Page 87 of Her Redeemed Protector

His words are familiar, usually a prelude to something ending. But this time, I find myself hoping for a different outcome. Despite myself, I’ve missed him, and yes, we do need to talk.

I nod, leading Misty back to the back of the barn and continuing to brush her down.

Hux’s voice is low, slightly shaky. “There’s only one woman.”

My strokes on Misty’s mane slow, and I pause, his words snagging my attention. The sentence is incomplete, yet provoking. My gaze lingers on the barn floor, tracing patterns in the scattered hay, not ready to hear my name, or Valentina’s, following that statement.

“There’s only one woman who sees me as I am,” he continues, stepping just a bit closer, “honors me as I was, and supports who I want to become.”

I finally look up, meeting his clear, open gaze. I haven’t encountered such raw honesty before, his eyes unguarded, revealing everything without a hint of concealment.

“The thing with Valentina hurt me. It nearly broke me,” he confesses with a fragility that takes me aback.

I value his forthrightness, especially how he doesn’t hesitate to mention her by name instead of letting it simmer unsaid between us.

“And I’m ready to leave that pain behind. I don’t love Valentina. I loveyou.”

Me.

He loves me.

His statement cuts off any notion of love for Valentina,instilling a new sense of trust in me. Yet, I find myself momentarily lost for words. This conversation is becoming so deep, so suddenly.

And he seems to understand. “Ask me anything, Sav. Whatever you need to know,” he encourages, respecting the distance I’ve kept between us.

But then, a nagging thought interrupts. The image of a car I’ve seen lurking too often to be a coincidence. So far, I haven’t managed to catch it to see who’s driving. “Were you following me?” I ask, unable to mask the suspicion in my voice.

Huxley frowns, genuinely surprised by the accusation. “No. No. Your dad told me you were here.”

I nod, feeling a mix of relief and foolishness. He was the prime suspect, but deep down, a part of me knew Huxley wasn’t the type to skulk around—unless he’d lost all sense of reason.

“I guess my father has a soft spot for you too,” I say, a touch of irony coloring my tone, somewhat amused that Hux survived a chat with my dad, who was livid when he heard about our breakup. Or perhaps it was just disappointment. Dad’s disappointment tends to look a lot like rage.

Do I trust him as much as my father seems to?

Can heartfelt words truly mend the hurt of that night or erase the image of that photograph from my mind?

I feel the sting of old wounds. Discovering her photo in his wallet and him crying over it, kissing it, resurfaces painfully. “Finding you with her photo like that felt like you were cheating on me.”

He nods. “I should have been honest with you then. I meant to be, but… I just froze. I didn’t know how to explain. You have to know, I would never cheat on you. Neither with someone else nor with a memory.”

The heat of the events starts ebbing from my throat. I can’thold on to the anger, not for long. I guide him outside to a bench near the barn. Misty, aware that her treats are in my possession, trails behind. I secure her to a nearby pole, and she happily munches on the carrots and wheat.

“Why did you keep her photo? Why the rage at the old foreman’s quarters? Why kiss it that night after we made love?” I ask, needing to lay all my cards on the table.

He shuffles closer on the bench, his familiar scent traveling to me. It’s relaxing and disarming, but I resist the urge to lean into him. This conversation needs space, clarity. Not the muddled assuagement of physical closeness. I must stick to my own ‘protocol.’

Huxley inhales deeply, his look grave. “You’re right to ask. Everything unraveled at that cottage. That place… it was where my dream was supposed to come true. I had plans, big plans to bring her here to settle down, to make that place our home.” His voice drops, heavy with what might have been.

I nod, listening, the puzzle pieces from that night slowly falling into place. His outburst, his distress, suddenly framed in a different light.

He adds, “That photo has been in my wallet since Valentina and I met, tucked away in a hidden pocket. I honestly forgot about it over the years, even though she was still on my mind. But being back at that cottage, seeing it so rundown, it triggered something in me. For the first time in years, I pulled out that photo.”

That explanation fits. The photo’s worn edges had the look of something long pressed into a corner and forgotten.

“I’m not carrying it with me anymore. Do you believe me, Sav?”

“Yeah, I do,” I reply, bracing myself to revisit the painful chain of events that had driven a wedge between us. “What about that night at your house?”

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