Page 14 of Ranger’s Protection

Chapter 4 - Delilah

Terrifying doesn't even begin to cover it.

My heart is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every part of me that's still processing what just happened. The sudden braking, the sharp turn, the way those motorcycles shot past us like we'd just performed some kind of magic trick.

Except it wasn't magic. It was Graham being exactly what he said he was—tactical, three moves ahead of everyone else.

I fumble with my seatbelt, my hands shaking so badly it takes three tries to get it clicked. The sedan is flying down Miller Road now, buildings starting to appear on either side. Warehouses, mostly. Some look abandoned, some look operational. All of them look industrial and unwelcoming.

Behind us, I can see the motorcycles in the side mirror. They've turned around and they're coming fast, angrier now. More aggressive. The lead rider is leaning forward over his handlebars like he's trying to will his bike to go faster through sheer rage.

"How much longer until your backup arrives?" I ask, proud that my voice only shakes a little.

Graham checks something, a clock on the dashboard, maybe, or doing mental math I can't follow. "Ten minutes. Give or take."

Ten minutes feels like an eternity when men with guns are chasing you.

"What happens if they catch us before then?"

"They won't." He says it with such absolute certainty that I almost believe him. Almost. "But if something goes wrong, if I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back. Don't wait for me. Just run and find the nearest building with people. Witnesses. Safety in numbers."

"I'm not leaving you—"

"Yes, you are," he interrupts, his tone allowing zero argument. "If it comes down to you being safe or me being safe, you win. Every time. That's non-negotiable."

From the back seat, Marcus Vale makes a sound of disgust. "How noble. The soldier playing hero for the fat girl who can't save herself."

The words hit exactly where they're designed to hit: right in the soft vulnerable parts I've spent years building armor around. Fat girl. Like that's all I am. Like my body defines my worth, my capability, my right to be protected.

I've heard worse. Been called worse. By men, by other women, by strangers on the internet who felt entitled to comment on my appearance because I dared to exist in public spaces while being larger than they deemed acceptable.

It still stings every single time.

But before I can respond, before I can even process the hurt enough to feel angry about it, Graham speaks.

"Say one more word and I'll gag you with your own belt," he says, his voice cold and flat. Not angry. Just stating a fact. "She's under my protection. That means she gets respect. You clearly don't understand what that word means, so let me explain in terms you might comprehend: shut your mouth or I'll shut it for you."

Silence from the back seat.

I glance at Graham, but his eyes are on the road, tracking the bikes in the mirror, his jaw set in a hard line that suggests Vale just made a serious miscalculation.

Something warm and unfamiliar blooms in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like hope that maybe not all men are like the ones I've known, the ones who saw my body as a problem to comment on, a flaw to correct, a joke to share.

"Thank you," I say.

"Don't thank me for basic decency," Graham replies. "He's a prisoner. You're under protection. There's a hierarchy to how people get treated, and he's at the bottom of it."

The way he says it, like there's an actual ranking system and of course I'm higher on it than a man who murders people, makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

I settle for neither and watch the warehouses rushing past instead.

We're deeper into the industrial park now. The buildings are larger here, more spread out, with wide parking lots and loading docks. Most look closed for the day. It's past six PM on a weekday, and whatever businesses operate here have probably sent their workers home already.

Which means fewer witnesses if this goes bad.

Which means we're more isolated.

Which means—