Page 21 of Her Redeemed Protector

I find myself involuntarily following his lead, settling back down yet still sitting tensely. “Hux, my dad has to make his appointment. He needs a new prosthetic. He’s suffering,” I insist.

“Savannah, your heart rate was down to thirty-five. That’s serious,” he counters.

I guess that’s not my only problem. My gaze flits to my torn pants, draping shamelessly over the chair.

Noticing my gaze, Hux offers a kind smile and shifts focus away from my disarray to a practical solution. “What if I pick up your dad and take him to his appointment myself?”

I pause, touched by the offer, and simultaneously worried about what my dad might say or do. But maybe, just maybe, Huxley can handle him.

“Okay.” My head nods sluggishly. “I’ll give him a heads-up so he’s on his best behavior. By that, I mean so he doesn’t kill you.”

A grin flickers across Hux’s face. “I’ll be all right. I’m a Red Mark agent, remember?” His confidence eases a smile out of me despite the circumstances.

“And please don’t go saying you’re my boyfriend.” I hint that I know what he told the hospital staff.

“Wouldn’t that make things easier?”

“Maybe, but let’s not push our luck,” I reply, giddy from just saying the word ‘boyfriend.’

Then I slink myself forward. “Could I get my purse, please?” I tilt my head slightly toward the Kipling bag that’s draped incongruously over Hux’s arm.

“Sorry, of course.” He quickly hands it over, the fabric swaying with a familiar weight as he adds, “You know, your phone has been ringing off the hook.”

A knot forms in my stomach. As I thumb through my missed calls, I let out a sigh. All signs point to the same pest, my ex. The man whose betrayal spelled doomsday for me, Dad, and the heaven I once tended. His persistent calls are more than irritating.

“You okay?” Huxley leans closer, perhaps noticing my unease.

I lay flat on the bed, my head sinking into the pillow.

I muster a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just need to let my dad know what’s happening. Go on, you can get going. And please, try not to get on his bad side, all right?” I wave him off, eager to manage the mess of missed appointments and unwanted calls, all while trying to steady the tremor in my heart.

Feeling like a dam about to burst, I finally let it, allowing myself to ponder the question.What if that man truly was my boyfriend?

He has the looks, sure, and he could definitely play that to his advantage. But that’s just not him. He carries himself with a poise that’s both striking and humble. His smile is genuine, his eyes reflecting deep thoughtfulness. Honestly, I’d be the luckiest girl in the world if he really was my boyfriend.

9

HUXLEY

Despite my earlier resolve to leave after handing over Savannah’s purse, I stayed. Even now, I’m still hesitant to part from her. It’s irrational, this vigilance that urges me to stay by her side. I crave the sight of her brown eyes like an obsession. There’s a depth in them that knots my stomach, a steady force. The sublime curve of her lips feels hauntingly intimate. It’s as if I had known their touch, had memorized the warmth and the kisses long-forsaken.

A pang of fear strikes me, the kind that hasn’t gripped me in years. No one has ever burrowed so deeply into my life in such a brief span. Not since Valentina.

I swallow. The mention of that name still makes me bleed, but it’s as if a small rift has opened between her memory and my present reality. It seems nearly impossible, yet I cannot deny it. Savannah has initiated this profound shift within me. She came to me like redemption, seeking refuge in my embrace. Now, she’s the source of a longing I can’t ignore.

And so, I decide to risk abandoning the status quo and venture into the uncharted territory that is Savannah Mitchell.

I exit the hospital and head to Savannah’s house to pick upher father. The address she provided is a few suburbs away. It’s a distraction I need, an action to take.

As I pull into the street, it’s like stepping into a snapshot of a family feud. A man, young and filled with rage, stands on the lawn. The object of his ire is barricaded behind the cracked-open door, a sixty-something man I deduce to be Savannah’s father.

“You don’t know anything about Savannah and me!” The younger man’s voice carries across the distance. “If it weren’t for your idiotic interference, we would’ve still been together. And you would’ve still had your farm because I would’ve fought for you! You hear that, Al? I fight for my family, but you’d chosen to be my enemy.”

He remains animated while his words hang like an unanswered challenge as the door slams shut. Only to be violently thrown open again. Savannah’s father emerges, his hands gripping a rifle like a warrior of old defending his homestead. “Get off my property!”

The younger man’s shoulders sag for a moment. “Damn, Al! You haven’t changed a bit, always hiding behind that ancient stick!”

The threat crackles between them. “Get out! Run, or I’ll turn you into a scarecrow and beat the shit out of your twig-stuffed insides!” Savannah’s father’s face twists with anger, the rifle an extension of his wrath.

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