Page 81 of Her Remarkable Protector

The two of them take to the wall like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. It’s a draw, but Rhea’s determination make it clear—this woman isn’t just here for the digital side of things. She’s a fighter, through and through. That’s what makes a true Red Mark recruit.

As they drop back to the ground, still catching their breath, my phone buzzes. Freeman.

“Sorry,” I say, stepping back as my phone buzzes insistently in my hand. “Ethan, can you take Rhea back to the command center?”

“No problem,” Ethan says, still grinning from the climb.

I walk toward my office, swiping to answer. “Samson.”

“Chase, it’s Freeman,” comes the captain’s voice, straight to the point. “I’ve got bad news.”

“Don’t hold back,” I say, bracing myself as I push open the office door.

“Damon Stone,” Freeman begins, the name alone setting my pulse into a low boil. “He’s managed to weasel his way out again. Put the blame squarely on his wife.”

“What?” I stop mid-step, my grip tightening around the phone. “Mira? How?”

“Turns out I was right. Crime of passion. Stone claims his wife acted out of desperation, trying to prove her loyalty to him after having an affair. Says she was so twisted up over him, she killed her lover to make a point.”

“And people bought that bullshit?”

“The system did,” Freeman replies. “She’s been arraigned. It’s a matter of time before the man himself walks free.”

A heavy silence follows his words. Freeman clears his throat. “Listen, Chase. I know this doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t with me either. But the evidence—or what’s left of it—backs his story. For now, he’s untouchable.”

“That’s how it goes,” I mutter.

“Has Child Protection found a foster family for his kid?”

“No. But he’s safe,” I say—omitting the fact that I’m assuming.

“Be smart about this, Samson. Don’t play the hero,” Freeman warns.

“Noted,” I reply, ending the call just as an email about the completion of my house repairs lands in my inbox.

After weeks lodging in a safe house that wasn’t meant for me, haunted by the shadow of a woman who was supposed to embody honor, I can’t wait to finally sleep in my own bed.

30

HONOR

Cranbrook, Canada

I can’t believe how fast babies grow. It feels like just yesterday Laramie was a fragile bundle in my arms.

“Happy two-month birthday, baby,” I whisper, cradling her close. No cake, no balloons—just a quiet milestone between the two of us. She stares up at me with wide, curious eyes, her tiny hand brushing against my cheek as if she understands every word.

“Look at your silly big brother,” I say, shifting her so she can see through the window. Outside, Oakley is in the yard, feeding the chickens. He talks to them, his voice animated as he scatters feed around the coop.

Behind him, Aunt Beth stands on the porch, her coat pulled tight against the chill. She’s watching him, her hands on her hips. “Oakley, you’re giving them too much food!” she calls out. “We’re not opening a KFC, darling.” She laughs, her voice warm and full of life.

I smile. Aunt Beth—my mother’s stepsister, the one Mom used to call ‘your Canadian aunty, Honor,’ as if Mom herself wasn’t Canadian anymore. They were close once, but that changed when Mom moved to Kalispell. Distance, time, and life got in the way.

When I searched for her using Mom’s maiden name, Anson, dozens of Beth Ansons popped up—Elizabeths, Bethanys, and every variation in between, from Toronto tohere.Cranbrook. Close to Kalispell. It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together.

“I’m better with llamas, Aunt Beth,” Oakley defends himself, his voice carrying across the yard as he tosses another handful of feed.

Aunt Beth shakes her head, laughing. “We’ll see about that!”

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