Page 34 of Ranger's Oath
I start to argue, but the words crumble before they leave my mouth. He’s right. Walking away isn’t an option, not while she’s here. My jaw clamps tight, muscles straining as I hold myself in check, the urge to fight his order and the need to obey tearing at me in equal measure.
Later, I catch her in the hall. She is in leggings and a worn t-shirt, hair pulled into a knot, laptop under one arm. She slows when she sees me, almost as if she’s daring me to block her path.
“You plan on standing guard outside my door all night?” she asks.
“That depends,” I say. “You planning on working around me again?”
Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “If by working around you, you mean doing the job you refuse to let me do, then yes. Someone has to chase the threads your team doesn’t see.”
I step closer, heat tightening the space between us. “Threads can wait. Staying alive cannot.”
She tilts her chin, eyes bright with challenge. “And if my work keeps us alive? If donors and shell companies are part of how they fund this, then my laptop is a weapon. You can shove me into a corner, or you can let me use it.”
Her words hit harder than any flirtation. She is staking ground, demanding I acknowledge it. My pulse kicks, my wolf prowls, but I force myself to hold steady. “Stay inside the lane we agreed. Overlaps, donor rosters, vendor shells. Nothing else.”
She brushes past me, shoulder grazing mine as she goes. “Then you’d better keep up, Ranger, because I’m not sitting idle while the world hunts me.”
The contact sears through me, and for a heartbeat I almost haul her back, almost give in to the storm clawing at me. Instead I lock my fists at my sides and let her walk away, the sound of her steps echoing like a dare.
At 0300 the convoy rolls out. Dalton drives the lead, Deacon close behind. Rush escorts them through to the exit, engines low, lights dark, every move deliberate. From the patio I track the shapes until the faint glow fades into the distance. The night settles heavily afterward. The silence presses hard against me, leaving my chest hollow. If the convoy gets ambushed, I won’t be there to pull them out. If the ranch is hit, I’m the one left standing. Either way, the risk gnaws at me, a choice with no clean answer.
Sadie appears at the French doors, barefoot, arms crossed. “You don’t trust them to handle it without you?”
“I trust them,” I say.
She leans against the frame, eyes narrowing. “And you don’t trust me either. That cuts both ways.”
That earns a dry laugh from me. “You’re wrong about that. I trust you to be you. At least you’re honest about it.”
She doesn’t blink. “And you?”
Her eyes blaze with defiance, a heat that cuts straight through me, steady and unrelenting no matter how hard I fight to contain it. That fire follows me through long nights, fraying my focus and dragging every thought back to her until I can barely think of anything else.
I never say what it does to me, how the pull nearly breaks me, how close I come to closing the space between us. Every breath of hers feels like the one thing keeping me anchored. I’d burn down everything else if it meant she stayed alive, and that vow stays locked in my chest where no one can see it.
They come back slower than they left, a careful, patient line that eats the black like a ghost train. Headlights stay low until the gate clicks and the first truck eases through. I can hear the tires on gravel, metal sighing as doors unlatch, and the low murmur of voices over mics. Dalton climbs down when his truck stops, boots whispering on the porch steps. Deacon follows, rigid as always, eyes scanning even with the job done. Rush stays clipped, hands on his rifle until I wave him out of it.
Up close the convoy looks the same as when it rolled: scuffed armor, straps still tight, the smell of diesel and cold sweat riding the night air. Nothing missing. No blood. No bent metal. Nothing to show there had been teeth baring in the dark. It should settle me. It does not.
Dalton stops a few feet from the house and lets the hood of his jacket fall back. He gives me a look that says everything and nothing. “All clear. Road clear for miles. No sign of movement that wasn’t ours.”
Deacon’s laugh is short. “We saw a fox that thought it was braver than it had any right to be. Scared the hell out of Harris until he almost shot it. Other than that, quiet as a graveyard.”
I force the laugh out of my chest, but it sounds like metal scraping on glass. “You saw a fox and not a man with an AK. Lucky fox.”
Dalton’s jaw ticks. “Luck and good eyes.” He shifts his weight and glances toward the patio where Sadie stands. The light from the house frames her, small and fierce and barefoot, as if she came straight from sleep and decided the night could wait. Her arms are folded, but she does not look cold. She never looks cold.
Sadie walks out without hurry. Each step is practiced, a rhythm that pulls something low and animal out of me. When she closes the distance between us she stops a pace away, close enough that heat bleeds into me. She does not touch me. She does not have to.
“You checked the perimeter?” she asks Dalton, voice flat, not a question for me.
“We ran the route twice,” Rush says. He lets his rifle hang by the strap now but keeps his eyes bright and hard. “No signs. Nothing staged. Either they moved off before we got there or they never planned on taking the bait.”
Sadie’s lips press together. I can see the cogs working behind her eyes. “Or they are smarter than we expect.”
That line lands in me like a stone. I should answer with tactical certainty. I do not. Instead I let my gaze travel the convoy: the straps, the magazines, Harris wiping his hands on his jeans, Deacon checking a suppressor as if it were a new toy. They are competent. They are careful. They are not invincible.
“I told you I trusted them,” I say, because I have to say something to quiet the raw edge under my skin.
