Page 57 of Her Dirty Defender

Gravel crunches behind me. Heavy boots. I already know who it is.

Sheriff Lucas.

Marcus writhes under my grip like he’s been waiting for this moment. His voice turns slippery. “Sheriff! Thank God! This psycho attacked me! I was checking on George, and he lost it!”

Bullshit.

George opens her mouth to speak, but her voice cracks.

I don’t move. I look at the sheriff as he steps inside, scanning everything—the wreckage, George’s stance, the phone on the floor, Marcus’s bloodied face.

And me.

His weapon raises. The barrel centers on my chest.

“Step back, Lawson.”

I rise slowly, palms out, but my pulse pounds with a single, brutal thought—kill. I could still end Marcus before he pulls the trigger. I’ve done worse for less.

My gaze drops to George’s wrist, to the bruises blooming there like violent flowers.

I clench my fists so tight that my knuckles pop as tendons strain against skin. This isn't about justice; it's about possession. Marcus touched what belongs to me, and the animal inside demands retribution. But if I move now, I won't stop until Marcus is nothing but a memory.

Then George positions herself between her father's weapon and me, her back pressing into my chest. “You’re pointing your gun at the wrong man, Dad.” Her voice slices through the tension, hard and unwavering.

She trembles against me, not with fear, but with rage. And that shatters something inside me. A woman like George, shaking with fury over me.Forme.

The sheriff's eyes shift between Marcus, George, and me. Realization crawls across his face like a shadow. The gun lowers.

“Sheriff Lucas… James.” Marcus spits out the blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “This is ridiculous. I was just checking on her, and this psycho?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” the sheriff commands, pulling out his handcuffs.

Marcus’s protests grow desperate as he approaches. “James, you can't seriously?—”

“Name’s Sheriff Lucas, asshole. And I can. I am.” His voice is cold and final as he hauls Marcus up and snaps the cuffs into place. “You're done.”

* * *

Chaos buzzes around us. Deputies arrive. Statements are taken. Radio chatter crackles through the air. But I’m only aware of one thing.

George. At my side. Close. Closer. Nothing else matters Just her. That she’s whole and safe. The woman who’s become my reason for breathing.

I catalog every inch of her, the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremble in her fingers, the dark bruise forming like a brand around her wrist. That mark—his mark—makes my vision blur red at the edges. Rage claws through me, hot and primal, a fire I can’t put out.

Then her hand finds mine, fingers weaving through like it’s second nature. Like sheknows. The contact slams straight to my core, steadying the fury and replacing it with something even fiercer. That quiet, unshakeable knowing that I’d burn the world to ash to keep her safe—and rebuild it just to see her smile.

I’m fucked. Completely, irrevocably fucked.

Because I need her to keep me steady. I need her scent, her touch, her voice.

Because I love her.

When Marcus has been loaded into a patrol car and the workshop has emptied of everyone but us, she turns to me.

Her eyes are dark, her mouth parted, breath uneven.

I know that look.

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