Page 55 of Her Dirty Defender

I bite down on my retort and tighten my grip on the wrench.

“You should’ve picked me, George. It’s what your dad wanted. He worries about you.” The floorboards creak as he steps closer. “He’s not wrong to. The world is full of dangerous people.” Then, lower: “I worry about you, too, George. More than you know.”

This isn't worry; this is possession dressed as protection, and my body knows the difference. My skin crawls everywhere his gaze touches. I know that look. I’ve seen it before in bars and every place a woman is expected to smile and stay polite. But there’s something colder in Marcus. Something that says he doesn’t believe he needs my permission.

Something that sayshe’s done this before.

Did Beckett know? Is that why he took off? Why he was so worried about my safety?

My gaze flicks to the yard through the partially opened doors—no patrol car. No radio crackling with dispatcher calls.

He's here unofficially.

The shudder that runs through me isn’t from fear—it’s pure rage. I plant my feet and square my shoulders. “It’s time for you to leave, Marcus. Beckett is on his way here. And so is my father. And I’m guessing whatever Beckett wants to talk to Dad and me about has something to do with you. Something you don’t want exposed.”

He doesn’t react the way I expect. Doesn’t look concerned. He tips his head to the side, examining me with cold eyes. “I heard your daddy talking to Beckett last night at the office. Heard enough to know he's sniffing where he shouldn't be. A man like that won't stop until he’s ripped the lid off everything.”

I stay still, wrench poised, calculating distances. The office to my right. My phone on the bench to my left.

“What did you do?” I whisper.

He sighs. “Long story, Georgina. I’ll tell you on the way.”

Ice trickles down my spine. “On the way where?”

“Out of town. You’re right. It’s time for me to leave. And you’re coming with me. You’re my insurance out of this state. The sheriff’s little girl. Beckett’s soft spot.” He smirks. “You never know. I might even have time to make youmysoft spot before I’m done with you.”

Nausea churns in my stomach. Who the hell is this man? The charming deputy who’s successfully fooled the whole town for years with his friendly disposition and willingness to help?

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say quietly. “Take another step, and I’ll show you how inventive I can be with a wrench. If you think you can scare me into falling in line, you’ve picked the wrong fucking woman.”

His hand is a blur as it shoots out, wrapping around my wrist. His grip tightens like a vise, his thumb pressing into the soft hollow where my pulse hammers while his fingers dig into the underside where skin barely covers bone. A sharp, electric pain shoots up my arm as he pinches the nerve. My fingers go numb and useless, and the wrench clatters to the floor.

“That's not very friendly, George.” His voice drops an octave, a growl lurking beneath.

My stomach churns, bile rising. Every cell in my body rejects his touch.

“Let. Go.” Each word is its own sentence, its own warning as I palm the other wrench in my back pocket with my free hand.

His fingers dig deeper, hard enough to leave marks. “Make me.”

So I do.

Because Dad didn't raise a victim; he raised a fighter.

I swing my arm, and the wrench smashes into his temple with a satisfyingthunkthat vibrates through my entire body. Metal connects with flesh and bone. Marcus’s breath whooshes out, his eyes widening in shock that transforms into feral rage as blood bubbles and trickles down his face. This isn't a man used to resistance.

I twist away, using his momentum to slam him into the workbench. Tools clatter to the floor, along with my phone.

My heart slams against my ribs, but muscle memory takes over. Dad's voice echoes in my head:Fight dirty, Georgina. This is survival.Go for vulnerable spots. Eyes. Throat. Groin. Fight to win.

Marcus recovers faster than I expect, lunging forward with a snarl that doesn't sound human. His hand goes to his hip. Metal glints in the workshop's harsh light—a gun.

The workshop door bangs open with a crack like thunder.

Beckett fills the doorway, a shadow come to life. His body is coiled tension, his stillness more threatening than movement. His burning gaze is fixed on Marcus. This isn't the man who kisses me like I'm precious. This is Shadow—the former Navy SEAL who hunts in darkness.

Every cell in my body reaches toward him like he's gravity. Pride and something deeper, something I’m almost ready to name, surge through my chest. I handled myself. Proved I'm not helpless. But for the first time, I understand what it feels like to have backup I trust with my life.

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