Page 5 of Ranger’s Justice (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #1)

CHAPTER 4

CASSIDY

R ush drives like a man who’s been in too many high-speed chases—fast, controlled, and without an ounce of hesitation. The SUV eats up the empty highway, cutting through the night like a predator on the hunt.

I don’t speak.

Not because I don’t want to—oh, I do—but because I know I’ll only get half-answers and stone-cold glares if I start asking the questions burning through me now.

Instead, I focus on the fact that I’m alive. And that the man sitting next to me, all muscle and dominance, is the reason why. The reality of what just happened is sinking in, layering over my frustration, my adrenaline, my need for answers.

I should be shaken. I should be terrified. But I feel more alive than I have in a very long time. It’s as if I just walked through hell and came out the other side sharper, faster, more certain than ever.

Hollister is in league with the cartel. He was responsible for my father’s murder. I know it. I may not be able to prove it yet, but I’m not backing down—no way, no how.

But first? I need to figure out just who the hell Ranger Zane “Rush” Rushton really is.

We turn off the main highway, the glow of the city fading behind us. Rush takes a winding road, cutting through thick brush and miles of nothing, the kind of landscape that swallows people whole.

It’s only when we reach a steel-reinforced gate—one that slides open only after a long moment of silent scrutiny—that I realize where we are… some kind of safe house. That must be what this is. Not just some abandoned shack in the middle of nowhere, but a fortress.

Rush drives straight through, up a gravel driveway that leads to a low-slung cabin, wide and reinforced, designed more for survival than comfort.

The air is too still. The only sounds are the crunch of tires and the distant chirp of night insects and then a figure emerges from the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, eyes cold and assessing. He moves like Rush does—controlled, lethal.

“Gideon,” Rush says as he cuts the engine.

The man barely nods. “You were supposed to be back an hour ago.”

Rush grunts, tossing his door open. “Had to make an extra stop.”

Gideon’s gaze flicks to me. I stare back. He looks like a man who doesn’t trust easily. Good, because neither do I.

Rush rounds the front of the SUV, opening my door before I can decide about Gideon. He doesn’t offer a hand—of course not—but his presence is a command, as if he’s daring me to tell him I’d rather stay in the damn vehicle.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I step out, brushing past him, deliberately ignoring the way he moves in tandem with me, keeping his body close without touching. Like a shield. The heat from his presence hums against my skin, and damn it, I wish I didn’t notice.

But I do.

I force myself to focus. I’m in their territory now, and I need answers.

Entering the safe house, I can see at a glance that it is all business—functional furniture, state-of-the-art security, no unnecessary luxuries. Everything is designed for efficiency.

Which makes it even more obvious that I don’t belong here.

Rush closes the door behind us, sealing us in too tight, too close.

I spin toward him, my arms crossing before I can stop myself. “Alright, Ranger. Let’s cut the bullshit. I want answers.”

He arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “That so?”

I plant my feet. “I want to know exactly who and what you are.”

He takes a measured step forward. “You already know who I am.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “Do I?”

His jaw ticks.

I press forward. “I saw you in that warehouse, Rush. You moved like—” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Like something wild and primal, not like a man.”

His eyes flicker—just a hint, but I catch it. Something charged and dangerous seems to arc between us. Something dark. He knows exactly what I mean, but he’ll never admit it. Instead, he closes the distance, bringing every ounce of that controlled, simmering power with him.

I refuse to back down.

“Careful, Marlow,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, just a breath away. “If you keep pushing, you’re gonna find out things you’re not ready for.”

I hate the way my stomach clenches at the way he says my name, hate the way his presence seeps into my skin like a brand.

“You don’t scare me,” I whisper.

Something flickers in his eyes—something primal, something predatory and lethal—before he shuts it down completely.

“Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re hiding something.”

He neither confirms nor denies, but he doesn’t step back, either. The air between crackles with something unspoken, something I don’t have a name for. I know I should look away, but I don’t. Everything seems to be a contradiction between us.

“What are you, Rush?” I whisper, deliberately pushing him.

His eyes burn into mine, and for a second, I think he’s going to answer my question. Instead, he leans in, his voice a dark promise against my ear. “I’m the man keeping you alive.”

A knock at the door shatters whatever the hell just passed between us. Something flipped a switch in Rush, causing him to pull back with a blank expression. Gideon steps in, his face as unreadable as ever.

“The rest of the team is back. We need to talk.”

Rush nods once, then turns back to me. “Stay here.”

I bristle. “I’m not a damn prisoner.”

His eyes darken. “Not at the moment, but that will change if you walk out that door.”

Something in my chest tightens. Not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.

I watch him go, the door closing behind him. Leaving me alone with nothing but questions, and the unshakable certainty that Rush Rushton is not just an ordinary Texas Ranger.

I wait, pacing the floor, for the noble warrior to return. Everyone in Texas knows the Texas Rangers are an elite group of lawmen. They are legends not just from our distant past, but here living and protecting us in the present.

I know all that, but it doesn’t make the waiting any easier, and the longer I wait, the more annoying I find Rushton’s high- handedness. He thinks he can order me around. That’s kind of cute—dead ass wrong, but cute.

As the minutes tick by, I find myself becoming more and more impatient. I roll my shoulders, shaking off the lingering burn of our last conversation. He’s hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but I’d bet money it’s big. I don’t think a man like Rushton hides small things.

I don’t buy the whole ‘ the cartel will hunt you down in a day’ speech. I’ve seen what fear looks like on a man’s face, and Rush? He’s not afraid of them, which means he’s either incredibly stupid, or he has an advantage no one else does. What could it be?

In any event, I’m done waiting around this safe house to find out. I have things to do, and right now, every second I waste here is a second Hollister gets further ahead.

I listen carefully, pressing my ear to the door. The house is quiet, but I know it’s a false silence. There are men outside, hidden in the shadows—watching, waiting.

Rush isn’t stupid, but then again, neither am I.

I grab my bag, checking the contents—phone, burner cell, wallet, knife—and slip out the back. I leave Rush a note, letting him know I’ll be in touch. I need some alone time, a hot bath and my own bed.

Getting away is easier than expected. Either Rush underestimated me, or his team thinks anyone who’s run afoul of the cartel wouldn’t head out on their own. Joke’s on them. What the rangers don’t know is the company I work for has a kind of ‘working arrangement’ with the cartels. We’re the people that see they get paid and have no interest in getting them locked up. I may just be an analyst, but the company would react badly to them killing me. Besides, I don’t care about seeing them locked up, all I want is to make Hollister pay for killing my dad.

You have to love Texans. More often than not, those in the middle of nowhere simply leave their keys over the visor. Sure enough, there are keys in the pickup truck the furthest from the house. I take a circuitous route back to the city, switching directions and highway systems twice and doubling back through side streets until I’m sure no one is following.

The whole time, I can’t stop thinking about Rush—his voice, the way he looked at me, the sheer power in his presence. Damn him. I don’t have time for distractions, not when I’m this close to proving Hollister is working with the Del Toro cartel.

By the time I reach my apartment, it’s nearly two a.m., the city still hums with a quiet energy, the streets never truly asleep. I pull into the underground garage, making a brief tour and then parking in an unassigned space. I keep my head down, making sure no one is watching before I exit the truck and slip inside my building.

The elevator ride is too long, and something prickles at the back of my neck. I’m tired—mentally, physically and emotionally—I ignore it. I’m exhausted. My nerves are frayed. I’d like a long soak in my tub, but decide to hit the shower instead.

Tomorrow, I’ll regroup. The moment I step into my loft, I know something is wrong. The air is different. Still. Like someone is waiting.

My gut screams at me to move, but I’m half a second too late. A hand clamps over my mouth, dragging me backward. I lash out, kicking, twisting, but another set of hands grabs my arms, wrenching them behind my back. I bite down hard on the hand covering my mouth.

A string of curses in Spanish fills the air, and suddenly I’m free, but only for a second. I spin, throwing my elbow into the ribs of the closest attacker. He grunts, but the second one is faster, catching me around the waist and slamming me into the wall. Pain explodes through my shoulder.

I gasp, struggling, but he’s strong. Too strong.

“?Basta!” a deep voice snaps.

The man pinning me down holds me in place, his breath hot against my ear. “She bites,” he mutters, voice thick with an accent.

A second man steps forward. Taller. Deadlier. And the moment his cold, dark eyes meet mine, I know exactly who he is.

Luis Ortega—Del Toro’s number two.

He’s smiling at me like I’m already dead. I go still. Not because I’m afraid—though I’d be an idiot not to be—but because I need to think. Fast.

Ortega studies me, head tilting slightly. “You are very troublesome,” he says in perfect English. “You should have stayed out of cartel business, Miss Marlow.”

I glare at him, heart hammering, mind already working through ways to get out of this.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, voice flat. “I’m not interested in the cartel’s business, only in making my stepfather pay for what he did. Next time, I’ll send an email.”

The man holding me presses harder, making sure I can feel the gun at my back. I grit my teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of struggling. Ortega nods, like he expected this response.

“Your father was just as… determined,” he muses. “And look where that got him.”

White-hot rage burns through me. I lunge, but the man holding me is too quick, yanking me back before I can get my hands around Ortega’s throat.

His laugh is soft, cruel. “Brave,” he murmurs. “But foolish.”

I breathe hard, forcing myself to focus. Think, Cassidy. Think.

“You’ve been a very busy girl,” Ortega continues, stepping closer, his voice deceptively calm. “Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. It is… inconvenient.”

I meet his gaze, unflinching.

“Yeah?” I say, summoning up every ounce of bravado I can. “I tend to do my best work when I’m being a pain in the ass. Ask my boss—he’s my godfather, you know—he’ll confirm that.”

Something in his expression sharpens. He nods to the man behind me.

“Make it hurt.”

Oh, hell no. The moment the pressure loosens on my arms, I drop my weight, twisting sharply, slamming my heel down onto his instep. The man shouts, his grip slipping, and I lunge straight at Ortega. In a movie, the plucky heroine would succeed. Unfortunately, this isn’t a movie, and no one has ever called me plucky.

I don’t make it, and the second enforcer snaps out a hand, catching me by the hair and yanking me back hard. Pain lances through my scalp, but I barely feel it. Because the cold steel of a gun presses against my ribs. My lungs stop breathing.

Ortega steps in close, so close I can smell his expensive cologne, the scent at odds with the monster behind the mask. “You should have stayed away, Miss Marlow,” he murmurs.

His finger tightens on the trigger, and I realize… I just ran out of time.

The gun digs into my ribs, Ortega’s dark eyes gleaming in the dim light of my loft. My heart pounds, every instinct screaming at me to move, to fight, to do something, but there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do.

His grip tightens, and his breath ghosts against my skin.

“You should have stayed out of this,” he murmurs.

I grit my teeth, forcing my body to stay rigid and still. “I only want Hollister. We can work something out, can’t we?”

Ortega’s lips pull back in something that isn’t quite a smile. No, he’s enjoying this. I brace myself. Because men like him? They don’t hesitate. I’m out of time.

A sound cuts through the air—low, steady, wrong. A growl. I don’t have a dog. The hair on the back of my neck rises. What the…

Before I can process what’s happening, the front door explodes inward. The force rips it clean off its hinges, sending it slamming against the opposite wall. A shadow moves, too fast, too precise—and then Ortega is gone, yanked away from me like a rag doll, his gun clattering to the floor.

The second enforcer barely has time to react before a hand—big, brutal, and merciless—clamps around his throat and slams him into the wall so hard the drywall cracks. And in the chaos, I see him.

Rush.

Not the controlled, measured Texas Ranger who’d dragged me out of that warehouse. Not the cold, unshakable man who thought he could tell me what to do. This Rush is dangerous, lethal.

His eyes gleam with something dark, something primal. Ortega coughs, struggling against Rush’s grip. The enforcer pinned to the wall gasps for breath, his feet barely touching the ground.

Rush doesn’t speak. He just tightens his hold. A muscle ticks in his jaw, but it’s his eyes that freeze me in place. They don’t look human. They look like they belong to something else. Something predatory.

“Rush,” I breathe, barely recognizing my own voice.

He doesn’t answer; doesn’t even acknowledge me.

Ortega gags, his face turning red. “P-please…”

Rush’s voice is lethal. “I don’t do warnings.”

And then, with a brutal snap of his wrist, he hurls Ortega to the ground.

The cartel enforcer gasps, clutching his throat, barely able to crawl away before Rush’s boot lands on his chest, pinning him like a bug.

I force myself to move, stepping closer. “Rush, he’s done. Let him go.”

Rush’s chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s fighting something, something just beneath his skin. I don’t know how or why, but somewhere deep in my gut, I know if I don’t stop him, he won’t stop at all.

So, I do something reckless. I touch him.

A simple thing—my fingertips against his arm—but the second I make contact, his whole body goes still. He turns his head slowly, and when his eyes meet mine, a shiver runs through me. Because for a moment, it’s not Rush looking at me. It’s something else, and it wants blood.

I swallow hard. “Rush.”

A long beat. Then—just as fast as it came, the wildness in his gaze fades. He blinks once, his jaw ticking, and then he steps back, letting Ortega crumble to the ground.

“Get out.” His voice is quiet. Deadly. Final.

Ortega scrambles to his feet, dragging his companion with him. Neither of them spare me a second glance before they stumble out the door and disappear into the night.

And then, Rush turns to me. I know, without a doubt, that I’m about to catch holy hell for my little stunt. As much as I hate to admit it, I know that’s what it was—a stunt to prove something to Rush or to me, I’m not sure. I barely have time to take a single breath before Rush’s fingers wrap around my wrist, dragging me out of my loft.

“Hey!” I struggle, but he’s too damn strong, his grip unrelenting. “Where the hell are we going?”

He doesn’t answer. I dig my heels in, but it’s useless. He hauls me through the parking garage, past my car, past every exit, straight toward his blacked-out SUV. The doors unlock with a beep, and before I can fight, he’s spun me around and pinned me against the side of the vehicle.

A sharp gasp tears from my throat, my palms flattening against the metal. His body cages me in, heat rolling off him in waves. I tilt my head back, and—God help me—his eyes are still burning, still glowing with something too intense, too inhuman.

I swallow hard. “Rush…”

He slaps his palm against the truck beside my head, cutting off my words. “Of all the stupid, reckless stunts…” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, his breathing heavy. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted to sleep in my own bed,” I bite out.

His jaw tightens. “You could be dead.”

“But I’m not.”

He leans in, and damn it, I feel it again—the heat, the danger, the pull of something between us that I don’t understand but can’t ignore.

“You’re done,” he says, voice like gravel and steel. “No more running. No more sneaking out. You’re under my protection, and you’re going to do what I tell you.”

I lift my chin. “Or what?”

His eyes flash. For one charged, aching second, we’re too close, breathing the same air, feeling the same fury. And then, he lets go. Not gently. Not carefully. Just gone, stepping back like I burn him.

I feel the loss of his heat like a slap.

Rush takes a slow breath, running a hand over his face. “Get in the truck,” he mutters.

I glare at him. “You could say please.”

His gaze snaps to mine, dark and cautioning. “I could, but I’m not going to. Now, Cassidy.”

Damn it. I want to fight him. But the wildness is still there, lurking just under the surface, and something tells me I shouldn’t push him right now. I slide into the passenger seat, crossing my arms. Rush gets in and slams his door shut, reaching across to buckle my belt before he fastens his own. His hands reach up to the steering wheel, fingers clenching around it, his jaw still tight as steel.

The engine roars to life, and just like that, we’re gone.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s still on edge. Still too tense, too controlled.

But whatever he is or isn’t, I’ve seen it—just for a moment, but it was there. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was reading something out of one of my favorite paranormal romance novels. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something different about Rushton—something not entirely human.