You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

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 posi-
tion) 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 crowd-
ed 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 spe-
cials, and I was sure the bar was over max capac­i­ty.
Loud music, loud peo­ple. My least favorite kind of place and, ap-
par­ent­ly, 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 wit-
nessed 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 com­mu-
nica­tions 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 be-
fore 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 per-
son­al­ly. 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 ra-
dio 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 Harp-
er 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 real-
ly 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 see-
ing 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 itch-
ing 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 re-
gret 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 whis-
pered 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, cut-
ting 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 fo-
cused 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 amus-
ing 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 do-
ing 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 low-
ered my voice. “You might as well learn how to do every­thing left-
hand­ed because your right one will be out of com­mis­sion. Per­ma-
nent­ly. Now leave.”
I didn’t have to tell him twice. Frat Boy fled, his pink shirt bob-
bing 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 ap-
pre­ci­at­ed. 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?”