Page 32 of Ranger's Code

“So,” she says, voice low and unreadable. “What happens when I stop being yours?”

I still. The air between us pulls taut. And then I cross to her, slow and deliberate, cupping her jaw with one large, steady hand.

“That’s never going to happen, Maggie,” I growl low. “Because you’re not a possession. You’re a part of me. And no part of me walks away.”

She doesn’t respond. She just kisses me with a hard and relentless passion, and I let her take exactly what she needs.

Blood, power, and love all blur into one elemental craving when it’s her on my tongue—not just hunger, but reverence. It’s a vow sealed in sensation, primal and precise, a claim deeper than instinct and more potent than any promise I could make with words alone. The taste of her lingers like memory and possession, threading through me with the quiet finality of fate accepted and owned.

CHAPTER15

MAGGIE

Iwake tangled in the sheets; the linen clings to sweat-damp skin, my body humming like a power line after a storm. It’s funny how I now think of them as Gideon’s sheets and Gideon’s bed when they were mine to start with, but his presence is so overwhelming, it just seems that things become his almost by osmosis.

The loft is quiet except for the rhythmic hush of waves rolling through the open balcony door, their sound weaving in and out like breath. But the quiet doesn’t feel hollow—it shimmers with something reverent, as if the very air remembers what happened between us. It’s full—of magic, of muscle memory, of something raw and real. My body aches in that perfect, post-battle way—like I’ve run for miles barefoot over hot sand and kept going, anyway. My bones pulse with the echo of transformation, of claws that haven’t quite come, of instincts half-settled and humming under my skin. Every breath reminds me I’m not who I used to be. And every beat of my heart tells me I’m not alone in it.

Everything is... sharper. The smell of coffee grounds from the kitchen cuts through the air like dark chocolate and burnt earth. Outside, the gulls are louder, almost annoyingly so. My skin tingles, and not in a pleasant, afterglow kind of way—though there’s some of that. No, this is more primal. Like my senses are trying to outrun my brain.

I sit up slowly; the sheet slips down to my waist, and the moment the breeze kisses my skin, it’s like an electric current dances across every nerve ending. Not sharp—just alive. My neck pulses with awareness, not pain, but a low hum that blooms from the spot where his teeth claimed me. The mark isn’t just skin-deep—it thrums in sync with my heartbeat. A tether. A brand. A truth that pulses in my blood: I’m his, and he’s mine.

Gideon is nowhere in sight, but his scent lingers in the room—oak, smoke, a hint of something wild and ancient. It’s warm and grounding, a phantom presence that wraps around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The wild edge of it catches in my throat and curls down my spine, a quiet reminder that he’s never far, not really. It eases the tightness in my chest, slows the flutter of my pulse, and makes me feel tethered to something bigger than the storm inside me.

Then comes the spike—a sudden, blistering surge of heat that slams through my belly and up my spine, wild and consuming. It isn’t just warmth—it’s fire, liquid and low, curling through my nerves with feral intent. My breath hitches, sharp and involuntary. One hand claws at the sheets; the other curls into a tight fist as my body trembles, my skin too hot and tight, as if trapped within itself. I’m burning from the inside out, and it’s only just beginning.

Before I can panic, he’s there. Just—there. Like he’s felt it through the bond or read the change in the air. I hear the soft rhythm of his bare feet against the floor, the gentle hush of the bedroom door gliding open. And then his voice—low, steady, already grounding me before I even see him.

“You’re spiking again,” he says gently, not asking. Telling. Knowing.

I nod, unable to form the words. Gideon’s expression changes—something primal flickering in his eyes as he crosses the room in two swift, purposeful strides. He crouches beside the bed, his presence commanding but calm, and cups my cheek with one warm, calloused palm. His thumb brushes gently along my jaw, his touch careful, grounding. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, voice deep and low like a river smoothing stone. “I’ve got you. Breathe. Let your body find me.”

And it does. The moment his skin touches mine, the worst of it recedes. His scent rolls over me like a warm front—rich, grounding, unmistakably him. It wraps around my senses, heavy with cedar and smoke and something wilder that I can’t name. The burn inside me dulls. The chaos in my bloodstream steadies. My fingers loosen, shoulders unlock, and I take a deep, shuddering breath that grounds me in the here and now. Slowly, the heat ebbs. My pulse steadies, syncing with the deep, unwavering calm of the man holding me tethered to reality.

“This is going to keep happening for a bit,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb slowly over the sharp line of my jaw. “These instinct spikes come in waves—intense, fast, then gone. It’s your senses stretching into unknown places, catching signals your body’s still learning to understand. You don’t have to fight it. Just ride the wave, and let me anchor you through it.”

“Lucky me,” I mutter, my voice rough as I lean into him.

He smirks. “You’re handling it better than most.”

* * *

The next morning, I’m back in the bakery, though I haven’t flipped the sign to open. The doors stay locked, the chairs still upturned on tables. But the ovens are already warm, casting that familiar, golden heat across my skin as I move through the back kitchen like it’s part of my body.

I’m not ready to face the world yet—not the questions, the watchful glances, the strange new rhythm my body has taken on—but I need this. The simplicity of it. The dough that responds to my hands. The scent of yeast and vanilla and scorched sugar that calms something wild inside me. The space feels steady when nothing else does.

The radio buzzes softly in the background, some bluesy station playing low and slow. I press my fingers into the dough, folding it over itself with smooth, practiced movements. My wolf hums under my skin, quiet for now, but alert. The stretch of flour-dusted countertops, the rhythm of kneading, the pulse of my breath—it all brings me back to center. This place, this work, is part of my soul. And maybe it always has been.

I don’t need to bake today. But I need to feel like myself, even if that self is something new and raw and still evolving. Before getting out the ingredients I’ll need for a special artisan bread, I unlock the front door, but don’t switch on the lights or the open sign. I’m elbow-deep in bread dough when the front bell jingles.

“Hello?” I call out.

“Hello. Does my big brother know you left the door open?” Kari’s voice replies, smug and warm.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel, smoothing flour from my fingers as I pad toward the front of the bakery. “Probably not. Are you going to tell him?”

Kari grins. “Probably not.”

The air grows noticeably lighter, warmer—probably because Kari is already waiting there, leaning on the counter with two lattes and wearing the unmistakable expression of someone holding premium blackmail material and knowing it. It’s part amused little sister, part romance writer looking for a plot twist, and all smug mischief.

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