Page 58 of Her Redeemed Protector

Shoulder to shoulder, with our arms touching, we move into the warmth of the indoors. We settle on the couch, basking in each other’s presence. Our breaths speak, our eyes talk.

Then his hand moves, just slightly, holding my palm more firmly.

He begins, resignation in his voice, “The people who really know me, they know why I quit the Navy. Told the story a few times, yet?—”

I cradle his hand as if to share the load.

He gestures to the mark that time has stamped into his skin. “Tonight. It was the first time since… this,” he touches the scar, “that I’ve had to confront both flames and a frightened child at once.”

I run my fingers over the scar. “Tell me,” I whisper.

He nods slowly, steeling himself before he begins. “It was in the jungles south of Bogotá.” His eyes glaze over as if visualizing the scene once more. “We were tasked with extracting a CIA operative whose cover had been blown. It was supposed to be straightforward—get in, get out. But we braced for complications, always do.”

He draws a breath, the story unfolding. “We reached the compound, secured our man, and were set to pull out. The intel suggested a minimal guard—after all, it was Sunday. The cartel boss, devout in his own way, was supposed to be at church with his kin and guards.”

“But then, we were ambushed.”

His delivery is even, reflecting the calm born from intense training and preparedness for such scenarios.

“We countered their ambush and were set to destroy the compound,” he continues. “Flames were already cutting off the cartel’s escape routes, and the structure’s back was alight, our explosives ticking down.”

His voice falters slightly. “We should’ve been long gone, but the intel… it was flawed. We weren’t prepared for what happened next.”

A pause, heavy and thick.

I hold his gaze, which reflects a wish to skip past the pain of his tale. But I remain silent, granting him the space to share it in his own time.

“Children were inside. They hadn’t gone to church. They were the drug lord’s own. And he, the very man we hadunknowingly ensnared, was present. The CIA, they wanted him, regardless of the collateral, and they kept us in the dark.”

My heart aches for him. “Oh, Hux…”

With a ponderous sigh, he recounts the harrowing decision, “The countdown was relentless, but we couldn’t turn our backs. Three of us plunged back into the chaos to save those kids?—”

Regret and sorrow emanate from him, serving as silent witnesses to the price paid during that day’s chaos.

He downplays his suffering, relegating it to a footnote. “My mates… they weren’t so lucky,” he says quietly, “they lost limbs in the explosion. As for me, I got off with just this scar and a few shards of shrapnel. His finger traces the jagged line that runs from his left eye down to his jawline. His face, still handsome beyond comprehension, bears this brutal memento.

I fight the impulse to probe deeper into the narrative of that scar with my words, choosing instead to offer him my undivided attention.

His eyes cloud over as he continues, “The children were twins. I held the girl safe, but her brother… we couldn’t save him.”

“That’s an unbearable weight to carry.” I offer my empathy. I can’t begin to fathom the depths of his ordeal.

But a small smile breaks through. “The little girl, she just smiled up at me, clung to me as if I was her protector.”

A pang tightens around my heart. “In her eyes, you were exactly that—her protector.”

“It’s odd. I was a stranger to her, not the father she knew, but it didn’t matter in that moment.” His reflection mollifies, perhaps touched by the innocence of her belief.

“You saved her life. Don’t forget that.”

He hums, agreeing, although his mind is still clearly on the little girl. “You know, Sav. Among the black smoke andstifling heat, her hand moved from clutching the neckline of my ballistic vest to touching my chin. That was as high as she could reach, or perhaps all that remained unscathed on my face at that moment. Then, she called me ‘Papa.’ Yeah, she really did call me that.”

As he concludes the haunting story, my arms become his refuge. For a few long moments, we remain still. I can sense his thoughts lingering on the little girl and the brother she lost. As for me, I’m content to be a cushion to soften his fall, no matter how deep he might descend into his reflections.

“Tonight, the sensations were all there.” His voice breaks. “The smell, the noise, the blistering heat—it was as if that doomed compound rebuilt itself around me. I had to get away, to be alone. I couldn’t stay at the hospital, waiting.”

“I understand, Hux.” I caress his arm, trying to soothe the painful collision of past and present that torments him.

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