Page 12 of Ranger's Oath
She doesn’t back down. She laughs. “Thought so.”
But my wolf likes the fight in her. Likes it far too much. Heat rakes down my spine, settling heavy and urgent, and I lock my hands at my sides, muscles tight as steel, because if I don’t anchor myself I’ll drag her against me and let instinct take over. Every line of her body tempts me, every sharp word stokes the fire higher. I remind myself again and again what I’m here for. Protect. Secure. Not touch. Not claim.
The next day I arrange to take Sadie to a small, high-end boutique where we can cover and control the exits. She needs clothes, shoes, the simple things she didn’t pack when she fled the island. It’s supposed to be routine, but nothing about walking through a store with Sadie Marlow is routine. Heads turn. She glides through aisles like she owns them, even when she’s still pale from blood loss and the transition gnawing at her bones.
“Don’t hover,” she snaps when I shadow her through the racks.
“Not hovering. Guarding.”
“Feels the same from here.”
“Then you’re paying attention,” I counter.
She huffs, gathers a handful of dresses, and vanishes into the changing room. I take up a position outside, arms folded, every sense keyed to threat. To ground myself, I start counting floor tiles—lose track before I reach twenty. The lapse unsettles memore than I’ll admit. Then comes the quiet sound of her laugh, fabric shifting as she moves. My gut knots. Instinct pushes me to imagine, to want. I force my focus back to the tiles, hold the count steady, and wait until she emerges.
The first dress is short, blue, clinging in ways that make my pulse hammer. “No,” I say instantly.
Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“Too short, too tight, and far too easy for someone to get their hands on you.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “So now you’re my fashion consultant?”
“If it keeps you alive, yes.”
She mutters something about cavemen but disappears to try another. This one is longer, flowing, cut low at the chest. My throat goes dry. “No again.”
She throws her hands up. “What, am I supposed to wear a burlap sack?”
“Preferably with Kevlar.”
Dalton coughs loud enough to draw a glare. “Fashion week, Ranger-style. Next up: Gage launches his fall line of sackcloth and bulletproof couture.”
Deacon adds without looking up from his phone, “I’ll model the Kevlar burlap. Real trendsetter.”
Sadie cackles. “Finally, men with taste.”
She vanishes back into the stall and a moment later something soft flies over the dressing room wall and lands on my head. I glance down to find a lace bra draped over me. I snatch it off. My eyebrows shoot up. “Real professional,” I call to her.
Her laugh is bright, wicked. “If you’re going to act like my bodyguard-slash-stylist, you’d better get used to seeing what’s in my bag.”
A second later a pair of silk panties sails over the top of the door, landing square on my shoulder like she’d been practicingher aim. Dalton and Deacon, lounging nonchalantly a few feet away—at least that's what it looks like to the casual observer, but it’s anything but. The two of them nearly choke trying to smother their laughter. Dalton mutters something about Sadie’s pitching arm and Deacon pretends to examine a rack of blouses like it’s suddenly fascinating. I cut them both a glare that promises consequences if they don’t rein it in.
“Keep it up, princess,” I warn. “Next thing I throw back won’t be lingerie.”
She giggles, strutting out of the dressing room, clearly delighted with her own antics. She tosses a wink toward Dalton and Deacon like they’re her co-conspirators. The look she gives me is pure challenge, smug and daring me to react while the other two struggle to hold back laughter, shoulders shaking with the effort.
Her glare is fierce enough to burn, yet beneath it there’s a teasing glint that hooks me. The clash of our words shouldn’t ignite heat in my veins, but her every barb carries the charge of foreplay.
Once Deacon wraps the upgrades on the security system, he heads back to the ranch, leaving Dalton behind to continue sweeping the perimeter and running extra patrols. I walk Sadie through the door of the penthouse, scanning as we enter, and that’s when I catch it—a hairline seam in the crown molding, just slightly off, enough to set my instincts on edge. I signal Sadie to stay back, climb up on a stepstool and work a knife into the groove. The molding shifts, revealing a pinhole camera, freshly wired and ready to transmit.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Surveillance. Somebody’s been in here and set up a camera.”
What should’ve been a single device turns into a damn pattern. I find another tucked behind the smoke detector, and a third buried under the lip of a wall sconce—both positionedwith perfect sight lines on the living room and balcony doors. Whoever set this up wasn’t sloppy. They knew exactly where to watch, mapping angles like they’d walked the space for hours.
“Two more,” I tell Deacon. “One over the common area, one near the balcony.”
