Page 15 of Ranger's Code

I rub the back of my neck. "Keep digging. Quietly."

"Always."

I end the call and stare toward her bedroom door, the soft glow of light showing from beneath it. My jaw tightens as I lean against the murphy bed before pulling it down and sitting on the edge. I walk to the expansive window overlooking the beach, tracking the shadows outside, watching the stillness like it might crack.

I move back to the bed, taking off my t-shirt and boots. Leaving my jeans on, my hard cock pressing against the button fly, I stretch out on top of the bedclothes. I don’t sleep. Don’t even pretend to try. My body stays wired, alert, my mind replaying every step of the scent trail, every possible weak point in her defenses. Rest isn’t an option. Not when the threat has crept that close to her door.

* * *

The next day, I make myself scarce at the bakery, shadowing the vendors so closely I’m practically breathing down their necks. I don’t just watch them—I study them. Memorize their tells, the hesitation in their hands, the way one delivery guy’s eyes flick to the security camera before unloading a single crate. Every wrong invoice, every short delivery—I log it with cold precision. I ask no questions, make no accusations. But I let silence do the work for me. Let them feel my presence like a blade resting just shy of skin. No confrontation. Not yet. But I make sure they know I’m watching. And I’m not going anywhere.

Maggie doesn’t ask what I’m doing. But she notices. Her eyes keep flicking to me when she thinks I’m not looking, curiosity and something quieter—something cautious—flickering behind her lashes. Each time she catches my gaze, her breath hitches just slightly, like her mind is fighting to make sense of my constant presence. She doesn’t glare. Doesn’t push. But she looks away a little too fast, like the intensity in my eyes touches nerves she isn’t ready to name out loud.

Mid-afternoon, a call comes in. Someone has vandalized a rival bakery down the block. Broken window. Graffiti. Spray paint scrawled in large, jagged letters across the glass reads, "Sweets Rot." The damage is surgical—not random, not reckless. It sends a message, but not to that bakery. It’s close enough to be seen from Maggie’s front patio. The implication is deliberate, a shot across the bow. Someone wants to shift attention. And it works—just long enough to make me leave her side.

I make sure Maggie has backup—one of the part-timers on duty stationed near the front. I bolt the alley door from the inside. I linger for a moment longer than necessary, eyes scanning the space one last time. I slip out the front entrance only after ensuring her safety, walking calmly but with watchful eyes as I head down the block to check.

The second I see it, I know. The clean slashes in the glass, the crude but strategic placement of the graffiti, the absence of looting—it all screams intent, not impulse. This isn’t about that bakery. It isn’t even about competition. It’s a warning wrapped in theatrics. A diversion engineered with precision. Someone wants to see how fast I’ll move, how long I’ll stay gone, how far they can stretch my focus. I’m being pulled away. And it works—for a heartbeat.

I turn around and charge back to Sea Salt & Sugar, muscles tight with adrenaline, heart pounding louder than my footfalls. Each step slams against the pavement, propelled by something hotter than fear—something territorial, primal. I burst through the front door, the bell overhead ringing wildly, and the sudden entrance makes customers jump, the staffer flinch, and Maggie nearly drops a tray of cupcakes. Her eyes lock on mine, wide with surprise and something close to worry.

Maggie is fine. The shop is intact. But my pulse doesn’t slow until I’ve crossed the threshold and swept the space with a glance, taking in every detail—the angle of her shoulders, the quick flutter of her breath, the wide-eyed look of someone who hasn’t expected me to come crashing back in like a storm. Only when I’m certain she’s safe—unharmed, unshaken, still standing—does the tension in my chest ease by a fraction. I only then realize how tightly I have wound myself once my eyes find her and my inner wolf ceases its pacing.

"Are you all right?" Maggie asks, one brow arched and a cupcake balanced in one hand. "Or did someone try to mug your sense of subtlety on the way back? Because you just made three customers consider bolting for the exits."

"I'm good," I say, casually grabbing a sample cookie and taking a bite like I haven’t just stormed in like a battering ram. "You know me—priorities. Couldn’t let someone else snag the last cookie while I was out."

But someone is testing the perimeter. Looking for cracks and soft spots—testing how close they can get without triggering alarms. Probing for weaknesses like they have all the time in the world. What they don’t know is that I’ve already marked the edges in my mind, mapped every vulnerability. And if they think they can sneak past me, they are about to find out just how wrong they are.

* * *

That night, long after I should have been asleep, I crack open the door to her room and stick my head in to make a last check on her. Maggie sprawls across the bed, one arm flung above her head, the other tucked beneath the pillow, her blonde hair a chaotic halo across the pillowcase. The tangled sheets lie at her waist, and her tank top is pulled askew, as if she tossed and turned through vivid dreams—possibly the kind that make her cheeks flush and her lips part slightly. The sight hits me like a punch to the chest—desire laced with something tender and dangerous. Something my wolf doesn’t know how to back down from.

I stand in the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to pretend that the sight of her doesn’t undo me in a thousand quiet ways. Then, slowly, like something ancient and instinctual is pulling me forward, I step inside. Closer. My hand hovers above her skin for a breath, then another—until finally, I brush her hair back from her temple with a tenderness that betrays just how hard I’m fighting the urge to lean down, inhale her scent, and stay.

My wolf stirs—possessive, protective, aching with the primal need to curl around her, to guard her through the night, to make sure she wakes safe and untouched. It isn't just instinct anymore. It is something deeper, more dangerous. Already claiming.

I clench my jaw and step away, dragging every ounce of discipline with me. She isn’t mine. Not yet. And wanting her—protecting her—with this kind of ferocity isn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But the wolf doesn’t care about timing. And I’m starting to wonder if I do, either.

But God help whoever keeps trying to mess with her, because I’m done pretending to be civilized. The next time someone gets close, they won't meet the man. They'll meet the wolf—and he won't be interested in warnings.

CHAPTER9

MAGGIE

The sabotage has gone quiet.

No midnight tampering with the ovens. No swapped invoices or phantom deliveries. No broken shipments. No taunting messages buried in bags of sugar. No unexpected disappearances of staff or unsettling confrontations in the alley. It’s like someone has pulled the plug on the chaos. Just silence, and that calm should bring relief, but it doesn't. Instead, it crawls under my skin.

Silence, I’m learning, can be its own kind of threat—insidious in its quiet, stretching long and thin like a wire drawn taut, ready to snap. It doesn’t shout or slam. It doesn’t rattle doors or break glass. It just lingers. Waiting. And the longer it stays, the more it feels like a promise of something worse to come.

It feels like a breath held too long—an unnatural stillness that makes me wonder if the storm has truly passed or if it’s simply crouched, coiled like a snake in tall grass, waiting for me to relax my grip. Every day without an incident doesn’t soothe me; it sharpens my nerves. Deliveries that arrive on time feel too neat, too rehearsed. Every signature matches too perfectly. Each night I scroll through hours of clean security footage, my eyes flicking across the screen, desperate to catch even the slightest twitch in the shadows. The quiet isn’t a comfort. It’s a countdown.

Because silence like this doesn’t mean safety. It means planning, recalibrating, circling the target with a predator’s patience. It means someone out there is watching, waiting, and I hate not knowing what comes next—hate the way it forces me to live with my fists clenched and my breath held, dreading the next blow I can’t see coming.

I try to keep things normal. Try to pretend I’m not falling apart—one glance, one breath, one brush of his arm at a time. Every time Gideon enters the room, my pulse gives a traitorous kick, like my body recognizes something I refuse to recognize, much less name. His eyes follow me—not possessive, not invasive, just always... aware. And it unravels me. My chest tightens when I feel the weight of his gaze, my skin humming with awareness long after he looks away.

He shadows vendors, handles deliveries, and fixes things I didn’t even know were broken. He’s reorganized the damn dry goods shelf again, and instead of being annoyed, I’m almost grateful. Almost. Because he’s helpful. Steady. Unshakable. And I hate how much I’m starting to rely on that.

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