Rush doesn’t hesitate. “Take them out.”

The gunfire starts again, deafening in the enclosed space. I keep my head low, pressing against the metal storage crates, trying to get a clear shot. A sound from behind only a split second before a thick arm wraps around my throat, yanking me backward.

I react on instinct, slamming my elbow into my attacker’s ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go. A hand clamps down on my wrist, trying to wrench my gun from my grip.

Panic flares. No. No, I am not going down like this.

I twist, slamming my boot into his knee. He stumbles, his grip loosening just enough for me to bring my gun up. A shot rings out, but not from my gun.

The man jerks, a spray of red misting the air before he drops.

I barely register the sound of the body hitting the floor before I turn and see Rush.

His gun is still raised. His face is pure, unfiltered rage.

The warehouse is still a war zone, but Rush isn’t moving. He’s staring at me like something inside him just broke. Like seeing me in danger shattered him.

I swallow hard, my breath shaky. “I had it.”

His voice is a growl. “Like hell you did.”

His hand grips my wrist, his fingers tight, possessive. His wolf is close—too close—and it’s not just rage in his eyes. It’s something darker.

Something that terrifies me more than almost getting killed.

Because for the first time since this whole thing started, I see what I really am to Rush Rushton. Not just an ally. Not just an asset. I’m his.

My pulse pounds in my ears, a violent, erratic drumbeat as the chaos in the warehouse swallows me whole. Gunfire cracks like a thunderstorm around me, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood. The team is moving, sweeping the compound, taking out the last of the traffickers, but my focus stays locked on Rush.

His grip is still tight on my wrist, his gray eyes wild, his breathing ragged like he’s barely holding himself together. I don’t know what scares me more—the way he’s looking at me or the fact that for a second back there, I thought I was dead.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

“Well, well… Look what we have here.”

My stomach drops.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, that primal sense of wrong clawing up my spine. I know that voice.

Warehouse Man .

Before I can react, something huge slams into my side, knocking me off my feet. The impact rips me from Rush’s grasp, sending me sprawling onto the cold concrete floor. My gun skids out of reach, spinning toward a row of rusted barrels.

I barely have time to suck in a breath before a thick, gloved hand clamps around my arm, yanking me up like a rag doll. I twist, struggling, my instincts screaming, but the grip tightens like iron.

“Remember me, sweetheart?”

The world narrows to the bastard leering down at me. The one from the warehouse. The one who got away.

The prisoner twists his face into a smirk; his nose is still crooked from where Rush had broken it, and his lip is split. Blood is drying on his temple, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s bigger than me, taller, stronger, and armed. And judging by the madness gleaming in his eyes—he’s desperate.

I thrash, but he’s ready for it. He wrenches my arm behind my back, pinning me against his chest, pressing something hard and cold against my temple—a gun.

“Let her go.” Rush’s voice is nothing but a low growl, but it carries over the gunfire, cutting through the chaos.

The man laughs. “Oh, I don’t think so. See, your little girlfriend cost me a hell of a lot of money.” His grip tightens. “And I intend to get something out of her before I go.”

My blood turns to ice. I force myself to stay still, to think. If I fight, he’ll pull the trigger. If I hesitate, I’ll die.

Rush takes a slow step forward, his hands flexing at his sides. “You touch her, and I’ll gut you where you stand.”

Warehouse Man chuckles, shoving the barrel of the gun harder against my skull. “See, that’s what I was hoping for.”

I feel the shift in Rush before I see it. His body tightens, his muscles bunching, his chest rising and falling too fast. His golden eyes flash, revealing intensity beyond anger or rage.

Something not human.

“Rush.” My voice is barely a whisper.

He doesn’t blink.

The air changes.

The tension between us pulses like a living thing, thick and crackling, charged with something I don’t understand. The gunfire around us fades, the shouts, the screams—it all becomes distant noise because all I can focus on is him.

Rush stands perfectly still.

Too still, until he moves. Fast. Too fast.

And as he does so, the swirling mist envelopes him in motion as he shifts. One second, he’s a man—broad and brutal, lethal in the way only he can be.

Then he explodes forward emerging from the mist as a massive wolf—pure muscle, tawny fur tipped with black, claws and fangs gleaming in the flickering warehouse light.

The transformation happens in the blink of an eye.

The weight of his presence hits me like a sledgehammer, a force of nature that has nothing to do with the man and everything to do with the beast.

Warehouse Man freezes. “Wh… what the…”

He doesn’t finish because Rush lunges at him, a snarl ripping through the air, deep and guttural, so unnatural it makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

The world blurs—his massive wolf form crashes into my captor, knocking him back so hard the impact echoes through my bones.

I stumble, falling to my knees just as Rush’s teeth sink into the man’s throat—a wet crunch. A gurgled scream. Blood. Everywhere.

Rush tears him apart.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

The entire fight lasts less than five seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

Then it’s over.

Warehouse Man’s body hits the floor, unmoving, unrecognizable.

Rush stands over it, his massive wolf form heaving, his thick tawny fur slick with blood, his massive jaws parted, teeth bared.

And his eyes—those familiar eyes—lock onto me. I feel a rising tide of fear and panic. Because this is still him. This is a part of who he is.

The same man who held me, who kissed me, who whispered mine like it was a vow.

His wolf pants; its massive chest rising and falling, nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent. He doesn’t move, doesn’t step closer, doesn’t advance on me like some beast that’s lost control.

He’s still in there, still Rush.

The rest of the warehouse is silent.

I hear someone—Dalton, maybe—muttering a curse, but I don’t look away from the wolf standing over the dead body.

Rush lets out a low, rumbling growl, something deep and ancient that vibrates through my entire body.

Then he takes a slow, careful step toward me. I don’t run. I don’t flinch. I just stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

This isn’t just about attraction, lust, or even the strange pull that’s been drawing me toward him since the beginning.

It’s more than that. It’s him—all of him.

It’s as if the sun has broken through the dark clouds—for the first time since this whole thing started, I realize the truth.

I don’t just belong to Rush Rushton. I belong to his wolf, too.