Page 73 of Her Remarkable Protector

“It’s beautiful,” Honor says, sweeping over the view.

“It is,” I say, though my focus is entirely on her. “Come here.”

She steps away from the window, and her hip meets mine. My hand finds its place on her ass. I spread my palm beyond the sweep of her tailbone, my fingertips tantalizingly close to her entrance. She stifles a moan as I observe a twitch in the front of her jeans.

That’s a curve built to ruin a man. Warm and supple, sexy as sin. I can still recall her reaction when she first tasted me there, and I certainly haven’t forgotten how my cock responded to her.

I clear my throat. With my flawless sailing record, now’s not the time to make Santa Sophia my debut disaster.

As we glide past the turn of Coronado, I gesture toward the shore. “That’s where I trained as a SEAL.”

Honor’s eyes light up with curiosity. “Really? And your friend Buck trained there too?”

“Yes he did. He was in my team.”

“What was it like?”

“Grueling,” I admit, the memories flashing. “They push you past every limit you think you have—and then some. It’s all about breaking you down until the only thing left is grit and instinct.”

She tilts her head, her gaze lingering on me like she’s trying to picture it. “I can’t imagine you breaking. You survived a dance with me, after all.”

I chuckle. “Everyone breaks at some point. The real test is whether you can pull yourself back together.”

She glances down, her voice quieter, more deliberate. “And if I break? Would you help me?”

“Count on it.”

Her eyes lift, and I can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I love you, Honor.”

She leans into me, her silence heavy with meaning. Whatever she’s feeling, I’ll give her all the time she needs. But keeping those words inside any longer? That wasn’t an option.

I drop the anchor and set us up for fishing, the ocean calm and the sun casting its golden glow. Honor’s helping, moving through the steps like she’s done it a hundred times. She casts her line with the kind of precision that takes practice, and when she reels in a beautiful mahi mahi, I can’t help but grin.

“Look at that! You’re a natural,” I say, holding up the fish for her to admire.

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s subtle, the way her shoulders hunch just slightly, her gaze lingering on the water a bit too long. She’s quieter than usual, and while she’s never exactly loud, there’s a weight in her silence that pulls at me.

“You okay there?” I ask, trying to keep it light.

“Yeah,” she says, not looking at me.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the gory stuff—filleting, chopping, peeling. You just sit back and watch me reenactJawswith a fisherman’s knife,” I say, hoping to get at least a snort out of her.

She does laugh, but it’s a pale imitation of the real thing.

I step closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not feeling seasick, are you?” Her skin is a shade lighter than normal, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“No,” she brushes me off. “I’m fine. Come on, let’s make dinner.”

I get to work prepping the fish. “How do you want it cooked?” I ask, glancing over at her.

She pauses, dropping a pair of grilling tongs. “Any way you like.” She inhales. “I’m easy.”

Dinner’s ready not long after, but the weight between us hasn’t lifted. She picks at her food, barely eating, and the quiet feels oppressive. It’s like the ocean’s swallowed the Honor I know and left this distant shadow in her place.

“Please,” I say, leaning forward, my voice low. “Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

She shakes her head, her fork hovering mid-air. “I’m fine,” she insists, but the words are brittle.

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