Page 17 of Her Redeemed Protector

Once again, my hunch is right, but I hate what I see. Savannah, behind the wheel, shifts in her seat with visible effort. I’m by her side in an instant, yanking the door open with a bit of force. The jam from the dent doesn’t slow me down. I push the deflated airbag aside to reveal her. She’s conscious, her eyes darting around, and she doesn’t seem to be in pain.

“Are you okay?”

Unlike the composure she displayed at the ranch, her hands are now a flutter of nerves as I help her out of the truck. The moment her feet touch the ground, she wobbles, and I instinctively wrap my arms around her, forming a protective cradle. “I’ve got you,” I murmur.

It pains me to see her struggle, but this is precisely what it means to be a man—ensuring she never feels the harsh pull of gravity alone. Her fragility doesn’t make her weak. It actually endears her to me even more, deepening my desire to be with her.

I scan the car’s interior for other possible victims. Thankfully, she’s alone.

Once she’s steady, I retrieve her purse from the passenger seat, thinking practically. We might need her identification, her phone.

“Savannah, are you okay?” My words are a cautious prod. Yet, as she grasps me, her grip intensifies with instinctual force. She shivers, her body trembling against mine, the reaction not matching the relatively minor impact on the truck’s hood. I silently commend her for the reflex that saved herfrom the worst. Yet her terror feels profound. It’s as though she’s grappling with a fear far greater than the incident.

My instinct isn’t to question it but to grant her the safety she craves.

“Hey, you’ll be okay.” I try to infuse certainty into each word. Her grip on me is desperate, seeking something beyond the physical support.

“Stay with me… please, stay with me,” she pleads, her breath hot against my ear. And in that plea, I hear a call for help that transcends the accident.

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now, okay?” I assure her, even as something inside me shifts. The feel of her in my arms stirs a sense of connection. She’s so delicate, so vulnerable, like a reflection of a part of myself I thought I’d numbed through the years of rescues and close calls. The protector in me merges with a more primal urge to shield her from harm. Holding her, I’m guided by a purpose that feels as old as time and just as urgent.

Her body wriggles against mine as she moans, “Get her out. We must get her out…”

I steady her, my hands firm yet gentle. “There’s no one else in the car.”

Her gaze remains on the truck as she takes a ragged inhale, realization dawning in slow motion. “God. I’m sorry.” Her voice is a mere whisper, a sign of an adrenaline crash that’s coming on fast.

Then, a spark of recognition lights up her eyes. “Hux?”

“Hey. Yeah. It’s me.”

Then she pants, trying to regain composure, even showing a hint of frustration for letting herself crumble. Standing upright, she releases herself from my grip. “I apologize. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

I want to tell her that it’s okay, that shock does strangerthings to a person, but the words stick in my throat. “You’re just shaken. You’ve been in an accident. Are you hurt?”

“No,” she sighs, her head drooping. Then, her attention lands on the seats of her truck. “I was alone,” she repeats as if to assure herself.

“Yes, you were alone.” I hold on to her.

As she moves, I notice a rip in the back of her pants. She must have torn it while exiting her truck. Without hesitation, I remove my jacket and place it over her shoulders. Hanging off her petite form, it falls well past the curve of her backside.

Confused, she protests, “I’m already warm. I don’t need it.”

“I know. Just keep it on, all right? Keep it on.”

Unable to refuse, she grasps the lapels, holding onto my jacket.

“I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

“No. I’m fine,” she says, looking at her watch. “I have to be somewhere.”

“I’m sure it can wait,” I say.

It’s clear she’s about to insist once again that the hospital is the last place she should be. However, as she sways, she lets me guide her.

“Are you okay to walk back up?” I ask, gauging her strength against the slope in front of us.

“Yeah.” Her voice is faint.

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