Page 13 of Her Remarkable Protector

4

CHASE

I lean against my desk, Mira Stone’s words echoing in my head. Damon Stone’s kid kidnapped? By a woman named Honor Deveraux—Damon’s mistress, no less. The story reeks of the Stoneborn Circle’s theatrics, but I’m not about to take Mira’s word for it. Trusting her outright? Not happening. If Oakley is truly missing, I’ll find out myself.

I try shoving Honor’s photo to the back of the file, but my gaze lingers on her face longer than I’d like. She’s stunning—those arresting green eyes, that hint of defiance in her expression. It’s not hard to see why Damon would keep her close. But admiration doesn’t get me anywhere, and I push the photo aside just as Ethan walks in.

He’s carrying a coffee cup and looks almost sharper than his father. The kid is polished, every inch of him a product of discipline and survival. Formerly Ethan Fulton, he carries the scars of his old gang life like a map of where he’s been. He’s Ivy Connor’s son from another partner, and though he hesitated to change his name at first, fate had other plans. Mark adopted him, pulling him out of Montana’s darkest corners. Now he’s here, part of something bigger.

Ethan drops into the chair across from me, mischief flickering across his face.

“She’s pretty,” he says, his voice light. “Stunning, in fact.”

I roll my eyes. “We’ve got a mess on our hands.” I slide Mira’s file onto the desk, forcing myself to focus. Sure, Honor Deveraux is stunning. But I’m not about to lose my head over a woman I’ve only seen in a photo. The giddy-feely nonsense? It’ll pass. It always does. Attachment and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.

He persists, “So, I take it we’re keeping Captain Freeman out of this?”

Captain Freeman from Bozeman PD.

Unlike the Red Mark team in Helena, who’ve established a solid working relationship with local authorities—thanks to Mark and Sam’s tact and persistence—our dealings with Bozeman PD are often tenuous. We’re the new guys, and they’re still territorial. We have to tread carefully. But we need them.

We’re not vigilantes; everything we do is by the book. And honestly, nothing beats proper collaboration when it comes to solving crimes. We focus on rescues while the police handle the criminals. Sure, we have the right to defend ourselves, use force when necessary, and do what it takes to keep our rescuees safe. Even so, everyone at Red Mark agrees—it’s a smarter play to let the authorities bag the bad guys.

“No. We keep the Bozeman PD out of it for now,” I say.

“Sure.” His expression carries a trace of challenge, as if daring me to reconsider—or maybe just calling me out for how long I lingered on Honor Deveraux’s photo.

Ignoring the heat rising to my neck, I add, “There won’t be any conflict of interest, got it? And here’s the deal—I’m coming clean. Ever heard of the Stoneborn Circle?”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Gangs, smuggling, trafficking—basically the underworld’s greatest hits. They’re like the Mosaic, but not as smart.”

The Mosaic. Ethan’s old world. One of Montana’s most prolific fentanyl rings—until his mom, Ivy Connor, then the state’s attorney general, took them down. Ethan knows the underbelly of crime better than anyone his age.

“What about the Stoneborn Circle?” he presses.

“I was one of them.”

His eyes widen. “No shit!”

“It’s a story for another day. Like you, I got out. Stayed too long, but I got out.”

Ethan looks at me, understanding flashing in his gaze. He’s six years younger than me but carries a wisdom I never had at his age.

“And now we’re caught in their web,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Damon Stone’s wife, Mira, claims her son’s been kidnapped by this woman.” I point to the photo, avoiding Ms. Deveraux’s devastating gaze. “But trusting Mira? That’s like letting a fox guard the henhouse.”

Ethan sits forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s the move?”

“We verify,” I say. “If Oakley Stone is missing, we’re in. If he’s not... Mira’s playing us, and I’ll deal with that later.”

Ethan nods, his mind already shifting into action. “Where do we start?”

“Schools, hospitals, social media—anywhere he might’ve been seen recently. Let’s split up the workload. You take online chatter, I’ll work the phones.”

For hours, we dig. I call schools, clinics, anyone who might’ve seen Oakley. Ethan combs through posts, comments, and anything that might offer a clue.

The sun sets, and we’ve got nothing.

“I’m coming up empty,” Ethan says, leaning back in his chair, frustration lining his face. “No posts, no sightings—nothing.”

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