Page 25 of Her Remarkable Protector

“Surgery? Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” His voice rises, teetering on panic.

“I can’t say, Mr. Deveraux. I’m sorry. A nurse will take you to the waiting room, and we’ll update you as soon as we can.”

“She’s my wife! And it’s my son we’re talking about!” He starts grimacing, hopeless.

“I understand, Mr. Deveraux,” the receptionist soothes. “I’m sure the team is doing everything they can.”

A nurse appears and guides him toward the maternity waiting room. I trail behind, keeping a safe distance, lingering just outside. But the longer I watch him, the more I see what no one else in this hospital seems to notice—not the receptionist, not the nurse, not anyone. It’s in the way he carries himself, the way his presence sucks the air out of the room.

The minute the nurse leaves, his demeanor shifts—like a mask slipping off. Concerned husband and father-to-be? Gone. What’s left is pure Stoneborn.

He pulls out his phone and speaks into it, his voice low but cutting. “Stone, I found her. Bozeman Hospital. No, no sign of Oakley. But I’ll look around.” He pauses, glancing around as if expecting the boy to leap out of the walls. Then, quieter but no less sinister: “You’ll get your son back.” A longer pause. “Yeah, of course, your sons.” He draws out the ‘s,’ making it clear—Stone is reminding him that Oakley and this newborn are both assets to claim.

When Mira threatened to pull me off the case, she dropped a hint about checking hospitals—likely because of Honor’s pregnancy. Maybe Damon’s taken her lead, sending one of his idle Circle men to play the part of a father, fishing for information hospital by hospital until he finds her. How many times has this man pulled off this charade?

When he hangs up, he moves. But I’ve been tailing men like him for years—predictable to a fault. He starts scanning the usual places Oakley might be: the cafeteria, the vending machines, restrooms, anywhere a kid might wander off to.

When his search turns up nothing, he shifts gears, slipping on his ‘desperate dad’ mask once again. He approaches a nurse, his voice urgent but controlled.

“He was here a minute ago. Have you seen him?”

The nurse shakes her head, her tone polite but edged with irritation. “No. But it’s not uncommon for children to wander off to other parts of the hospital. This is why we encourage parents to keep an eye on them. I’ll call security.”

He glances at his phone, his expression lighting up as if he’s just received a miracle. “Ah, it’s him. Looks like he’s in the general ward—just texted me.”

The nurse doesn’t push further, though she looks slightly annoyed. “All right. If you need help, let us know.”

I have to hand it to him—it’s a solid lie, delivered with just enough conviction to pass. But I’ve been in this game too long to fall for it. I keep my distance, shadowing him as he moves through the hall. His pattern doesn’t change. He’s circling, searching.

And then, just as I expect, he veers toward the restroom.Perfect.

I slip in behind him, the door clicking shut just as I enter. He’s already observing the only two people inside, sizing them up. But he doesn’t get the chance to notice me.

Once everyone else is out, I close the distance. In one motion my hand snakes around his neck, locking him in a textbook sleeper hold, the kind I learned back in my Judo days. My arm tightens, pressing against the carotid arteries on either side of his neck, cutting off blood flow to the brain.

“Don’t fight it,” I mutter, keeping my grip firm but controlled. “Just take a nap.”

He thrashes, his hands clawing at my forearm, but I know the signs. The struggle is instinctive but futile. My stance is solid, my weight perfectly balanced—one leg forward, the other braced. It’s the kind of technique you don’t just learn; you master it through years of practice. His knees buckle in less than ten seconds, and I guide him to the floor like dead weight, ensuring he doesn’t make a sound.

Once he’s out cold, I take a moment to breathe, keeping an ear out for anyone entering the restroom. The last thing I need is a Good Samaritan walking in to use the facilities and finding me hovering over an unconscious man.

I haul the man into the nearest cubicle, propping him up like he’s passed out drunk.

I slip out of the restroom, scanning the hallway, searching for something to dump the guy back where he came from. This part of the building is busier than the maternity ward—nurses and doctors moving with purpose, too preoccupied with their tasks to give me a second glance.

Milking my luck while it lasts, I duck into an empty room, finding a neatly made bed with a blanket folded at the foot. Without hesitation, I grab it. Near the nurse’s station, I spot a line of wheelchairs, some unfolded and ready to use, others stacked neatly. I take a folded one, tucking it under my arm like it’s just another piece of hospital paperwork.

Back in the restroom, I wrestle the unconscious man into the chair. His head slumps forward as I drape the blanket over him, adjusting it around his shoulders. From a distance, he could easily pass for a patient being wheeled out by a concerned family member.

I keep my pace steady, calm. Hospitals thrive on routine, and I make myself part of the scenery. A nurse glances at me, but her focus shifts quickly as another patient calls out for help. Timing is everything, and I keep moving.

Once outside, I hail a cab, wheeling the chair to the curb.

The driver eyes me warily as I hoist the man into the backseat. “Uh, is he okay?”

I slap a stack of cash—five hundred dollars—into his hand. “He’s fine. Just had some minor surgery. Needs a quiet ride home. He’ll live.”

The driver hesitates but doesn’t argue. Soon enough, the cab pulls away, my unwanted passenger en route to Big Sky. Return to sender.

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