Chap­ter 2: Rhys

PRINCESS BRIDGET VON ASCHEBERG OF ELDORRA WOULD BE THE DEATH
of me. If not lit­er­al death, then the death of my patience and san­i­ty.
Of that, I was cer­tain, and we’d only been work­ing togeth­er for two weeks.

I’d nev­er had a client who infu­ri­at­ed me as much as she did.
Sure, she was beau­ti­ful (not a good thing when you were in my posi­tion) and charm­ing (to every­one except me), but she was also a roy­al pain in my ass. When I said “right,” she went left; when I said “leave,” she stayed. She insist­ed on spon­ta­neous­ly attend­ing crowd­ed events before I could do the advance work, and she treat­ed my secu­ri­ty con­cerns like they were an after­thought instead of an emer­gency.

Brid­get said that was the way things had worked with Booth, and she’d been fine. I said I wasn’t Booth, so I didn’t give a damn what she did or didn’t do when she was with him. I ran the show now.

She didn’t take that well, but I didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t here to win Mr. Con­ge­nial­i­ty. I was here to keep her alive.

Tonight, “here” meant the most crowd­ed bar in Hazel­burg. Half of Thay­er had turned out for The Crypt’s Fri­day night half-off spe­cials, and I was sure the bar was over max capac­i­ty.

Loud music, loud peo­ple. My least favorite kind of place and, appar­ent­ly, Bridget’s most favorite, con­sid­er­ing how vehe­ment she’d been about com­ing here.

“So.” Her red­head­ed friend Jules eyed me over the rim of her glass. “You were a Navy SEAL, huh?”

“Yes.” I wasn’t fooled by her flir­ty tone or par­ty girl demeanor. I’d run in-depth back­ground checks on all of Bridget’s friends the moment I took the job, and I knew for a fact Jules Ambrose was more dan­ger­ous than she appeared. But she didn’t pose a threat to Brid­get, so I didn’t men­tion what she did in Ohio. It wasn’t my sto­ry to tell.

“I love mil­i­tary men,” she purred.

“Ex-mil­i­tary, J.” Brid­get didn’t look at me as she fin­ished her drink. “Besides, he’s too old for you.”

That was one of the few things I agreed with her on. I was only thir­ty-one, so I wasn’t ancient by any means, but I’d done and wit­nessed enough shit in my life to feel ancient, espe­cial­ly com­pared to fresh-faced col­lege stu­dents who hadn’t even had their first real job yet.

I’d nev­er been fresh-faced, not even when I was a kid. I grew up in dirt and grit.

Mean­while, Brid­get sat across from me, look­ing like the fairy­tale princess she was. Big blue eyes and lush pink lips set in a heart-shaped face, per­fect alabaster skin, gold­en hair falling in loose waves down her back. Her black top bared her smooth shoul­ders, and tiny dia­monds glit­tered on her ears.

Young, rich, and regal. The oppo­site of me in every way.

“Neg­a­tive. I love old­er men.” Jules upped the wattage of her smile as she gave me anoth­er once-over. “And you’re hot.”

I didn’t smile back. I wasn’t dumb enough to get involved with a client’s friend. I already had my hands full with Brid­get.

Fig­u­ra­tive­ly speak­ing.

“Leave the man alone.” Stel­la laughed. Fash­ion design and com­mu­ni­ca­tions major. Daugh­ter of an envi­ron­men­tal lawyer and the chief of staff to a cab­i­net sec­re­tary. Social media star. My brain ticked off all the things I knew about her as she snapped a pho­to of her cock­tail before tak­ing a sip. “Find some­one your own age.”

“Guys my age are bor­ing. I’d know. I dat­ed a bunch of them.”

Jules nudged Ava, the last mem­ber of Bridget’s close friend group. Aside from Jules’s inap­pro­pri­ate come-ons, they were a decent bunch. Cer­tain­ly bet­ter than the friends of the Hol­ly­wood star­let I’d guard­ed for three excru­ci­at­ing months, dur­ing which I saw more “acci­den­tal” gen­i­tal flash­ings than I’d thought I would ever see in my life.

“Speak­ing of old­er men, where’s your boo?”

Ava blushed. “He can’t make it. He has a con­fer­ence call with some busi­ness part­ners in Japan.”

“Oh, he’ll make it,” Jules drawled. “You in a bar, sur­round­ed by drunk­en, horny col­lege guys? I’m sur­prised he hasn’t—ah. Speak of the dev­il. There he is.”

I fol­lowed her gaze to where a tall, dark-haired man cut a path through the crowd of said drunk­en, horny col­lege guys.

Green eyes, tai­lored design­er cloth­ing, and an icy expres­sion that made the frozen tun­dra of Green­land look like trop­i­cal islands.

Alex Volkov.

I knew the name and rep­u­ta­tion, even if I didn’t know him per­son­al­ly. He was a leg­end in cer­tain cir­cles.

The de fac­to CEO of the country’s largest real estate devel­op­ment com­pa­ny, Alex had enough con­nec­tions and black­mail mate­r­i­al to bring down half of Con­gress and the For­tune 500.

I didn’t trust him, but he was dat­ing one of Bridget’s best friends, which meant his pres­ence was unavoid­able.

Ava’s face lit up when she saw him. “Alex! I thought you had a busi­ness call.”

“The call wrapped up ear­ly, so I thought I’d swing by.” He brushed his lips over hers.

“I love when I’m right, which is almost always.” Jules shot Alex a sly glance. “Alex Volkov in a col­lege bar? Nev­er thought I’d see the day.”

He ignored her.

The music changed from low-key R&B to a remix of the lat­est radio hit, and the bar went wild. Jules and Stel­la scram­bled out of their seats to hit the dance floor, fol­lowed by Brid­get, but Ava stayed put.

“You guys go. I’ll stay here.” She yawned. “I’m kin­da tired.”

Jules looked hor­ri­fied. “It’s only eleven!” She turned to me. “Rhys, dance with us. You have to make up for this…blasphemy.”

She ges­tured at where Ava was curled into Alex’s side while he wrapped a pro­tec­tive arm around her shoul­ders. Ava made a face; Alex’s expres­sion didn’t so much as budge. I’d seen blocks of ice show more emo­tion than him.

I remained seat­ed. “I don’t dance.”

“You don’t dance. Alex doesn’t sing. Aren’t you two a bun­dle of joy,” Jules grum­bled. “Bridge, do some­thing.”

Brid­get glanced at me before look­ing away. “He’s work­ing. Come on,” she teased. “Aren’t Stel­la and I enough?”

Jules let out an aggriev­ed sigh. “I sup­pose. Way to guilt-trip me.”

“I learned the sub­tle art of guilt-trip­ping in princess school.”

Brid­get pulled her friends onto the dance floor. “Let’s go.”

To no one’s sur­prise, Ava and Alex called it a night soon after, and I sat at the table by myself, keep­ing half an eye on the girls and the oth­er half on the rest of the bar. At least, I tried. My gaze strayed back to Brid­get and Brid­get alone more often than I’d like, and not just because she was my client.

I’d known she would be trou­ble the minute Chris­t­ian told me about my new assign­ment. Told, not asked, because Chris­t­ian Harp­er dealt in orders, not requests. But we had enough of a his­to­ry I could’ve turned down the assign­ment had I want­ed to—and I’d real­ly fuck­ing want­ed to. Me guard­ing the Princess of Eldor­ra when I want­ed noth­ing to do with Eldor­ra? Worst idea in the his­to­ry of bad ideas.

Then I’d looked at the pic­ture of Brid­get and saw some­thing in her eyes that tugged at me. Maybe it was the hint of lone­li­ness or the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty she tried to hide. What­ev­er it was, it was enough for me to say yes, albeit reluc­tant­ly.

Now here I was, stuck with a charge who bare­ly tol­er­at­ed me, and vice ver­sa.

You’re a god­damned idiot, Larsen.

But as infu­ri­at­ing as I found Brid­get, I had to admit, I liked see­ing her the way she was tonight. Big smile, glow­ing face, eyes sparkling with laugh­ter and mis­chief. None of the lone­li­ness I’d spot­ted in the head­shot Chris­t­ian gave me.

She threw her hands in the air and swayed her hips to the music, and my gaze lin­gered on the bare expanse of her long, smooth legs before I tore it away, my jaw tight­en­ing.

I’d guard­ed plen­ty of beau­ti­ful women before, but when I saw Brid­get in per­son for the first time, I’d react­ed in a way I nev­er had for my pre­vi­ous clients. Blood heat­ing, cock hard­en­ing, hands itch­ing to find out how her gold­en hair would feel wrapped around my fist. It’d been vis­cer­al, unex­pect­ed, and almost enough to make me walk away from the job before I start­ed, because lust­ing after a client could only end in dis­as­ter.

But my pride won out, and I stayed. I just hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

Jules and Stel­la said some­thing to Brid­get, who nod­ded before they left for what I pre­sumed was the bath­room. They’d been gone for only two min­utes when a frat boy-look­ing type in a pink polo shirt bee­lined toward Brid­get with a deter­mined expres­sion.

My shoul­ders tensed.

I rose from my seat right as Frat Boy reached Brid­get and whis­pered some­thing in her ear. She shook her head, but he didn’t leave. Some­thing dark unfurled in my stom­ach. If there was one thing I hat­ed, it was men who couldn’t take a fuck­ing hint.

Frat Boy reached for Brid­get. She pulled her arm away before he could make con­tact and said some­thing else, her expres­sion sharp­er this time. His face twist­ed into an ugly scowl. He reached for her again, but before he could touch her, I stepped in between them, cut­ting him off.

“Is there a prob­lem?” I stared down at him.

Frat Boy oozed the enti­tle­ment of some­one who wasn’t used to hear­ing no thanks to Daddy’s mon­ey, and he was either too stu­pid or too arro­gant to real­ize I was two sec­onds away from rear­rang­ing his face so thor­ough­ly a plas­tic sur­geon wouldn’t be able to fix it.

“No prob­lem. I was just ask­ing her to dance.” Frat Boy eyed me like he was think­ing of tak­ing me on.

Def­i­nite­ly stu­pid.

“I don’t want to dance.” Brid­get stepped around me and stared Frat Boy down her­self. “I already told you twice. Don’t make me tell you a third time. You won’t like what’ll hap­pen.”

There were times when I could for­get Brid­get was a princess, like when she was singing off-key in the shower—she thought I couldn’t hear her, but I could—or pulling an all-night study ses­sion at the kitchen table.

Now was not one of those times. Regal ici­ness radi­at­ed from her every pore, and a small, impressed smirk touched my mouth before I squashed it.

Frat Boy’s ugly scowl remained, but he was out­num­bered, and he knew it. He shuf­fled off, mut­ter­ing “Stu­pid cunt” under his breath as he did so.

Judg­ing by the way Bridget’s cheeks pinkened, she heard him. Unfor­tu­nate­ly for him, so did I.

He didn’t make it two feet before I grabbed him hard enough he yelped. One strate­gic twist of my wrist and I could break his arm, but I didn’t want to cause a scene, so he was lucky.

For now.

“What did you say?” A dan­ger­ous edge bled into my voice.

Brid­get and I weren’t each other’s favorite peo­ple, but that didn’t make it okay for any­one to call her names. Not under my watch.

It was a mat­ter of prin­ci­ple and basic fuck­ing decen­cy.

“N‑nothing.” Frat Boy’s puny brain had final­ly caught up with the sit­u­a­tion, and his face red­dened with pan­ic.

“I don’t think it was noth­ing.” I tight­ened my hold, and he whim­pered in pain. “I think you used a very bad word to insult the lady here.” Anoth­er tight­en­ing, anoth­er whim­per. “And I think you bet­ter apol­o­gize before the sit­u­a­tion esca­lates. Don’t you?”

I didn’t need to spell out what esca­lates meant.

“I’m sor­ry,” Frat Boy mum­bled to Brid­get, who blinked back at him with an icy expres­sion. She didn’t respond.

“I didn’t hear you,” I said.

Frat Boy’s eyes flashed with hate, but he wasn’t stu­pid enough to argue. “I’m sor­ry,” he said loud­er.

“For what?”

“For call­ing you a…” He shot a fear­ful look in my direc­tion. “For call­ing you a bad name.”

“And?” I prompt­ed.

His brow creased in con­fu­sion.

My smile con­tained more threat than humor. “Say, ‘I’m sor­ry for being a limp-dicked idiot who doesn’t know how to respect women.’”

I thought I heard Brid­get choke back a small laugh, but I was focused on Frat Boy’s reac­tion. He looked like he want­ed to punch me with his free hand, and I almost wished he would. It would be amus­ing to see him try to reach my face. I tow­ered over him by a good eight inch­es, and he had shrimp arms.

“I’m sor­ry for being a limp-dicked idiot who doesn’t know how to respect women.” Resent­ment poured off him in waves.

“Do you accept his apol­o­gy?” I asked Brid­get. “If you don’t, I can take this out­side.”

Frat Boy paled.

Brid­get tilt­ed her head, her face pen­sive, and anoth­er shad­ow of a smile ghost­ed my mouth. She’s good.

“I sup­pose,” she final­ly said in the tone of some­one who was doing some­one else a huge favor. “There’s no use wast­ing more of our time on some­one insignif­i­cant.”

My amuse­ment tem­pered some of the anger run­ning hot in my veins at Frat Boy’s ear­li­er com­ment. “You got lucky.” I released him. “If I ever see you both­er­ing her or anoth­er woman again…” I low­ered my voice. “You might as well learn how to do every­thing left-hand­ed because your right one will be out of com­mis­sion. Per­ma­nent­ly. Now leave.”

I didn’t have to tell him twice. Frat Boy fled, his pink shirt bob­bing in the crowd until he dis­ap­peared out the exit.

Good rid­dance.

“Thank you,” Brid­get said. “I appre­ci­ate you deal­ing with him, even though it’s frus­trat­ing it took some­one else to inter­vene before he got the hint. Isn’t me say­ing no enough?” Her brow puck­ered with annoy­ance.

“Some peo­ple are idiots, and some peo­ple are ass­holes.” I stepped aside to allow a group of gig­gling par­ty­go­ers past. “Just so hap­pened you ran into one who was both.”

That earned me a small smile. “Mr. Larsen, I do believe we’re hav­ing a civ­il con­ver­sa­tion.”

“Are we? Some­one check the weath­er in hell,” I dead­panned.

Bridget’s smile widened, and I’d be damned if I didn’t feel a small kick in my gut at the sight.

“How about a drink?” She tilt­ed her head toward the bar. “On me.”

I shook my head. “I’m on the clock, and I don’t drink alco­hol.”

Sur­prise flashed across her face. “Ever?”

“Ever.” No drugs, no alco­hol, no smok­ing. I’d seen the hav­oc they wreaked, and I had no inter­est in becom­ing anoth­er sta­tis­tic.

“Not my thing.”

Bridget’s expres­sion told me she sus­pect­ed there was more to the sto­ry than I was let­ting on, but she didn’t press the issue, which I appre­ci­at­ed. Some peo­ple were too damn nosy.

“Sor­ry that took so long!” Jules returned with Stel­la in tow. “The line at the bath­room was insane.” Her eyes roved between me and Brid­get. “Every­thing okay?”