Page 1 of Her Redeemed Protector

PROLOGUE – HUXLEY LUCA COMETTI

Western Montana – three years ago

I’m not good at goodbyes, so I slip away while my brother and mother are still asleep. Even by the standards of ranch life, my departure is early.

The Starfire Ranch, my childhood home, has been my refuge since I decided to end my Navy career. But it’s time to face the world once again.

Parting from my SEAL brothers left a void in me. We were more than a team. We were a family bound by loyalty and the shared blood of our missions. Operation Jaguar Strike in Colombia was the last of those missions. The memory is seared into my mind like the scar on my face. The firefight, the chaos, and the moment that changed everything.

I touch my scar, feeling the jagged line beneath my fingertips. But the deeper wound, the one inside, is the real reason I had to step away. The nightmares, the guilt—they were becoming too much. I had to distance myself, or I’d be a danger instead of a dependable team member.

My mother was eager to get me back to herding cattle and mending fences like in the old days. She’d often drop hintsabout settling down. Running a farm isn’t for the fainthearted—you need all the help you can get to keep things afloat. Many around us had fallen victim to takeovers and buyouts after prolonged droughts. But Starfire is in good shape, and I needed a change of scenery.

Today is my first day at my new job. After Colombia, I considered working with children—giving back, mentoring. Yet, the right opportunity eluded me. Private security emerged as the most viable option among the sparse offers available.

The highway stretches ahead, as monotonous as an endless droning sermon. My mind starts to wander, hypnotized by the ceaseless expanse of asphalt and the blur of indistinguishable landscapes in the predawn light.

Out of nowhere, something darts in front of me, racing across the highway. Instinct kicks in, and I slam on the brakes.

My headlights barely light up the object.

No way!

It’s not an object. It’s a boy, and something is immediately off. He’s gagged, his hands bound behind his back, and his clothes are hanging off his small frame in torn shreds.

I yank the truck onto the shoulder and bring it to a stop. Leaping out, I grab the flashlight, my trusty companion in this makeshift tool shed on wheels—a space I’ve procrastinated tidying up.

Adrenaline spikes as I sprint after the boy. His frantic steps are uneven, his breath shallow. He glances back at me, eyes wide with terror, and tries to push himself to run faster.

But he’s already exhausted. He stumbles on the other side of the road, collapsing into the dust. It’s clear he’s been running for a long time. As I approach, his cries grow louder, a heart-wrenching sound muffled by the gag. He scrambles backward, kicking up dirt, his bound hands useless on his back. His eyes plead with me, begging for mercy.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice as calm and gentle as I can. I slow my approach, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.

He continues to mumble behind the gag, his words unintelligible but drenched in desperation. Setting the torchlight down, I angle it toward him and kneel, working to untie the gag.

Jesus.He’s no older than ten or eleven.

As the gag falls away, he takes a shuddering breath, still eyeing me warily. The torchlight now gleams on his dry, cracked lips, highlighting tear-streaked paths through the grime on his cheeks. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he cries. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

I free his hands, wincing at the sight of the bruises marring his thin arms. The marks are dark and angry, evidence of the violence he’s endured. No wonder he’s terrified and submissive.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise,” I assure him, my voice steady despite the outrage simmering beneath the surface.Who the hell did this to him?

Shrugging off my jacket, I wrap it around his trembling frame. “I’ll help you.”

He flinches slightly at the contact but then relaxes, leaning into the warmth. I stroke his back, my hand moving in slow, soothing circles, hoping to ease his fear.

“Please, don’t let those men take me again,” he begs as I fish out my phone to call 911.

“Where are they?”

“A house just behind the hill.” He nods in the direction he came from.

Before I can make the call, a car pulls over abruptly. By now, dawn has broken enough to see without flashlights. Two men emerge with astonishing speed, moving like a well-oiledmachine. Both are dressed in tactical gear, their movements sharp and calculated, exuding a level of confidence that sets alarm bells ringing in my head.

I draw my Glock. Never did I imagine that my first day would start with me brandishing a gun before even reaching the office.

The two men are armed, yet they avoid escalating to a standoff. Despite being on high alert, their weapons stay holstered. I recognize the signs instantly—they’re professionals. Their stances are firm, their eyes unflinching, and their hands rest lightly on their gun handles, not out of nervousness but trained readiness. If they had intended to kill me, they would have made their move by now.

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