Page 8 of Her Dirty Defender

Bullets kicked up sand, explosions ripped through the compound. Comms went to shit.

I remember the screams.

I remember the blood.

And I remember Angus—pinned down, bleeding out, the light in his eyes dimming.

I should’ve left him. That’s what they train us for. Acceptable losses. Mission over man.

But I didn’t.

I dragged his ass out of there, half-carrying, half-hauling him through fire and bullets. Killed three men on the way. Don’t even remember pulling the trigger. I only remember the weight of him, the sound of his breath rattling in his chest, and the way he kept telling me to leave him behind.

We were the only ones who made it.

The last two standing.

After that? I didn’t stand for much.

I push the memories back and focus on the conversation. “So you need a babysitter, is that it?”

Angus snorts. “If I had a baby, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near it, you shady mofo.”

“So what do I get out of this?”

“A roof over your head, decent food, and a break from whatever shady shit you’ve been up to.”

He’s not wrong.

Still, I’m not sold yet. “Why not hire some local ranch hands? Or, hell, get one of your brothers to help.”

“They’ve got their own lives.” There’s a beat of hesitation before he adds, “And we have more at risk now. I’m married now. Henry, too.”

I pause mid-drink. “Bullshit.”

Angus chuckles. “Swear on my life.”

“Never thought Henry would tie the knot again after that shit with his ex. And you always said you’d never get tied down.”

“Yeah, well.” His voice is lighter now, amused. “I met the right woman.”

I shake my head, setting the glass down. Angus fucking Sutton. Married. If that doesn’t prove how much time has passed, I don’t know what does.

“What’s she like?” I ask.

“Strong as hell. Smart. Heart as big as Havenstone.” There’s a pause, and when he next speaks, his voice is rougher around the edges. “And I almost lost her recently. Someone set the barn on fire while she was inside.”

I sit up straighter. “What?”

“It wasn’t an accident,” he says flatly. “She was supposed to die in there.”

The whiskey sours in my gut. “Jesus, Angus.”

“Smoke inhalation. Some burns. She’ll recover. But”—he clears his throat—“I was almost too late.”

I don’t say anything right away. Because what do you say to that? That she was lucky? That it could’ve been worse?

Instead, I say the only thing that feels solid. “You’re not gonna let that happen again.”

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