Page 88 of Her Remarkable Protector

33

HONOR

“You’re going again?” Oakley asks, arms crossed and eyebrows raised like he’s taken on the role of household sheriff.

“The boy’s got a point,” Aunt Beth chimes in from the kitchen, her hands elbow-deep in biscuit dough. “My pantry’s filled to the brink. What do you need?”

“I’ll be back soon.” I flash a smile, ruffling Oak’s hair before grabbing my keys. “Promise.”

The plan is simple: grab some food, fill up the tank, and surprise Oakley with a trip to the llama farm. I haven’t told the Connors yet—I want it to be as much of a surprise for them as it will be for Oak. Especially Ethan. Oak’s starting school soon, and a break with inquisitive llamas feels like just the ticket.

The grocery store is packed with the sort of mundane chatter that fills small-town spaces. Carts squeak against tiled floors, kids squabble in the cereal aisle, and a country song about heartbreak plays over the speakers. I weave through the aisles, loading up on trail mix, granola bars, bottled water, and a pack of sour gummies for Oakley. My cart becomes a battlefield of essentials and impulse buys.

By the time I reach the checkout line, I’ve added Ethan’s favorite honey and a bouquet of sunflowers—bright enough to bring a little cheer to his mom’s kitchen.

Zoe, the ever-chatty teenage cashier, lights up as I unload my items. “Honor! You’re stocking up like the apocalypse is coming.”

“Just prepping for a road trip,” I reply with a wink. She chats about sunflowers as she bags my groceries, but her words blur as a prickle crawls up my spine.

Someone is watching me.

I glance over my shoulder, keeping it casual. The aisle behind me is empty except for a man stacking soda cans into his cart. No one else. I shake it off, pay Zoe, and gather my bags.

The fluorescent glow of the supermarket fades as I step into the sun. My boots crunch on the gravel as I make my way toward the car, juggling the weight of my bags. But halfway there, I hear it.

Footsteps.

They echo mine. Close enough to make me tighten my grip on the bags, my heart picking up speed. I glance back, expecting to see another shopper heading for their car.

But there’s no one.

The lot lies empty except for the scattered shapes of parked cars. The other shoppers must still be inside, leaving the space eerily quiet. Maybe it’s just the sound of my own steps bouncing off the pavement. Echoes can play tricks.

Keep it together, Honor.

I square my shoulders and quicken my pace, eyes fixed on my car in the distance. The footsteps don’t come again, or maybe they were never there.

Sliding the groceries onto the backseat, I let out a quiet laugh at myself. Paranoia isn’t a good look on me. My thoughts shift to Oakley, already picturing him bouncing up and down with excitement when he hears the surprise. But first, there’s one more stop—the gas station.

34

CHASE

Lancing pain radiates through my wrists. My eyes crack open, and I take in slivers of shadow and uneven light.Goddamn.Didn’t get back up in time.

A shock of ice-cold water slams into me. I jerk, coughing, as the sting spreads across my face and chest. For a moment, I keep my eyes shut, the darkness easier than what waits. But the second time they open—fully—the weight of it all hits me.

Chains dig into my raw skin as I struggle against them, the metallic clink echoing off the vaulted ceiling. My gaze flickers upward. The space is enormous for something underground—an architectural oddity. Rounded arches stretch high above, almost elegant in their shape, but the cracked plaster and exposed brick make them feel like a mockery.

From the shadows, Damon Stone steps forward, a smirk carved into his face. His voice is as smooth as oil and just as foul. “Welcome to The Chapel!” He spreads his arms as if he’s a damn preacher.

A chandelier of mismatched bulbs flickers overhead. Lights are minimal, enough to highlight the graffiti-scrawled walls and the rotting wood. ‘The Chapel’—yeah, it’s fitting, in a twisted way.

“Look at you,” Damon sneers, pacing slowly. His stance is loose, the bat in his hand scrapes against the ground, releasing a grating sound. He circles me, dragging it out. “Chained up like the biblical Samson. Only here, it’s not Delilah who brought you down, but your love for her. We can end this peacefully, you know. Just tell me where she is.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, even as the fire in my body rages against the pain. “Kiss my shit, Damon.”

His smirk deepens, and in a flash, he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “Ah, but this Samson still has his hair,” he taunts. “Quite the weapon when it comes to the ladies, hmm?”

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