Her Faithful Protector (Red Mark Rescue & Protect #4)

1. Ava West

1

AVA WEST

Los Angeles, California

I tap my knuckles against the dining table. Bones on glass, the sound echoes through the room. With each rattling movement of my hand, my heart beats in tandem. For the first time since getting engaged to Willem Botha, I want him home.

As I sit here, my gaze is drawn to the expansive window that resembles a banquet hall, offering a glimpse of the night outside. Beyond the glass, the distant garden lights twinkle like stars against the darkness.

I stride close to the window, my breath creating a mist that momentarily blurs and then clears the view. The gate and garage are on the opposite side of the house. From here, it’s easy to overlook his arrival. The latest Mercedes in his collection barely makes a sound, even when he revs up the engine.

Though tempted to go to the living room for a better view, I stick to my routine of always being here at this time. Everything must stay the same, or the change I’ve planned for months will remain as a plan without execution—or worse .

Elmo, my Labrador retriever, follows me closer than usual. The dog is a clown most of the time, but I think he senses the change in me.

“We’re all set for tonight, right?”

Elmo lets out a soft woof.

Finally, I catch a glimmer of light and see Willem’s car passing behind the giant hedges that separate this side of the garden from the front of the house. I rush to the kitchen to ensure I have everything I’ll need tonight—a surprise he’ll never see coming. His footsteps advance, and I swiftly return to the dining room, wiping down the table.

Willem steps in, knowing where to find me. He’s still wearing his suit, with his hair neatly styled and tie perfectly straight, just as he did when he left this morning.

“Hey.” I greet him with a kiss. I remain as constant as a lake on a breezeless morning, careful not to arouse his suspicion. The way I talk, the way I breathe, the way I look at him. “You had dinner? I made some potjiekos . I can warm it up if you like.” His Dutch-Afrikaans grandfather used to cook the stew, which has now become one of his go-to meals.

“I’m gonna head straight to bed,” he rasps as he rounds my waist, his palms squeezing my ass.

Every part of my being resists, but for now, I respond to him like a dutiful fiancée, as I’ve always done. I smile and sigh as he rubs his crotch against mine.

“I’ll bring your tea in a minute,” I whisper.

He loosens his grip, though still pinching and patting every inch of me that his hands pass. “Did you see the article I sent you?”

“Yeah. They’re nice.”

“The hair and makeup on that model look amazing, don’t they?” he says proudly, staring as if imagining me in the bridal attire he’s been wishing for. After a few moments, he heads upstairs.

Willem always has his tea before bed. I’ve never been into chamomile, but I didn’t used to mind it. Now, the scent always reminds me of his foulness and control. But that wretched man will soon realize that this is the last time I’ll ever serve him anything.

As I carry his tea to the bedroom, I can hear the sound of water from the shower, signaling Willem’s nightly routine. I take off my T-shirt and jeans, then slip into a night camisole. My eyes fixate on my forearm, where a vivid bruise encircles it, a reminder of our heated argument over the wedding invitation just yesterday. I was in court, and the trial went overtime. I failed to respond to his call about the color of the cards, igniting his disdain for being ignored.

Willem steps out of the bathroom. “Fuck…” he sighs, his eyes scanning my lingerie-clad figure.

“Your tea is ready,” I murmur seductively.

Just as the bottom of the mug clinks against the bedside table, he pulls me to him with force, then shoves me in the opposite direction, making us both roll onto the bed. Despite his impatience and controlling nature when it comes to tasks and errands, I have learned that if I comply with his desires in bed, I will remain unharmed. But this time, I will obey with a hidden agenda.

Willem pins me down, his lips exploring the depths of my cleavage as he removes his boxers. The mixed scent of stale meat and pungent sweat sickens me. It’s his. Something that comes hand in hand with the chamomile.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to marry you,” he grunts as he looms over me. “Invitations are on the way. Our friends and families will be thrilled. You know, they kept saying it was time.”

Anger knocks behind my chest. He must’ve ordered the cards, even before discussing it with me yesterday, for them to be sent out so quickly. And, when he refers to ‘our’ friends and families, they are really his. I will have to beg and argue just to have my best friend invited. And as for my family, it consists only of my parents, who always do whatever Willem says. They treat him like their savior or even a god.

I despise my parents for that, but I can’t blame them entirely. Willem did help our family when my father’s business collapsed. Ironically, we needed the money to save me. That’s how I’ve managed to endure Willem for this long.

Then, we found out I was pregnant, and during the later stages of the pregnancy, I spent most of my time in bed. Willem came to my rescue once again—the rescue that made me cry like a princess locked in a tower. But at least I survived and gave birth to a healthy baby.

Despite Willem making decisions about the invitations and wedding I never wanted, I hide my anger behind a smile.

Willem continues grunting, futilely trying to arouse himself. A cry from the adjacent room startles him, prompting him to yell, “For fuck’s sake!” He releases me with a harsh push, my head bouncing against the pillow. “Shut him up, or I will!”

I hurry out of bed, explaining, “That’s what babies do. Cry. He’s only seven months old.”

“You’d better make him a man. I don’t want a wimpy heir.”

Oh, my son will be strong. I’ll ensure he forgets who his father is, and I will never, ever let him become Willem.

Time passes, and Quinton continues to cry in my arms. Something is off. Or rather, something very right is unfolding. By now, Willem should’ve been at the doorway shouting at me, and I would’ve been fighting to keep him away from Quinton.

Finally, my baby falls asleep, and I rush back to Willem. I almost forget to breathe. My fiancé has finished the entire mug of tea and is sleeping like a helpless child.

Who’s wimpy now?

But there’s no time to celebrate. I hurry to Quinton’s room, grab his diaper bag, and place him in a cradle. Everything else is waiting for me in another car, hidden in a remote corner of a distant town. Right now, all I need to do is escape from this prison.

I stand frozen in front of Willem’s bedroom door, hearing my own heartbeat. Quinton stirs awake, his cries on the verge of escaping as if sensing his father’s presence. I pull the door handle, letting it latch, closing the view to the most despicable room in the house. Then I whisper in Quinton’s ear, “It’s okay, baby. We’re going to be fine.”

Elmo the dog follows me with unsteady steps, his eyes fixed on me. Despite the wide-open car door, he fails to jump in. Instead, he whimpers and scratches at my shoes. I ignore the dog for now as I secure Quinton in his car seat. The pup tries one more time to climb up by himself, stretching his short legs in vain.

I chuckle. “Easy, Elm. I won’t leave you behind.”

With Quinton buckled up, I scoop Elmo’s butt, pushing him up so he can come aboard. I then let the two cuties sit side by side. That dog is quite comical, but he has taken his role as a protector seriously ever since my baby was born.

The garage door glides open as I press the remote. The metallic hum is swallowed by the rumble of the engine. The vibrations and noise make Quinton burst into tears. “Oh, come on now, Quinton. Please help Mommy.”

I’m driving my own car, a five-year-old SUV that lacks the refined purr of Willem’s Mercedes. At the same time, Quinton’s all-out bawling resonates in the air, heightening my fear of being discovered .

I step out to comfort Quinton, realizing he has lost his favorite toy, a giraffe teether that had traveled all the way from Hawaii. I run my fingers along the back of the seat and locate the familiar texture. His rosy cheeks crease into a wide smile when I present it to him.

Just like everything else in Willem’s mansion, the garage is fitted with high-tech gadgets. The motion sensors detect my presence, and the path ahead illuminates, casting a soft glow on the ground. Adrenaline courses through my veins as the car rolls along the driveway. Every foot feels like an eternity.

A rush of cold sweat blankets me as the twin cast iron gates swing open. The heaviness of the gates, now idle and defeated, affirms that I am truly escaping.

Darkness surrounds me, the only visible lights coming from the streetlamps. The Beverly Hills neighborhood remains undisturbed as if bidding me farewell in silence or perhaps not caring at all.

As I approach the city limits of Los Angeles, I dial my best friend’s number. “Morgie, I’m on my way,” I say, my voice filled with both relief and excitement.

“Ava? Please tell me you’re not joking.”

“No. I’m not. I’ve left L.A., and I have Quinton with me. I’m heading north.”

Morgan’s exuberant cheer echoes through the phone. “Well done, you!”

“I did it, Morgie. I’ll see you in Helena tomorrow.”

“You’d better be on time, or my honeymoon will be history!” she warns.

A wave of joy lifts me, thinking about her. She’s had her fair share of turmoil, but now she’s safe in the arms of her forever love. “I’ll be there, Mrs. Hunt.”

With a contented smile, I steal a glance at Quinton through the rearview mirror. He’s still chewing on the giraffe teether, occasionally babbling as if conversing with Elmo.

“We’ll see Aunty Morgie soon.”

Morgan Hunt, my best friend since childhood, would do anything for me. But if circumstances allowed, I would’ve surprised a certain man in Hawaii, taking a chance on love. However, things have changed since our initial connection in Bozeman. He’s a thirty-three-year-old Marine in his prime, hot as sin yet gentle like a dove. Women would throw themselves at him. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to be involved with a single mother on the run.

I glance once more at Quinton.

Yet—that man cared about my son. The giraffe teether Quinton chews on was a gift from him, even though we lost touch after our brief encounter. It warms me that he knew about Quinton and made an effort to let me know he hadn’t forgotten me.

“You like that, huh? Maybe one day, you’ll meet him,” I say to Quinton. “His name is Jack. Can you say ‘Jack’?”

“Mo!”

“Not Elmo. Jack.”

“Mo!” He swings the teether over Elmo with a tight grip, like a wizard working his wand to turn the dog into something else. He’s a strong boy, and he holds nothing else harder than that silicone giraffe.

The only contact my baby had with Lieutenant Jack Kelleher was when he was still in my belly. I got to know Jack through Morgan, and that stormy night in Bozeman will forever remain etched in my mind like a painting. And it’s not because I’m a courtroom artist with a supposed photographic memory.

Being a California native, my experience of Montana was eye-opening. Jack, the embodiment of Hightower, offered me his jacket to protect me from the elements. It draped over me like an overcoat, providing me with a comforting warmth. I’m sure even Quinton appreciated it.

But above all, I will always remember Jack’s greeting. His firm smile matched his commanding physique, yet his gaze held a blend of curiosity, tenderness, and longing—as if he had never encountered anyone quite like me before. His sincerity has left a permanent dent in my heart. Perhaps Jack has also made a lasting impact on my baby.

Quinton continues babbling, trying to wake Elmo up.

“Come on, baby, leave Elmo alone.”

“Mo!”

“Jack is a Marine. Do you know what a Marine does?” I try to distract him with what Jack had told me about military life. As if my baby would understand.

Headlights approach from the opposite direction. It shouldn’t bother me, but my unease grows as the car passes by and promptly makes a U-turn. “No, no, no!”

It could be my nerves on overdrive, but my gut tells me this is trouble. I should’ve remembered, Willem Botha, my fiancé—no, ex-fiancé—isn’t just one person. He’s an institution with plenty of minions, and one of them has compromised my safety, even in the dead of night.

I reach for my phone to call Morgan, but it slips out of my grasp and falls behind the car seat. I keep driving, merging into the highway, only to realize the car is following closely behind. If I stay on this road, they will eventually catch me. I can’t risk leading them to the other car I’ve prepared, where everything I need to survive is stored, and I definitely can’t lead them to Morgan.

The only way to shake them off is by leading my pursuers on a wild goose chase through a city. I’ve been driving since I was fourteen, thanks to my rogue mother, who was a taxi driver. I’ve learned all there is to know about navigating city streets and alleys. Tonight, though, I’ve got to handle it with care.

“Hold on, Quinton,” I call out. But my baby is asleep.

I take the exit to Salt Lake City, stepping on the gas pedal. It’s an unfamiliar place, but I trust my instincts and head into areas with traffic sparse enough to allow me to weave my way through.

My eyes switch rapidly between what’s ahead and what’s behind me. Finally, I gain some distance, and this is when the party begins.

Determined to outmaneuver my chaser, I leave the main road and venture into the labyrinth of alleys, taking whichever path I come across. Elmo barks while Quinton, the usually alert one, doesn’t even stir.

“I believe we’re in the clear, Quinnie-Bear.” My baby has been given numerous nicknames, but this particular one coined by my mom seems to have stuck.

Certain that I’ve lost the pursuing car, I turn back south, heading to where I’ve hidden my other car. Still reeling from the pursuit, I stop about a mile from the destination at a clifftop that probably hasn’t seen a living soul except me.

“Stay, Elmo. Stay,” I try to calm the nervous pup as I unload.

I place Quinton in a portable cradle and leave it on the ground, away from the edge. As I make my way back to the car, ready to release the handbrake, I suddenly realize that the giraffe is missing.

In the darkness, I fumble around and miraculously locate the giraffe teether on the car floor. Quinton won’t be able to survive without it. It’s not just a toy or a gum soother. He genuinely loves that giraffe. As his mother, it brings me a sense of calm knowing he has it .

Wasting no time, I muster the strength and push the car over the cliff. Then I pull out my engagement ring, throwing it into the abyss. The tale of Willem Botha and me has truly crashed and burned.

I put Elmo on a leash and carry Quinton in a front carrier, along with his diaper bag. “You have to walk now,” I tell Elmo. “I can’t carry both of you!”

I search around for my phone, hoping to use its light. Much to my dismay, I recall that my phone had slipped out of my pocket during the drive, and now both it and my car are lying at the bottom of the cliff. I press on, guided by the faint glow of the moon.

With Quinton snug in the cradle and Elmo tugging at the leash, I follow the path, shielding Quinton from the rain. I’ve been here a few times. I’ve memorized the way until it’s like I was born with a map. Elmo seems to know, too.

It’s dark, but it’s peaceful. The only load I’m carrying is an abundance of hope.