Page 59 of Her Dirty Defender

In that unguarded moment, I see the man behind the badge. The husband who lost the love of his life. The father who was left to raise a daughter he didn’t always know how to comfort—so he tried to protect her the only way he knew how. With rules. With structure. With a love that didn’t always come out gentle but was steady all the same.

“After your mom”—he clears his throat—“I didn’t know how to do this alone. And I didn’t want to lose you too.”

George presses her lips together, trembling, fighting for control. Not weak but full of everything she’s held in for years. “You didn’t lose me, Dad.”

He lets out a breath that sounds more like a surrender than a sigh. Then, quieter, rawer: “I love you, Georgie. More than I’ve ever been able to say. More than I’ve ever known how to show.”

My chest tightens as George sucks in a sharp breath.

Because I know she’s been waiting to hear those words for a long, long time.

She blinks fast, swallows hard. “Dad…”

But he shakes his head like he can’t handle any more emotions tonight. “I know I don’t say it enough. Maybe I never did. But it was never about you not being enough, George.”

Something flickers in his expression. He nods sharply and clears his throat like that’s the end of it.

Then he turns his gaze on me, and just like that, the moment of softness is gone.

“You hurt her,” he says, his voice dangerous in its simplicity, “and they’ll never find your body.”

George lets out a watery laugh, but I don’t smile.

I hold his gaze and nod. “Understood.”

Another beat of silence. Then he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, and finally heads for the door. “Lock up when you’re done.”

The second he’s gone, George exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.

I wrap her in my arms and press my forehead against hers, inhaling deeply. Each breath makes my pulse hammer harder and my grip tighten. I’m addicted, and I know it.

“Are you okay?” The question rasps from my throat, rough with barely contained fury.

Her hands frame my face, thumbs skimming my cheekbones as if she’s memorizing me. “I am now.”

Three simple words break me open all over again.

“I should have killed Marcus,” I confess, the darkness in me still not completely sated.

She shakes her head. “No. This is better. He faces justice. Real justice.”

“If he ever comes near you again?—”

“He won't.” She shakes her head. “But if he does, we'll face him together. Because the Beckett I know doesn't fight alone anymore.”

Together.My chest expands as her words fill spaces I didn’t know were empty.

I kiss her again, slower this time. Less desperate, but no less claiming. Her hands slide under my shirt, exploring the ridges of muscle and the scars that tell stories I’ll share with her someday. But not tonight. Tonight is about this. Us. The beginning of something neither of us saw coming.

“I’m staying with you tonight.”

It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be.

I smirk. “As if I’d let you leave.”

Her answering laugh is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

I lift her from the workbench, and her legs wrap around my waist. As I carry her toward my apartment, her arms around my neck and her heartbeat against my chest, I know with bone-deep certainty that I’ve finally found my purpose.

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