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.

9
BRIDGET
SOMETHING CHANGED THE NIGHT OF MY GRADUATION. PERHAPS IT WAS
the shared trau­ma, or the fact Rhys had vol­un­tar­i­ly opened up to me
about his past, but the long­stand­ing antag­o­nism between us trans-
formed into some­thing else—something that kept me awake late at
night and drove the but­ter­flies in my stom­ach nuts.
It wasn’t a crush, exact­ly. More like attrac­tion paired with…cu-
rios­i­ty? Fas­ci­na­tion? What­ev­er it was, it put me on edge, because on
the list of the worst ideas I could have, sneak­ing out and get­ting kid-
napped was num­ber two. Devel­op­ing non-pla­ton­ic feel­ings for my
body­guard was num­ber one.
Luck­i­ly, my sched­ule in New York kept me so busy I bare­ly had
time to breathe, much less indulge in inap­pro­pri­ate fan­tasies.
Rhys and I moved to Man­hat­tan three days after grad­u­a­tion, and
the fol­low­ing sum­mer was a whirl­wind of char­i­ty board meet­ings,
social func­tions, and house hunt­ing.
By the time August rolled around, I’d signed the lease on a beau-
tiful Green­wich Vil­lage town­house, worn down two pairs of heels
from trekking through the city, and met every­one on the social cir-
cuit, some of whom I wished I hadn’t met.
“It’s slip­ping.” Rhys scanned the sur­round­ing crowd.
We were at the open­ing for a new Upper East Side exhib­it cele-
brat­ing Eldor­ran artists, which nor­mal­ly wouldn’t be a big deal, but
the guest list includ­ed action movie star Nate Reynolds and the pa-
parazzi were out in full force.
“What?” I said through my smile as I posed for the cam­eras. The
appear­ances got tire­some after a while. There was only so much
smil­ing, wav­ing, and small talk a girl could stand before she keeled
over from bore­dom, but they were part of my job, so I grinned and
bore it. Lit­er­al­ly.
“Your smile. It’s slip­ping.”
He was right. I hadn’t even noticed.
I re-upped the wattage of my smile and tried not to yawn. God, I
can’t wait till I’m home. I still had a lun­cheon, two inter­views, a board
meet­ing for the New York Ani­mal Res­cue Foun­da­tion, and a cou­ple
of errands to run, but after that…PJs and sweet sleep.
I didn’t hate my job, but I wished I could do some­thing more
mean­ing­ful than be a walk­ing, talk­ing man­nequin.
And so it went. Day after day, month after month of the same
thing. Fall turned into win­ter, then into spring and sum­mer, then fall
again.
Rhys stood next to me through it all, stern and grumpy as al-
ways, but he’d dialed down the over­bear­ing atti­tude. For him, any-
way. Com­pared to a nor­mal per­son, he was still over­pro­tec­tive to the
point of neu­roti­cism.
I loved and hat­ed the shift in equal mea­sure. Loved it because I
had more free­dom, hat­ed it because I could no longer use my irri­ta-
tion as a shield against what­ev­er was crack­ling between us.
And there was a thing. I just wasn’t sure whether I was the only
one who saw it, or if he did too.
I didn’t ask. It was safer that way.
“Do you ever think about doing any­thing except body­guard­ing?”
I asked on a rare night in. For once, I had no plans oth­er than a date
with the TV and ice cream, and I loved it.
It was Sep­tem­ber, almost two years since Rhys and I first met and
over a year since I moved to New York. I’d gone full out with the
sea­son­al dec­o­ra­tions, includ­ing a fall wreath over the fire­place,
earth-toned cush­ions and blan­kets, and a mini pump­kin cen­ter­piece
for the cof­fee table.
Rhys and I were watch­ing a screw­ball com­e­dy that’d popped up
in my Net­flix rec­om­men­da­tions. He sat ram­rod straight, ful­ly
dressed in his work out­fit while I was curled up with my feet on the
sofa and a pint of ice cream in my hand.
“Body­guard­ing?”
“It’s a word,” I said. “If it’s not, I’m declar­ing it one by roy­al
decree.”
He smirked. “You would. And to answer your ques­tion, no, I
don’t. The day I do is the day I stop ‘body­guard­ing.’”
I rolled my eyes. “It must be nice to see every­thing in black and
white.”
Rhys’s gaze lin­gered on me for a sec­ond before he looked away.
“Trust me,” he said. “Not every­thing is black and white.”
Inex­plic­a­bly, my heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself not to
demand he tell me what he meant. It prob­a­bly meant noth­ing. It was
a throw­away line.
Instead, I refo­cused on the movie and con­cen­trat­ed on not look-
ing at the man sit­ting next to me.
It worked. Sort of.
I laughed at some­thing a char­ac­ter said, and I noticed Rhys look-
ing at me out of the cor­ner of my eye.
“It’s nice,” he said.
“What?”
“Your real smile.”
For­get a skipped beat. My heart skipped a whole song.
This time, how­ev­er, I cov­ered it up by point­ing my spoon at him.
“That was a com­pli­ment.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t try to play it off.” I was proud of how nor­mal I sound­ed
when my insides were doing things that were any­thing but nor­mal.
Flut­ter­ing, skip­ping, twist­ing. My doc­tor would have a field day.
“We’ve passed a mile­stone. Rhys Larsen’s first com­pli­ment to Brid-
get von Ascheberg, and it only took two years. Mark it down.”
Rhys snort­ed, but humor filled his eyes. “One year and ten
months,” he said. “If we’re count­ing.”
Which he was.
If my heart skipped any more songs, it’d have no playlist left.
Not good. Not good at all.
What­ev­er I felt toward Rhys, it couldn’t devel­op past what it was
now. So, in an effort to rid myself of my increas­ing­ly dis­turb­ing reac-
tions to my body­guard, I agreed to go on a date with Louis, the son
of the French ambas­sador to the Unit­ed Nations, when I ran into him
at an event a month after my movie night with Rhys.
Louis showed up for our date at sev­en o’clock sharp with a bou-
quet of red flow­ers and a charm­ing smile, which wilt­ed when he saw
the scowl­ing body­guard stand­ing so close behind me I could feel the
heat from his body.
“These are for you.” Louis hand­ed me the flow­ers while keep­ing
a wary eye on Rhys. “You look beau­ti­ful.”
A low growl rum­bled behind me, and Louis notice­ably gulped.
“Thank you, they’re love­ly,” I said with a gra­cious smile. “Let me
put them in water and I’ll be right back.”
My smile dropped when I turned my back to Louis and faced
Rhys. “Mr. Larsen, please fol­low me.” Once we entered the kitchen, I
hissed, “Stop threat­en­ing my dates with your gun.”
I hadn’t need­ed to see him to know he’d prob­a­bly pushed his
jack­et aside just enough to flash his weapon.
Louis wasn’t the first guy I’d dat­ed in New York, though the last
time I’d gone on a date had been months ago. Rhys kept scar­ing off
my roman­tic prospects, and half the men in the city were afraid to
ask me out for fear he would shoot them.
It hadn’t both­ered me until now because I hadn’t cared for my
pre­vi­ous dates, but it was annoy­ing when I was active­ly try­ing to
move on from what­ev­er weird hold Rhys had on me.
Rhys’s glare inten­si­fied. “He’s wear­ing shoe lifts. He deserves to
be threat­ened.”
I pressed my lips togeth­er, but a quick glance at Louis’ feet
through the kitchen door­way con­firmed Rhys’s obser­va­tion. I
thought he seemed taller. I had noth­ing against shoe lifts per se, but
three inch­es seemed exces­sive.
Unfor­tu­nate­ly, while I could over­look the shoe lifts, I couldn’t
over­look the utter lack of chem­istry between us.
Louis and I dined at a love­ly French restau­rant, where I strug­gled
not to fall asleep while he ram­bled on about his sum­mers in St.
Tropez. Rhys sat at the next table with a glow­er so dark the din­ers on
his oth­er side request­ed to move tables.
By the time din­ner end­ed, Louis was so flus­tered by the men­ac-
ing pres­ence less than three feet away he knocked over his wine­glass
and near­ly caused a serv­er to drop his tray of food.
“It’s all right,” I said, help­ing a mor­ti­fied Louis clean up the mess
while the serv­er fussed over the stained linen table­cloth. “It was an
acci­dent.”
I glared at Rhys, who stared back at me with­out a hint of
remorse.
“Of course.” Louis smiled, but the mor­ti­fi­ca­tion in his eyes
remained.
When we fin­ished clean­ing up, he left a gen­er­ous tip for the
serv­er and bid me a polite good night. He didn’t ask me on a sec­ond
date.
I wasn’t sad about it. I was, how­ev­er, pissed at a cer­tain gray-
eyed pain in my butt.
“You scared Louis half to death,” I said when Rhys and I re-
turned home. I couldn’t con­trol the anger from seep­ing into my
voice. “Next time, try not to unnerve my date so much he spills his
drink all over him­self.”
“If he scares that eas­i­ly, he’s not wor­thy of being your date.”
Rhys had dressed up to adhere to the restaurant’s dress code, but the
tie and din­ner jack­et couldn’t mask the raw, untamed mas­culin­i­ty
rolling off him in potent waves.
“You were armed and glar­ing at him like he killed your dog. It’s
hard not to be ner­vous under those con­di­tions.” I tossed my keys on
the side table and slipped off my heels.
“I don’t have a dog.”
“It was a metaphor.” I unpinned my hair and ran my hand
through the waves. “Keep it up and I’ll end up like one of those
spin­sters from his­tor­i­cal romance nov­els. You’ve scared off every
date I’ve had in the past year.”
One thing that hadn’t changed after all this time? My refusal to
call him any­thing except Mr. Larsen, and his refusal to call me any-
thing except princess.
Rhys’s scowl deep­ened. “I’ll stop scar­ing them off once you get
bet­ter taste in men. No won­der your love life is in the dumps. Look
at the twerps you insist on going out with.”
I bris­tled. My love life was not in the dumps. It was close, but it
wasn’t there yet. “You’re one to talk.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Mean­ing?”
“Mean­ing I haven’t seen you date any­one since you start­ed
work­ing for me.” I shrugged off my jack­et, and his gaze slid to my
bared shoul­ders for a frac­tion of a sec­ond before return­ing to my
face. “You’re hard­ly qual­i­fied to give me dat­ing advice.”
“I don’t date. Doesn’t mean I can’t spot worth­less idiots when I
see ‘em.”
I paused, star­tled by his admis­sion. While Rhys was always by
my side dur­ing the day, he was off duty after I turned in for the
night. Some­times he stayed in, some­times he didn’t. I’d always as-
sumed he was…busy on the nights he didn’t.
A strange mix­ture of relief and dis­be­lief coursed through me.
Dis­be­lief, because while Rhys wasn’t the most charm­ing guy on the
plan­et, he was gor­geous enough for most women to over­look his
surly atti­tude. Relief, because…well, I’d rather not exam­ine that rea-
son too close­ly.
“You’ve been celi­bate for two years?” The ques­tion slipped out
before I could think it through, and I regret­ted it instant­ly.
Rhys arched an eye­brow, his scowl mor­ph­ing into a smirk. “You
ask­ing about my sex life, princess?”
Embar­rass­ment scorched my cheeks, both at my inap­pro­pri­ate
ques­tion and at hear­ing the word “sex” leave his mouth. “I did no
such thing.”
“I may not have attend­ed a fan­cy col­lege like you, but I can read
sub­text.” Amuse­ment flashed in those gun­metal eyes. “For the
record, dat­ing and sex aren’t the same thing.”
Right. Of course.
Some­thing unpleas­ant replaced my ear­li­er relief. The idea of him
“not dat­ing” some­one irked me more than it should’ve.
“I know that,” I said. “I don’t date every­one I have sex with,
either.”
What am I say­ing? I hadn’t had sex in so long I was sur­prised my
vagi­na hadn’t sued me for neglect, but I want­ed to…what, prove
Rhys wasn’t the only one who could have casu­al sex? Get a rise out
of him?
If so, it worked, because his smirk dis­ap­peared and his drawl
hard­ened. “And when was the last time you had non-dat­ing sex?”
I lift­ed my chin, refus­ing to back down beneath the weight of his
steely stare. “That is a high­ly inap­pro­pri­ate ques­tion.”
“You asked first,” he ground out. “Answer the ques­tion,
princess.”
Breathe. I heard the palace com­mu­ni­ca­tions sec­re­tary Elin’s voice
in my head, coach­ing me on how to han­dle the press. You can’t con-
trol what they say, but you can con­trol what you say. Don’t let them see
you sweat. Deflect if nec­es­sary, take back the pow­er, and guide the con­ver­sa-
tion where you want it to go. You are the princess. You do not cow­er in
front of any­one. Elin was scary, but she was good, and I took her ad-
vice to heart as I strug­gled not to rise to Rhys’s bait.
One…two…three…
I exhaled and squared my shoul­ders, look­ing down my nose at
him even though he tow­ered over me by a good sev­en inch­es.
“I will not. This is where we end the con­ver­sa­tion,” I said, my
voice cold. Before it goes any more off the rails. “Good night, Mr.
Larsen.”
His eyes called me a cow­ard. Mine told him to mind his busi­ness.
The air pulsed with heavy silence dur­ing our stare­down. It was
late, and I was tired, but I’d be damned if I backed down first.
Judg­ing by Rhys’s bull­ish stance, he had the same thought.
We might’ve stood there for­ev­er, glar­ing at each oth­er, had it not
been for the sharp trill of an incom­ing call. Even then, I wait­ed for
my phone to ring three times before I tore my eyes away from Rhys
and checked the caller ID.
My annoy­ance quick­ly gave way to con­fu­sion, then wor­ry, when
I saw who was call­ing. Niko­lai. My broth­er and I rarely spoke on the
phone, and it was five a.m. in Eldor­ra. He was a morn­ing per­son, but
he wasn’t that much of a morn­ing per­son.
I picked up, aware of Rhys’s gaze burn­ing into me.
“Nik, is every­thing all right?”
Niko­lai wouldn’t call out of the blue at this hour unless it was an
emer­gency.
“I’m afraid not.” Exhaus­tion weighed down his words. “It’s
Grand­fa­ther.”
Pan­ic explod­ed in my stom­ach, and I had to hold on to the side
table for sup­port as Niko­lai explained the sit­u­a­tion. No. Not Grand­fa-
ther. He was the only liv­ing parental fig­ure I had left, and if I lost
him…
Rhys moved toward me, his face now dark with con­cern, but he
halt­ed when I shook my head. The more Niko­lai spoke, the more I
want­ed to throw up.
Fif­teen min­utes lat­er, I end­ed the call, numb with shock.
“What hap­pened?” Rhys remained a few feet away, but there was
a cer­tain tense­ness to his pos­ture, like he was ready to mur­der who-
ever had been on the oth­er end of the line for caus­ing me dis­tress.
All thoughts of our stu­pid argu­ment fled, and the sud­den urge to
throw myself into his arms and let his strength car­ry me away