Page 5 of Ranger’s Pursuit (Lone Star Wolf Rangers #3)

SUTTON

T he wind off the Gulf always carries a little grit, a little bite—but it’s not the salt or sand that grates. It’s him. Deacon Winslow, looming in my entryway like an unsanctioned storm warning.

He didn’t ask. He just told me I had protection.

And apparently, he’s it. Because of course he is—full marks for testosterone-fueled chivalry.

Next thing you know, he’ll be beating his chest and dragging me off by my ponytail.

My gut knots—not with fear exactly, but with the sharp twist of unease that comes when someone starts making decisions for me.

I’ve spent years clawing back my autonomy, and now it’s being steamrolled by a man with a badge and a jaw carved out of granite.

“I’m taking you to dinner,” he says, like it’s already decided.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a request or a command?”

He steps further inside, arms folded. “You haven’t eaten. You’re running on caffeine and fury. That doesn’t cut it. You need fuel.”

“Deacon, I’ve survived longer days with less.”

“Not with a target on your back.”

I huff, crossing my arms in return. “Fine. But I’m driving.”

He chuckles. “Wrong again.”

I follow his line of sight through the window. That’s when I see it—his Harley parked in the driveway, matte black and built like a beast.

“You want to take me to dinner,” I say slowly, “on that?”

“Unless you’re scared of a little wind in your hair... or is it you're afraid to wrap your legs around me?”

I can feel the blush sweeping up my neck and cheeks. I narrow my eyes. “I’m not scared of anything.”

“Good. Grab your helmet.”

"I don't have a helmet and I'm not riding on that thing. You can either ride in the Range Rover or follow me, and by ride I mean in the passenger seat."

He chuckles. The sound is low and seductive and I can feel heat curling in my belly. "I drive. I don't care if we take the Harley or your Range Rover. I always drive."

“You always order women around?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

He doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. That would make this easier, and nothing about this man is easy. And maybe, stupidly, I want him to smile—just once—so I know there’s a man under all that steel and storm. “Pretty much, especially when they’re being hunted by paid assassins.”

“That’s such a sexist answer.”

This time, I catch a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.

We head out to the Range Rover where he puts his hand out waiting for the keys.

For a second, I consider faking him out—just to see what he’d do.

Maybe toss the keys over the roof or ask if alpha posturing is part of the Ranger uniform.

But the look on his face shuts that down fast. I sigh and drop the keys into his palm, because while I may not like being bossed around, I’m not stupid.

Short of trying to physically outmaneuver him, I don't see that I have much of a choice.

I hand them to him and am then surprised when he follows me around to the passenger door and holds it open for me.

As the engine purrs to life, he smiles. "Almost as good as the sound of my Harley. Where do you want to eat?"

"This is your idea. I'm good with anything but Mexican."

"You don't like spicy food?"

"I love it. It's just the last time Sookie..." I have to catch my breath. This is the first time I've said her name out loud since she was killed.

Deacon reaches over and rests his hand on my thigh—it's intimate, but not sexual. "It'll get easier."

"What? When you catch him?"

He shakes his head. "No; when I kill him."

"You don't plan to arrest him and bring him to justice?"

"The bastard murdered my sister. When he faces justice, it’ll be mine."

I realize in that moment we have more in common than I might have thought. "Good."

The restaurant is quiet, tucked just off the strand, all warm lighting and exposed brick. The server does a double take when she sees Deacon, and I don’t blame her. He looks like he stepped out of a cover shoot for “Men Who Kill and Brood.”

He doesn’t bother with small talk. Orders steak, rare. Drinks black coffee. Watches the door like it owes him something. I order seafood pasta and a glass of white wine and pretend not to notice how often his gaze flicks back to me.

“You always this...tense?” I ask, giving him a slow, deliberate once-over. “Because your vibe screams ‘military sniper meets monk on a mission.’”

“You always this nosy?”

“You have no idea.”

There’s a beat, and then he leans in. “You drew him from memory. Most people couldn’t tell you what color shirt the killer wore.”

I shrug, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I remember details. It’s what I do.”

“That’s a gift,” he says, voice low. “Or a curse.”

I hold his gaze. “Sometimes both.”

We don’t speak much after that, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It hums, charged and heavy, full of things neither of us are quite ready to say. When the check comes, he takes it before I can blink.

“Chivalry isn’t dead, huh?” I ask, sliding into the passenger’s seat as we head back.

“No,” he says. “And it doesn’t ask permission first.”

The drive home is quiet, but not the uncomfortable kind. My fingers fidget in my lap, still tingling from the way his hand lingered on my thigh earlier. We pull into the neighborhood, the Range Rover humming low as we pass rows of tidy brick townhouses with porch lights flickering on one by one.

When we round the bend and my place comes into view, something sharp and cold slices through my chest.

"Stop," I say, voice low.

Deacon’s already slowing. "I see it."

He spots the door, jaw tightening. He kills the headlights as we approach, guiding the Range Rover into the driveway next door with calculated ease, with the engine barely making a sound. We coast to a halt, the Range Rover idling like a held breath.

From this angle, we both see it—my front door, slightly ajar.

A sliver of black against the white trim.

My stomach knots, dread rising like floodwater, enough to set every instinct screaming.

The porch light flickers, casting a warped shadow across the threshold.

From this angle, it looks like the house is wounded.

Violated. Like it’s bracing for another blow.

My stomach turns, and the chilled breath I drag in feels like it’s scraping against raw nerves.

He’s already reaching behind his back when I turn to him, all tension and sharp focus, like a predator the second before it pounces.

Even in the dark, his eyes are lit with something feral, a low-burning fire that speaks of violence barely restrained.

My breath catches. I should be focused on the threat, the door, the possibility of an intruder—but all I can see is him.

The way his body coils, the sharp edge of command permeates his body, the raw certainty.

He radiates danger... and it draws me like a flame draws a moth with a death wish.

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice razor-sharp. He pulls a second weapon from an ankle holster, checks the chamber, and hands it to me, grip-first. "You know how to use it?"

I nod. "You travel with spares?"

“Always. Safety off. Keep your finger off the trigger until you mean it.”

I nod, heart thudding.

“If anyone comes near the car that isn’t me, you shoot. No warnings.”

“Understood,” I whisper.

And then he’s out, clicking the locks behind him as he moves up the walkway like a panther—graceful, coiled power in every step.

His shoulders are broad beneath the leather of his jacket, and even now, with fear winding tight in my chest, I can’t stop the way my eyes track his body.

There’s a precision to him, a lethal elegance, like a weapon that knows exactly what it’s meant to destroy. And protect.

I sit frozen. For exactly ten seconds. The gun is cool and foreign in my hand, but my pulse hammers like it knows what’s coming. I try to stay put. I really do. But every instinct I’ve ever trusted is yelling that I need to see for myself.

I unbuckle. Quiet. Deliberate. I slide out of the car, keeping low, keeping quiet.

At some point during dinner—maybe when I kicked off my heels under the table—I never put them back on.

Now, my bare feet whisper against the pavement, my senses stretching in every direction like antennae.

Deacon is already halfway to the porch, his body one taut line of control and purpose.

I follow, drawn forward not by recklessness—but by the raw need to take back some piece of control. To see what they’ve done. To make it real before it all crumbles.

Inside my house is a mess. There are drawers pulled open, cushions scattered and in disarray.

My favorite mug—a hand-thrown ceramic piece glazed in deep teal and gold, with a delicate crescent moon carved into the side—shattered on the kitchen floor.

The sight of it punches the breath from my lungs, a physical blow I wasn’t braced for.

Sookie gave me that mug on the first anniversary of my moving in.

She said it was 'just the right kind of weird for you, babe.' I’d used it every morning since, the rim molded perfectly to my lip, the weight of it grounding. Seeing it in shards makes the violation feel personal. Like whoever did this wasn’t just searching—they were taunting me.

Like they knew exactly where to strike to make it hurt.

I feel cracked wide open. Exposed. My blood runs cold.

Deacon grabs my arm. Hard. Even now—especially now—his touch sets something off inside me.

It’s not just the strength of his grip, or the way his fingers wrap around my skin like a brand.

It’s the way my body responds, unbidden and unforgiving, as if danger and desire are stitched from the same thread when it comes to him.

“Stay here, and this time I mean it. Corner of the kitchen. Back flat against the outside wall. Shoot if you have to.”

“You think they’re still here?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Then he’s gone. Moving like a shadow with purpose. Silent and lethal.

I don't stay. I follow. I tell myself it’s instinct, not recklessness.

But the truth is, there’s a flicker of fear in my chest—sharp and urgent.

What if he needs me? What if I’m just afraid to sit still and let someone else do the saving?

My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood, breath caught in my throat as adrenaline surges through me.

The smell of upturned dust and splintered wood hits my nose, sharp and wrong.

Every instinct I have screams to stay put—but curiosity, reckless and bright, drags me forward.

Because I can’t help myself.

He checks the living room, then jerks his chin toward the stairs. I follow the tilt of his gaze.

“Stay behind me,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal. “Two steps back. No sound.”

I nod. The stairs creak under his weight, but mine are softer, my bare feet silent against the wood. He glances back once, just to make sure I’m there. I am—exactly where he told me to be.

Upstairs, he sweeps through each bedroom with surgical precision, closet doors thrown open, shower curtains yanked aside. No hesitation. No wasted steps. My heartbeat hammers, but his composure never breaks.

“Clear,” he finally says, lowering his weapon.

“Nothing’s missing,” I murmur. “But they were looking for something.”

He nods. “They were looking for leverage.”

“What kind of leverage do I have?”

His gaze sweeps over me. “The kind you don’t even know you’re carrying.”

I swallow hard. “We should call the cops.”

He shakes his head. “No. This is ours now. You, Sookie’s murder, the Reaper—they’re all tied up in something bigger. You call Galveston PD, best-case scenario, it slows us down. Worst case? It tips them off.”

I look around my ruined kitchen. At the shattered pieces of a life I was still trying to rebuild. “So what now?”

He takes a step toward me. Then another—measured, deliberate, like a wolf stalking something it already knows belongs to him.

The air thickens with intent, and my pulse kicks like it’s trying to outrun the look in his eyes.

Every inch he closes steals a breath from my lungs, until the only thing I can taste is him—danger and desire wrapped in heat and authority.

“Now,” he says, voice rough, “you do what I say.”

The heat between us snaps into focus, sudden and sharp.

My breath hitches, and something low in my stomach twists, hot and aching.

He’s too close—close enough that I can smell leather, salt, and something darker underneath, something that makes me forget my own name.

I should step back. I don’t. Instead, I tilt my chin up, defiant, and breathless, caught between warning and want.

“And if I don’t?” I whisper.

His eyes flash. “Then I tie you to that damn bed and keep you alive anyway." His voice is all grit and gravel, but there’s something else under it too—a promise. Not of control, but protection. Fierce, unrelenting, and absolute.

My breath stutters. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s been pulled taut, like I’m standing on the edge of something wild and irreversible. There’s a fire in his eyes—dangerous, magnetic—and it’s pulling me closer, even when every rational part of me screams to look away.

I should slap him. I should scream. I should run. My fingers twitch at my side like they want to do all three at once, but I can’t move. He’s too close, too steady, too damn sure—and I’m not sure of anything except the wildfire spreading through my system.

Instead, I say, “You’d have to catch me first.”

His smile is dark and slow and dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he says, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, “I already did.”

And in that heartbeat, I know: nothing about this is going to be safe.

Or simple.

Because when a man like Deacon Winslow decides you’re his to protect, there’s no walking away.

And deep down, God help me—I don’t want to.