Page 14 of Ranger's Code

I walk away before I say something I’ll regret—something sharp, something too raw. I clench my jaw so tight that my teeth ache. Gideon says nothing but follows behind me like a shadow made of flesh and purpose. I try to ignore him, but Gideon is a difficult man to ignore—too steady, too present, and far too good at making me feel like I’m not nearly as alone as I need to be.

That night, long after Gideon has left to do whatever shadowy patrol thing he does, I sit alone in my condo with the lights dimmed low and my pulse still fluttering beneath my skin. I can’t relax—not with the day’s unease still thrumming in my bones, not with the image of broken glass buried in sugar burned into the backs of my eyes. I replay it in my mind, the silence in the room so deep it seems to echo off the walls.

I watch the video Gideon left for me, dragging the cursor frame by painstaking frame, every second a punch of tension in my chest. Delivery by delivery blurs together, but my eyes stay locked to the screen, searching for something I can’t name—until it’s there. A flicker of movement. A shadow turning just enough to make my breath still in my lungs. I see it.

A hoodie. A posture. A flash of a jawline, a turn of the shoulder. Just enough to make my breath catch hard in my throat. My stomach drops, icy dread seeping into my limbs. It can’t be—but my body reacts before my brain can argue. I know that walk. That casual arrogance in the way they move, like they own the ground beneath their feet. And if I’m right—and God, I’m certain I am—then someone I once trusted, someone I’ve let into my world, has come back to tear it all down from the inside. This time, they’re not hiding anymore. They’re circling.

CHAPTER8

GIDEON

The city is mostly asleep when I hit the sidewalk at a steady jog, the collar of my hoodie pulled high and the brim of my cap low. My breath steams faintly in the cool, salty air, and every footfall on the concrete echoes with the kind of stillness only the dead of night brings.

The Gulf breeze tugs at the edges of my clothes, heavy with brine and moisture, thick enough to taste. But beneath the damp and salt is something else—an undercurrent, electric and wrong. It hums against my skin like a wire strung too tight, vibrating with tension I can’t quite place. I don’t need to go far. Just to the edge of the block where the streetlights go dim, the traffic thins, and the shadows gather like they’re waiting for something to happen.

I duck into an alley, scan once to be sure I’m alone, and slip into the familiar rhythm of ritual. Removing my boots, I peel off my hoodie and jeans with practiced efficiency, folding them into a tight bundle and tucking them behind the dumpster where I’ve stashed my clothes for the last few nights. A dry spot, shadowed, shielded.

The cement is cool against the soles of my feet, grounding me in the moment. I inhale once—deep, centering—then hold the breath like a diver before a plunge. Every instinct in me stretches taut, preparing for the shift.

The shift is fast. Familiar. A flash of heat and light that ripples through muscle and bone, bending reality as my human form gives way to something older, deeper, and infinitely wilder. Mist swirls up from the ground, curling around my ankles like smoke, drawn by the pulse of magic in the air. Lightning dances across my vision—white-hot, primal—and then, with a final jolt that steals the air from my lungs, I’m gone. In my place stands the wolf: dark as shadow, muscles coiled and ready, eyes aglow with silent fury and unwavering purpose.

Fur black as oil, catching the moonlight in a way that makes me almost vanish against the shadows. Eyes sharp, scanning with relentless focus. Nose twitching, pulling in every scent like a map of the city’s secrets. I pad out into the street, silent as smoke, each movement fluid and lethal, the quiet confidence of a predator who knows exactly what he’s hunting—and what is his to protect.

The city looks different this way—colors dimmed, buildings flattened into silhouettes, but scents and sound flare in vivid contrast, as if the world itself whispers its secrets straight to my skin. I can hear the distant flick of a rat’s claws against brick, the faint drip of condensation falling from an air conditioner three rooftops away. But what arrests me—freezes me mid-step—is the scent. It’s back. And this time, it isn’t just faint. It’s fresh. Wound tight around the edges of Maggie’s block like a thread around a snare, coiled and deliberate. Someone has been here. Watching. Circling. Testing my patience. Testing my claim.

I growl low. Not out of fear. Not even out of anger. It rumbles from deep in my chest, raw and guttural—a sound of possession, of warning. Every nerve feels on edge, and every instinct screams that this ground is claimed. Someone is circling what is mine, and neither I nor my wolf tolerate challengers.

I push forward, every step driven by the low hum of urgency rising in my chest, following the scent around the alley behind Maggie’s building. It is recent—sharp and warm, like the intruder has only just slipped away. Within the last hour, maybe less. Male. Young. Wolf. Not from Team W. And not subtle. The scent has arrogance threaded through it, a kind of taunt in the way it lingers too long in one place, like whoever left it wants to be noticed. Wants to be challenged.

Every instinct inside me coils tight. My hackles rise, muscles tensing like a bowstring pulled to its limit. The wolf in me wants to do more than growl—it wants to claim, to mark, to sear a message into the pavement itself: this place, this territory, this woman, is not to be touched. She is under my protection. Under my watch. But I hold back, teeth gritted against the instinct screaming in my blood. Marking territory here would raise questions Maggie isn’t ready to have answered. And maybe... I’m not ready to admit how deep this bond has already sunk into me, either.

Still, the need buzzes under my skin like static—restless, electric, primal. It itches beneath my flesh, a low-level vibration that refuses to quiet. A need not just to protect, but to stake a claim. My wolf wants to howl, to announce my presence to anything within a mile. The restraint it takes not to give in makes my muscles ache.

When I circle back, the scent has faded, thinned into the general haze of city grit and midnight damp. No sign of entry. No breach. No evidence of paws or hands where they don’t belong. But that doesn’t ease the coil in my gut. It doesn’t matter that the perimeter held tonight—what matters is that someone has been bold enough to walk that close. To linger. The warning has been delivered, and I’ve received it loud and clear.

They are getting closer. And it isn’t just the physical distance that makes the wolf in me bristle—it’s the intent behind it. Whoever is out there isn’t circling blindly. They are learning her patterns, testing response times, mapping weaknesses. This isn’t curiosity. It is preparation. And I’ve been in the game long enough to know exactly what that means: the next move won’t be a warning. It will be a strike.

I shift back behind the dumpster, the burn of transformation short and brutal in the quiet. My bones ache, muscles twitch from the snap of magic tearing through me, and for a second, I lean against the brick wall, catching my breath. Sweat clings to my skin, cooling fast in the night air. I wipe my brow with the back of my arm, roll my shoulders, then reach for the clothes I’ve stashed. Each motion is precise, habitual—jeans, boots, hoodie—armoring me in the mundane as my breathing levels. Once dressed, I step out into the street, my gait steady, and walk the few blocks back to Maggie’s condo. Once inside, I glance toward the closed bedroom door before retreating to the office area of the open space and dialing the one number I trust.

Dalton answers on the second ring. "This better be about muffins and not more suspicious vendor drama. The team’s about to mutiny without their nightly sugar rations, and I’m one tantrum away from feeding them protein bars just to watch the world burn."

I let out a short, humorless breath. "I wish it was just drama. Someone planted glass in a sealed bag of sugar today. Maggie nearly used it in a batch of cupcakes."

Dalton’s tone sharpens. "Shit."

"Yeah. So no, we’re not just dealing with late shipments or bad bookkeeping anymore. This is targeted. It’s personal. Did you get anything back on that vendor’s name?"

I can hear the tension beginning to coil tight in Dalton’s voice as he says, “Yeah. The real name on the registration tracks back to a shell corporation out of Austin. That shell corp is registered to the Grangers.”

I go still. "The Grangers?"

"Yup."

The Grangers are old blood—shifters—steeped in legacy and ruthlessness. Wealthy enough to buy silence, connected enough to erase enemies, and dangerous enough to make most others think twice before crossing them. They don’t make mistakes. They make statements. And every move they make comes at a cost.

"Why would they target a cupcake shop? It makes little sense on the surface—unless it isn’t about the cupcakes at all. Unless the location, the people, or something buried deeper beneath the frosting and storefront charm has value to someone powerful. And if the Grangers are involved, it means the reason wasn’t just personal—it was strategic."

Dalton laughs without humor. "I think they’d torch a preschool if it stood in the way of what they wanted."

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