Page 31

I mount the steps, noting the porch swing piled with books and a crocheted throw, the kind of soft touch she’d deny caring about.

The door swings open and there she is—Kari Bonham.

Barefoot, coffee mug in one hand, tablet in the other, wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that hangs just long enough to be decent and just short enough to drive a man out of his mind. It’s got a cartoon wolf on it howling at the moon, which would be funny if it didn’t make my pulse spike.

It should. I can’t let it because she’s Gideon’s kid sister.

Because the cartel and a deadly assassin have a target on her back and she refuses to acknowledge or care about that.

Because she feels like she’s on a mission.

Because I’ve been ordered to keep her alive while she finishes digging through the digital landmine Sookie left behind.

And maybe because I’ve been dreaming about that mouth for years.

Inside, the air smells like rain-damp pages and vanilla candles burned down to their wicks.

Wood floors groan under my boots, and every room’s cluttered in organized chaos—laptops open, cords snaking under rugs, corkboards exploding with notes and thumbtacks, romance paperbacks shoved between volumes of forensic journals and cartel histories.

The dining room’s been converted into her war room. Red string arcs across maps. A printed-out spreadsheet bleeds highlighter ink. In the center, her laptop glows like a lighthouse in a storm.

And in the middle of it all—barefoot, braless, fierce as hell—is Kari Bonham. A woman who makes this house feel like a fortress and a battlefield all at once.

Her eyes lock on mine. Sharp. Annoyed. Blue—like her brother’s I remind myself. Her brother, Gideon, one of my best friends.

“I told you, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, letting a slow grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “Good thing I’m not a babysitter. I’m a bodyguard with boundary issues.”

“Yeah?” she shoots back, arching one eyebrow. “Well, I’m a grown-ass woman with pepper spray, a taser in every room, and a loaded gun in the nightstand by my bed. You can leave.”

I don’t move. “Not happening.”

She sighs, setting her coffee down. “You gonna follow me around all day?”

“If I have to.”

She turns, sauntering back into her living room. The shirt rides up the backs of her thighs, and I bite down a groan. Focus, Calhoun. Focus.

I follow her in, ignoring the smug way she knows I’m watching.

The place smells like vanilla and danger.

Kari’s scent lingers in the air—vanilla, ink, and a trace of adrenaline, like parchment soaked in secrets and set on fire.

The living room is cluttered with notes, red string tacked across corkboards, half-drained coffee cups, and enough data to make a tech analyst weep.

She's been living, breathing, and bleeding this case.

And now she’s mine to protect. God help me.

“You gonna just stand there brooding or make yourself useful?” she mutters without looking back, plopping down on the couch, and tossing her tablet aside. One bare leg drapes over the armrest like a dare.

I shrug out of my jacket, drape it over the back of a chair. “I brood really well. It’s a specialty of mine. I even got medals for it.”

“Bet you have a drawer full of them,” she says, voice dry.

I do. Alongside the nightmares and the names I don’t say out loud.

I scan the room, noting the lack of security. No alarms set. Window half-cracked open.

“You left the back window open,” I say, nodding toward it.

“Needed air. Thinking fumes build up when I research.” She glances at me again, that mouth twitching at the corners. “Or is that part of the babysitter checklist too?”

I cross the room, flick the lock into place, and turn. “That’s the part where your babysitter doesn’t want to have to kill someone in your kitchen.”

Kari rolls her eyes. “So dramatic.”

“Try me.”

She goes quiet, and for a second, it’s just the hum of her hard drive and the distant sound of traffic outside. Then?—

“I found something,” she says, sitting up straighter. Her voice has that edge now, the one that means she’s about to show me something that’ll punch holes in my worldview. “Sutton was right. Sookie was onto something before she died. Something big.”

I move to her side without thinking, shoulder brushing hers as I lean over to look at the screen. My hand finds the back of the couch behind her, and suddenly we’re too close. She smells like warm skin and midnight trouble. She doesn’t move away. Neither do I.

“Encrypted communications. New drop box folders created after she died,” she murmurs, fingers flying across the screen. “Somebody’s still updating the files. That means someone else has access to her systems.”

“You trust the source?”

“I trust the encryption pattern. And I trust Sookie didn’t die for nothing.”

My jaw tightens. “So what’s the play?”

“I need to track the IP. Trace the user. Break their firewall and see what they’re hiding.” Her voice goes fierce. “But that’s going to make me a target.”

I nod slowly. “Then I stay.”

She finally looks at me full-on. No sarcasm. No sass. Just Kari—blue eyes, stubborn mouth, and that fragile thread of fear buried too deep for most to see.

“You know what you’re signing up for?” she asks softly.

I meet her gaze. “Yeah. A hell of a fight. And you.”

Read Kari and Dalton’s story in RANGER’S HONOR