Page 42 of Ranger's Code

Maggie turns onto her side, her skin still kissed with the memory of the mist and the salt-streaked wind. She lifts her fingers to her neck, brushing over the mark—no longer raw or searing, but something else entirely. It shimmers beneath her touch like liquid moonlight, no longer a scar but a promise etched into flesh. The sensation sends a pulse through her body, not pain, but recognition. Her breath catches in her throat, and when she speaks, it’s barely more than a reverent whisper, shaped by awe and truth.

“I get it now.”

I look at her, my palm rising to cup her jaw. “I didn’t bite you because I had to. I did it because I couldn’t imagine a world where you weren’t mine.”

She blinks slowly, then leans forward and kisses me—soft at first, then deeper, lingering like she could pour everything she feels into that single moment. When we part, our breaths tangle, and she eases against me, curling into the steady thrum of my heartbeat. Her cheek rests over my heart, bare skin to bare skin, warm and alive beneath the open sky. The moon creeps higher, casting silver across our bodies, and the waves roll on in a rhythm that feels less like background and more like benediction.

“What happens now?” she asks. “Still worried about that noble brother’s code?”

I smile. “Nah. I say from now on, we write our own code.”

And under the rising moon, we do.

* * *

Deacon

The woman at the bar doesn’t belong here.

I knew it the second I walked in.

The Devil’s Den is the kind of place where desperate men come to make bad decisions, and where worse men come to make sure those poor decisions turn into something permanent. A hole-in-the-wall dive sitting on the edge of the Texas border, it reeks of cheap whiskey, cigarette smoke, and violence waiting to happen.

And yet, there she is.

Perched on a cracked leather barstool, her shoulders squared like she’s daring someone to look at her the wrong way. A whiskey glass sits untouched in front of her, and her gaze flicks around the room like she’s memorizing faces, looking for something—or someone.

She’s got trouble written all over her.

Not in the usual way, though. She’s not a cartel princess slumming it in the dark corners of hell, and she’s sure as hell not looking to pick up one of these lowlifes. She’s dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted jacket, and a ponytail that doesn’t do a damn thing to hide the sharp edge of her jawline.

She doesn’t belong here. And she knows it.

But she’s not leaving.

I sip my beer, keeping my posture loose, casual, even as my gut tightens. Because I know who she is.

Sutton Blake.

Daughter of a decorated officer. Good girl with bad luck. Witness to something she shouldn’t have seen.

She’s also not supposed to be here.

We started tracking Hollister’s last remaining enforcers weeks ago. The bastard might be dead, but his reach lingers, his men still moving in the shadows, covering their tracks, settling old debts. Sutton’s name came up exactly once in our intel—just a blip in a report, a neighbor who noticed too much.

I was supposed to track her, make sure she didn’t stick her nose in places it didn’t belong. Keep her safe from a distance.

That plan is already going to shit.

Because here she is, parked in the middle of cartel territory, looking for a man who would snap her neck before she had time to scream.

I exhale through my nose, tapping my knuckles against the bottle in my hand. A slow beat. Calculating.

How the hell do I play this?

If I walk up to her and tell her to leave, she’ll dig in deeper. I’ve seen the type—determined, guilt-ridden, too damn stubborn for their own good.

But if I let her stay?

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