Page 31 of Ranger's Code

Dalton and Gage, still bloodied and probably bruised, fall in behind us without question. Maggie gives a tight nod and leads the way, cutting through the alley behind the beach cafés, ducking between buildings, avoiding streetlights and the possibility of being seen. Her steps are light, fast, calculated—a new grace in her body that hadn’t been there days ago.

We reach the back of the loft building without incident, slipping through the employee access door she keys open with trembling fingers. "Come on," she whispers, glancing over her shoulder.

We slip into the back entrance of the building, avoiding the main stairwell and hugging the walls as Maggie leads the way. I follow close behind her, my senses on high alert for any trace of pursuit. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, with the muffled hum of distant appliances seeping through the walls. Once inside her loft, she motions toward the guest bathroom and the secondary closet in the spare bedroom. Dalton and Gage duck inside and re-emerge a few moments later, changed into the fresh clothes they’d prepped and hidden in advance—hoodies, jeans, boots—simple and tactical.

I close my eyes, summoning the part of me that remembers being more than muscle and fang. The mist begins to rise—color swirling like storm clouds laced with electric threads, thunder rumbling low in the distance, and the air crackles as the magic coils tight. The shift comes with a flash of power, bone and sinew reforming until the storm recedes and I’m standing upright again—human, breathless, and utterly bare. Maggie’s already there, steady and silent, holding out a pair of sweatpants. I take them from her hand and pull them on without a word, my eyes still dark with the echo of the run and the memory of her scent in the moonlight.

I step closer, lowering my voice, my hand gently grazing her elbow.

"You okay?" I ask, more than casual concern behind the words—my eyes sweep over her, looking for signs of pain, disorientation, anything that says she’s pushing too hard.

She nods once, but her eyes stay on the closed door. "No one saw."

But the night isn’t done.

I lower my mouth to her neck, breathing in the wildness that clings to her skin—her scent is richer now, threaded with the electric charge of magic and the unmistakable echo of change. I brush my lips against the fresh bite mark, pressing a kiss to the bruised edge where her skin still pulses with the heat of the bond. She tilts her head slightly, not pulling away but leaning in, her fingers lifting to trace the wound slowly, reverently, like she can still feel the moment it happened. Her touch lingers, fingertips exploring the tender curve of the mark, half in awe and half in wonder, as if it holds a truth her heart already understands—even if her mind hasn’t caught up yet.

“You’re still burning from it,” I murmur.

“I can feel you in my skin,” she whispers, and I don’t miss the awe or the tremble beneath the words.

I kiss the mark gently, then press my forehead to the curve of her shoulder. “That’s because we’re not finished yet.”

I see the tension still simmering beneath Maggie’s skin—the faint twitch in her fingers, the rigid line of her shoulders, the way she moves away and paces by the window like a storm waiting to break. Her eyes are alert, scanning the quiet skyline with the same vigilance I’ve seen in battle-hardened Rangers. But it isn’t fear driving her—it’s something wilder, coiled and growing.

I close the distance between us without a word, silent on the hardwood until I stand just behind her. Then, I slip my arms around her waist and pull her back against my chest. My hold is firm, grounding—no hesitation, no ask. Just presence.

She doesn’t tense. Instead, her body softens against mine with a slow, deliberate breath, her spine easing into the curve of mine. Her head tilts slightly, resting against my chest, and I feel her heartbeat slowly sync to mine. Her hands lift to rest over my forearms, fingers sliding lightly along my skin, not clinging—but claiming.

I nuzzle the top of her head, breathing in her scent, my voice low and quiet. “You’re not alone in this, Maggie. Never again.”

Her response is a small nod, but her body tells me more. She isn’t standing because she has to. She’s standing because she chooses to. And this—this quiet, fierce trust—is everything.

I lead her down to the beach, the salt-heavy breeze whipping at our clothes, the ocean's pulse matching the energy still humming in our blood. The sand is cool beneath our bare feet, moonlight painting the shoreline in silver and shadow. I stand beside her in the surf, close enough that our arms brush, and when she looks at me—uncertain, breath catching—I dip my head to whisper against her ear.

“Breathe deep. Feel your heartbeat. Let it settle, then listen for the one underneath it. That’s the rhythm. That’s the call. Don’t chase it. Let it find you.”

She removes her clothes and closes her eyes, drawing in a lungful of sea air, her chest rising and falling in time with the waves. I watch her face change—eyebrows pulling tight, lips parting slightly as something deep inside her stirs. The air thickens around us, humming with power.

Then it comes—slow and certain. The mist.

It rises from the sand like breath from a slumbering beast—cool and electric, laced with the scent of salt and ozone. It whispers across the ground in sinuous tendrils, curling around her ankles, coiling up her spine. The air shifts, the temperature dropping just enough to raise goosebumps along her arms. It makes a soft, barely audible sound, like silk brushing over stone, and carries with it the sharp tang of coming change—metallic, wild, alive. The mist isn’t just a herald of transformation. It’s a force, a veil between what was and what will be. As it thickens, the moonlight fractures through it, casting halos and shadows in equal measure, cloaking her in something ancient and infinite.

It curls around her feet like a thin, sparkly fog, spiraling upward, winding along her legs, her arms, and her torso like ribbons pulled by unseen hands. It shimmers faintly with energy, not quite light, not quite shadow, as though the very air is being rewritten around her. Her skin glows in its embrace, outlined in something ancient and alive.

She gasps, the sound sharp but awed, her eyes wide as her body begins to hum with energy. Magic curls up her spine like a wave cresting, her skin glowing faintly under the moonlight. Her hands clench, her knees wobble, and her spine arches as if something ancient and primal is being drawn up through her bones. The mist enshrouds her in slow, spiraling tendrils—cool and electric, wrapping her in an ethereal cocoon of light and shadow. And then—without a cry or warning—she vanishes into it.

In the place where Maggie had been, a tawny she-wolf stands, sleek and regal beneath the moonlight. Her fur shimmers in shades of gold and warm amber, catching the light like something forged in fire and starlight. Her eyes—still hers, still fierce and clever—lock onto mine, filled with new instinct, wonder, and wild recognition. Her form is different, but the essence of her has not changed. It’s deepened, become something ancient and unbreakable.

I step forward. She nuzzles my hand gently with her snout. She looks down at her front paws, then back over her back to her tail, which she wags. She lets out a sharp yip—a surprised, instinctive sound that bursts from her throat before she can stop it, more animal than human, and entirely non-verbal. Then she takes off like lightning.

I shed the last of my clothes, shift, and launch after her, my form low and powerful, paws churning up the sand as I chase the blur of tawny fur ahead. The beach stretches out before us like a silver ribbon under the moon, the crash of waves harmonizing with the pounding of our paws. The world shrinks to wind in my ears, the clean snap of salt in the air, and the magnetic pull of her energy just ahead. We race together, wild and free, our bodies moving in perfect tandem—two predators, two souls, born to run beneath the stars.

Our limbs stretch long and fast beneath the moonlight, fur glinting silver where it catches the light, breath puffing in tandem as we tear down the shoreline. Every muscle moves in harmony, each beat of our paws a drum against the sand. We don’t race—we fly. A pair of primal echoes reborn under the stars, our bodies carving matching paths across the wet earth like we’ve been chasing each other for lifetimes.

* * *

Back at the loft, her body still humming from the shift, Maggie pads barefoot across the floor, hair tousled from the run, skin glowing with sweat and moonlight. She turns to me as I stand by the window, shirt half-on, chest rising with each breath.

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