Page 80 of Her Redeemed Protector

I pad downstairs, my feet ghosting over the cool wooden floorboards. He’s in the dining room, bathed in the muted glow from the terrace light spilling through the window. The faint scent of the pie he baked for dinner lingers in the air, a jarring contrast to the tension emanating from his solitary figure.

He sits there, utterly absorbed, clutching a photograph so close to his face that his exhales must be fogging the paper. He dips his head, his nose almost touching it, as if he could breathe life back into the person captured within its frame. It’s Valentina’s photograph. I recognize the familiar corner peeking out from his fingers.

He doesn’t notice my approach or chooses not to acknowledge it until a floorboard creaks under my weight. Startled, he flinches, concealing the photo with a sting of secrecy.

“Why are you crying?” I can’t hold back the question, even though the possible answer knots my stomach.

He dabs at his eyes, standing up to face me with a forced attempt at composure. “It’s nothing, Sav. Just one of those nights when the past won’t let me be.” His smile is strained, unconvincing. “Let’s go back to bed, okay?”

Sleep seems impossible now, but I follow him, hoping proximity might coax him into openness.

Back in bed, he wraps his arms around me tightly, pulling me into an embrace that’s supposed to be reassuring. But the warmth I usually feel is replaced by the cold of doubt.

“You said sorry to me,” I insist, driven by a need to understand.

“When?” There’s genuine confusion painting his features.

“Just now, before you woke up. You were looking at her, weren’t you?”

“Sav… please.” His plea is soft, almost broken.

I press on, determined to peel back the layers of secrecy that shrouded the evening. This is the night when all truths must surface. I owe it to myself and to him. “What really happened at that cottage, Hux? The foreman’s quarters?”

He looks away, his jaw tight. “I asked you to forget about it.”

“But I did forget,” I reply, my tone insistent, “until tonight.” The memories flood back with a vengeance—the scampering of rats that disrupted the stillness, the heated exchange with Micah that I had unwittingly witnessed. “I saw you, Huxley. And you tried to hide her photo.”

He exhales a sigh that seems to carry the burden of secrets kept too long. “Sav, that was the last thing of hers I still had.”

Yes, it’s a small, physical object, but what he’s holding inside is so much bigger.

I sit up, my arms folding across my chest. “We started on the right foot, Hux. You were upfront about Valentina, but you haven’t told me everything. There was this ‘angry wish’ thatwe kept talking about. I thought you wanted to move on because you wanted to be with me.”

“And nothing has changed. I want to be with you!”

“But what I saw tonight…” My hand gestures dismissively toward the door, hinting at the scene below. “That wasn’t just a man remembering a lost love. You were yearning for her.”

“Can’t I yearn for her?” His voice spikes, a flash of defiance in his eyes. “I thought you understood that, Sav. She’s a part of me. I’ve never hidden that.”

Anger flares within me, sharp and bitter. He has never hidden the fact, but how things have panned out, I can’t help but see a smokescreen. Perhaps he had deceived both himself and me, masquerading his unresolved feelings as mere residual anger.

When he asked me for help at the site where my mother died, I had to make a split-second decision. And I did because I deeply cared for him. I was afraid of my own jealousy, aware that he still harbored deep feelings for Valentina. He clearly said, ‘I love her’ in present tense. But now, that jealousy is eclipsed by a deeper wound. A gnawing sense of being used, of being merely a stopgap in his struggle.

“I’m here, Hux, and I feel like I’m just a placeholder, a pile of dirt filling a void you’re not ready to close.” I can’t keep the hurt from my voice. “Just now… were you sorry you made love to me?”

“No, Sav, never,” he answers quickly, too quickly.

“Then were you apologizing to her? For moving on? For being with me?” My questions spill out, fueled by insecurity and a desperate need for clarity.

“No, I—I don’t know why I said that.” His explanation sounds hollow, even to him.

I press on, the floodgates open. “I saw the photo, Hux. Itook it from your wallet. She looks like me, doesn’t she? But I’m not her. You promised me.”

He meets my gaze, his eyes tormented. “No, you’re not her. I’ve never imagined for one second that you’re her.”

“And yet, I feel like you wish I was.” My voice cracks under the strain of my emotions. Have I been blind, not asking the right questions before surrendering my heart to him so completely? Was the sense of safety when he first held me after my truck hit that tree, just a mirage I’d conjured up?

His face darkens, a storm brewing in his expression. “Savannah, she was my first love.”

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