Page 44 of Her Redeemed Protector

We must’ve fallen asleep for a while. When I open my eyes, I find the morning sun kissing her face, highlighting the tilt of her chin and the curve of her lips.

“Good morning.” I groan, keeping my voice low.

She stirs beside me, nudging herself forward, and I feel the soft press of her against me. It’s a languid rub, reminiscent of a kitten nudging its owner after being awoken from a deep nap. “Morning,” she croaks.

“So, Savannah Mitchell,” I venture, watching her as she blinks the sleep from her eyes. She captivates me even in the most ordinary moments, becomes irresistible when she hintsat her desire, and now, with her sleepy face, she looks innocently delicious.

She tilts her head slightly to meet my gaze. “Yes, Hugs?”

“Can I take you out tonight?” There’s a galaxy of questions spiraling in my mind, each star a query I yearn to cast into her orbit. The timing may not align for everything, but my aim is to have her savor the evening in my company.

Her lips curl into a smile. “That’ll be lovely. Should I dress up?”

My response is instinctual. “Wear what feels right for you.”

A whimsical glint sparks in her gaze. “Let me rephrase. Will the night find you in a suit?”

Laughter rumbles through my chest, already imagining the next time she undoes my tie. And me. “Indeed. I’ll come straight after work.”

Her phone rings, slicing through the calm like a ripple across a still pond. The expression that crosses Savannah’s face is professional yet etched with the shadow of something more personal.

“Is it him again?” The words tumble out, heavier than I intended. There’s an unwelcome guest in my thoughts. Fabian Gill, a man who, with his polished charm and slick smile, poses a threat I feel in my bones. He lingers like a question mark at the end of an unfinished sentence. One I’m both hesitant and desperate to explore.

“No.” Her reply is quick, dispelling my mounting concern. “It’s a client of mine. Sorry, I must take this.” Her apology is framed with grace, yet I find myself already missing her presence as she stretches herself toward the bedside table to answer.

I trail after her, a faint smile playing on my lips as I lightly press kisses along the curve of her shoulder. She tries to keepher composure as she navigates the conversation on the phone.

“Well, I may not be a certified trainer, but I assure you, teaching the mare to be gentle around children is a task well within my wheelhouse,” she says with confidence and excitement.

I pull away the sheet that’s covering her, revealing her bare body. I lean in and passionately latch onto one of her nipples, my lips and tongue exploring rigorously. Savannah, her shock evident at the sudden intensity, struggles to preserve her deteriorating professionalism. She tightly grips her phone, forcing herself to sound normal despite the overwhelming pleasure she’s experiencing.

The phone slips from her hand as soon as she ends the call. “You’re cruel!” she complains.

I settle her on my lap and hold her securely, though no apology is offered. In the light, my attention is drawn to a mark on the side of her chest. She knows I recognize it.

“The beginning of the end of the Mitchell Ranch.” She sighs, her eyes trailing down to the bold scar that marred a spot under her left breast, a pale circle against her sun-darkened skin.

“You were shot?” I can’t keep the shock from my voice, imagining the bullet tearing through the air, the potential damage it could have wrought far deeper than just flesh. It could have given her more than a broken heart.

She nods, her gaze locked in the distance as if the hills of her old land are visible through the open window. “I tried everything I could, but we lost,” she sighs.

I can picture her then, standing defiant against her adversaries on the windswept plains, her body tense with the resolve of a seasoned rancher. In my mind’s eye, she’s a force of nature. How I wish I had been by her side, lending strengthand sharing the burden. Savannah is a woman carved from the very bedrock of Montana, yet even the strongest stones can crack.

“When did you move to Helena?” I inquire and cup her breast to fully expose the scar, brushing against the round patch.

“Last year.”

“Are they still on your trail?”

Her response is a falter, cloaked in indifference. “I don’t think so.”

“Sav, I’m serious. Are you still in danger?”

Her gaze locks onto mine as she replies, “No. They’re not a concern anymore.” She removes my hand from her breast and gives me a slight smile. “I’m sorry. I have to go,” she says.

I’m left grasping at the tendrils of our conversation, questions swirling in my head. But I pocket my persistence for another day. “I guess I need to get up, too,” I admit with a resigned exhale. “The paperwork at Red Mark won’t wade through itself.”

As her lips touch mine one last time, she detaches herself from my embrace and makes her way to the bathroom.

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