Page 38 of Ranger's Oath
“No,” I say softly. “I’m not. I can hear you now. Every crack in your armor.”
For the first time, I see him unsettled. He glances away, jaw tightening. I press my advantage. “You can keep your secrets, Gage. But I’ll know when you lie.”
He steps forward, close enough that I feel the heat of him. “Careful, Sadie. You don’t know the weight of what you’re poking at.”
I swallow, but don’t back down. “Maybe not. But I know I want the truth.”
The silence between us vibrates, taut and dangerous. He exhales hard, as if forcing himself to stay in check. I see it in the rigid line of his shoulders, the locked set of his jaw, the restless way his hands tighten like they need to seize something, and the terrible thought strikes me that the only thing he wants to seize is me.
“Why do you do this?” he asks finally, voice low. “Why push so hard?”
“Because everyone keeps me in the dark,” I say with an edge in my tone. “And I’m tired of being treated like porcelain. If I’m in this, then I deserve the truth.”
His gaze burns hotter, but before he can reply, my phone buzzes. A secure ping from Kari. I open the message and a file pops up. A single highlighted line slams into me: Elliott Hargrove.
The name is small on the screen and enormous in my chest. Elliott Hargrove is the man who mentored my family for decades, the one who clasped my hand at the last gala and calledme the pride of Galveston. He chaired the advisory committee that pulled strings to get my foundation its first major donor. He gave me my first public praise and then posed for photos by our sign.
Now his signature sits linked to a shell company that paid for the limo in Aruba. The betrayal is a physical thing. I feel the floor tilt. Memory after memory rises unbidden: him smiling across a luncheon table, praising my plans, that handshake that felt like a promise. The warmth of those moments curdles into something cold and bright.
I close the laptop with a little too much force. My hands tremble but my voice comes out steady, low and hard. “He taught me how to build this,” I say, and the words taste like ash. “He taught me to trust.”
Rage and a sharp, hollow grief thread through me at the same time. “If Elliott Hargrove helped fund this,” I whisper, “he sold us out.”
Gage is suddenly there, his grip on my arm firm and possessive. He does not speak. He does not need to. The single look he gives me is equal parts promise and readiness. I breathe once, forcing myself to steady the tremor in my hands. “I will trace this,” I say. “I will follow every dollar until it stops.”
The plan hardens inside me like iron. Betrayal just made this personal in a way that will not let me go.
My blood runs cold. Someone we once welcomed into our family’s inner circle, someone woven into our legacy, is tangled up in this. The betrayal feels like a trapdoor opening under my feet, and I can’t tell how far the fall goes... or what waits at the bottom.
CHAPTER 14
GAGE
The night is still lingering in my bones when Rush calls us together. The war room feels close, the low lights casting everyone’s faces in stark relief. Sadie isn’t here; Cassidy led her off after she, Cassidy and Kari spent the day digging through the corporate equivalent of a shell game, and part of me is relieved. This meeting is for Rangers, not civilians. Not even fated ones.
Rush’s tone is clipped. “Pier One’s got activity tonight. Recon only. We confirm, we pull back.”
Dalton leans forward, arms braced on the table. “And if we find proof?”
“Then we catalog it, quietly,” Rush says. “No firefight unless we have no other option. We need intel, not body bags.”
The instinct surges, a primal demand for blood instead of patience. Every muscle itches to move, to end threats before they form, but I lock it deep. This night isn’t for carnage; it’s for discipline, for control.
We roll quietly into the port, the ocean air cool against my skin. The drive is tense, silence stretched so tight it hums. The tires drum a steady rhythm on the asphalt, a beat that matches the tension in my chest. Sadie’s voice lingers anyway, her barbs replaying like echoes, each quip carving deeper than any round I’ve ever taken. It leaves me restless, keyed up, as if she’s riding shotgun even when she isn’t.
My hands clamp on the steering wheel until my knuckles ache, every muscle wired as Rush signals for us to split. I keep my gaze fixed on the dark stretch beyond the glass longer than I should, following shapes that may be nothing at all while my focus slips.
Deacon catches it, his grin sly in the dim light. “You’re thinking about her,” he mutters, low enough to sting. I don’t answer, jaw set, because denial would be a lie and admitting it would only give him more to needle with.
I take overwatch with Deacon, scaling a stack of containers for the high angle. From here, the lot spreads wide, cranes looming like iron skeletons against the moonlight. Salt stings my lips, metal tang hangs in the air, and below, Dalton slips between shadows, camera rig in hand. Every step measured. Every breath calculated. The comms crackle lightly, filling the silence with our controlled whispers.
“North clear,” I murmur. “Deacon?”
“South fence quiet. No eyes on.”
Dalton’s voice breaks in. “At the target container.”
Through my scope, I track him. The refrigerated unit hums, frost clinging at the edges. But the heat signature doesn’t match cold storage. Too many variations, too much movement.
