The story Den told had no title, and the heroine was only known as The Protector—capitalized, because as time had progressed, Den had come to realize she was a bad woman to cross. He dropped down into his seat, leaned back, and picked up a sheaf of pages.
“All set?”
I nodded, and he leafed through the pages until he found the place where he’d left off the last time we’d been together.
* * * *