It was futile to try defending yourself; an ex-O'Driscoll in a gang camp, there was no way you wouldn't be teased or bothered. It was exhausting to deal with, yes—but you can't quite blame them.

What helped your situation was having your own guard dog.

Standing tall at 6'3, broad and lean body towering over every single person in camp, Charles Smith has been your rock—driving off any camp members trying to insult or bother you in any way.

"Get the hell out of here, go do something useful." He barks at the ginger Irishman who was teasing you not a minute ago, who scurries away instantly, leaving both of you alone to lick his wounds.

Captivating brown eyes bore into yours as he turns your way. "You alright?"