Page 62 of Her Redeemed Protector

I recount the morning’s revelations at Red Mark, the involvement of the Blackwater Brutes, and the developments with William Redford.

While listening intently, Savannah’s expression grows troubled. “It doesn’t sit right, Hux,” she says with skepticism as she draws parallels with the murky dealings that implicated his ex. “I know Fab is a slimeball, but he insisted someone else forged his signature during the Mitchell Ranch mess. There’s a puzzle piece missing, something that slipped between the cracks with the West Sun Corporation, the banks, and his own company. I didn’t buy it at first. Not for a second.”

Her resolve comes to the forefront, but then her demeanor shifts, adopting a subtler tone. “As time went on, Fabian kept claiming he was clean. And now, with what’s happened, his story hasn’t changed. Redford, too, it seems like he might be another pawn in the game.”

“I’ll bring this up with Zander,” I assure her. “But let’s focus on the silver lining for now—Kayla’s out of harm’s way,the Blackwater Brutes’ deputy is in custody, and the law is closing in on the rest of the culprits.”

She winces suddenly, her face trying to deny pain, and I realize the conversation has burdened her. With tender motions, I rub her chest in a bid to ease both the physical and emotional ache. “Sav, you mustn’t strain yourself over this.”

Her smile is wry. “Maybe a date could be the cure.”

I stand, ready to give her space to heal. “Rest now. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You’re not staying?” There’s a hint of disappointment in her voice.

I lean close, my lips brushing her hand. “It wouldn’t be a proper date if I don’t come knocking while you wait in sweet anticipation, would it?”

With a flirtatious grasp, she cups my chin. “Hugs,” she says, her voice clear—Hugs, not Hux—then she adds, “Rancher to rancher, let’s not overthink it.”

“Yes, my lady,” I reply, ready to rejoin her in bed. But her hand raises, a virtual barrier between us. “What? Changing your mind so soon?”

“You can stay, but only if you agree to one condition,” she decides.

“Yeah? And what might that be?”

“Take off your shirt,” she commands, scooting back to make room, ready for a spectacle.

I’ll gladly be her entertainment. I loosen my tie, flinging it away like a performer shedding layers. I undo each button on my shirt, letting her absorb its slow unraveling. Her eyes lock onto my bare chest as she bites down on her lip. Like that, it’s hard to believe that this girl is under the weather. Or perhaps I have just dispelled her malaise.

“Pants off,” she demands after I remove my shirt completely.

“Just one condition, then?” I retort, slowing down my movements for dramatic effect as I start to unbuckle my belt.

“Don’t poke the bear, Hux.” It’s a warning that comes with a sultry stare. Her hips lift invitingly under the covers, her legs parting, and her hand ventures down.

Fuck…should I dare to ask her to pleasure herself? Should I ask her to slide her fingers inside her wetness and tease her clit while I watch?

But courage eludes me, and I slip out of my pants, leaving me standing there in nothing but my clingy underwear. Without waiting for another challenge, I leap next to her on the bed, tickling her silly. Her laughter fills the room, vibrant and freeing. The night may have changed our plans, but they’ve opened the door to moments even more precious.

23

SAVANNAH

It’s already mid-morning when I wake up.My God!

This marks the second time Hux has turned my night into a slumber fest. Cozy, warm, and distant from my usual reality, as if I were a newborn puppy with no worries in the world, cradled in a fluffy bed. The novelty of having a man in my space has unexpectedly become a boon to my well-being, soothing both body and mind. Not to mention his provocative presence that bridges my dreams and reality.

Our date isn’t scheduled until the evening, but the day’s first act has already begun. Hux serves me breakfast in bed, giving me permission to linger under the sheets just a little longer. As he hustles between the kitchen and my bedroom, his form is clad only in boxers, and I can’t help but feast on him. His physique, with muscles defined yet not overly bulked, makes me picture a well-sculpted athlete. Every contour of his body speaks of vitality and disciplined training.

It’s a rare morning. Dad had departed for work early, leaving us cocooned in a stillness that felt almost otherworldly. A musing crosses my mind—Dad has never witnessed any of my boyfriends so undressed, so statuesque,as Hux parades through our home. I can only speculate what his thoughts might have been on such an unusual scene.

In my hands, I cradle a steaming mug ofAgua de Panela con Jengibre. Even though Hux has confessed that his Spanish isn’t the best, he says it with a charm that gets it just right. The essence of sugar cane and ginger permeates my senses with each sip. I’ve got to hand it to Hux for letting me in on this Colombian elixir.

He smiles at me against the backdrop of a face holding something back. “I’ll see you after work,” he says, threading his arms through his shirt sleeves.

I glance at the shrapnel scars speckling the skin around his collarbones. I’ve kissed them, I’ve felt them, I’ve seen them in daylight. There’s something about men and scars. They exude strength, grit, and sacrifice. He gave away his body, he sustained suffering for others, for a little girl who was supposed to be collateral damage.

As he shakes the shirt onto his shoulders and starts buttoning it, I sense he’s more self-conscious about these than the scar on his face.

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