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.

15
RHYS
HEARING THE WORD FUCK LEAVE BRIDGET’S MOUTH IN THAT POSH, PROP-
er voice of hers…
It took every ounce of self-con­trol I had not to do what I’d said I
would do. What she’d asked me to do.
But even though I want­ed noth­ing more than to throw cau­tion to
the wind and say fuck it, I’d give her exact­ly what we both craved, I
didn’t. Brid­get was still drunk. Maybe not as drunk as she’d been
half an hour ago, but intox­i­cat­ed enough to have com­pro­mised
judg­ment.
I had no clue if this was her or the alco­hol talk­ing. Hell, she’d
been ready to go home with Vin­cent Hauz, and she hat­ed him.
“That wasn’t a promise, princess.” My fin­gers dug into her skin.
“It sound­ed like one to me.”
Jesus. Temp­ta­tion was so close I could almost taste it. All I had to
do was reach out and…
What the hell are you think­ing, Larsen? my inner con­science snarled.
She’s your client, not to men­tion a god­damned princess. Get the hell away
from her before you do some­thing you regret even more than what you’re
doing now.
It didn’t mat­ter she was only my client for two more weeks. She
was still my client, and we’d already shat­tered almost every pro­fes-
sion­al bound­ary tonight.
“This is what I meant,” I bit out, unsure who I was more pissed
at, her or me. “You’re act­ing like a dif­fer­ent per­son. The Brid­get I
know wouldn’t be ask­ing her body­guard to fuck her. What the hell is
going on with you?”
Her face hard­ened. “I didn’t sign up for a heart-to-heart, Mr.
Larsen. Either fuck me, or I’ll find some­one else who will.”
She let out a small yelp when I bent her ful­ly over the dress­er so
her body was at a nine­ty-degree angle and her cheek pressed against
the wood.
I leaned down until I was so close, I heard her every shal­low,
pant­i­ng breath. “Do that,” I said. “And you’ll be respon­si­ble for a
man’s slow, bloody death. Is that what you want, princess?”
Bridget’s hands clenched into fists. “You won’t touch me, and
you won’t let any­one else touch me, either. So tell me, what the hell
do you want, Mr. Larsen?”
You.
My frus­tra­tion with every­thing, my whole damn life, reached a
boil­ing point. “I want to know why you’ve been act­ing like an im-
pul­sive teenag­er instead of a grown-ass woman!”
Brid­get was the most lev­el­head­ed per­son I knew. At least, she
had been before her per­son­al­i­ty trans­plant.
“Because this is the last chance I have!” she yelled. I had nev­er,
not once in the two years I’d worked with her, heard her raise her
voice, and it shocked me enough I loos­ened my hold on her and
stepped back. Brid­get twist­ed out of my grasp and straight­ened to
face me, her chest heav­ing with emo­tion. “I have one week left. One
week until…”
Sud­den, icy ter­ror gripped me. “Until what?” I demand­ed, bile
ris­ing in my throat. “Are you sick?”
“No.” Brid­get looked away. “I’m not sick. I’m just get­ting the one
thing most peo­ple dream of.”
Con­fu­sion chased away my brief flash of relief.
“The title of Crown Princess,” she clar­i­fied. She slumped against
the dress­er, her face weary. “Before you say it, I know. First-world
prob­lems and all that. There are peo­ple starv­ing, and I’m com­plain-
ing about inher­it­ing a throne.”
My con­fu­sion dou­bled. “But Prince Niko­lai…”
“…Is abdi­cat­ing. For love.” Brid­get flashed a humor­less smile.
“He had the gall to fall in love with a com­mon­er, and for that, he has
to give up his birthright. Because the law for­bids the monarch of El-
dor­ra to mar­ry any­one not of noble blood.”
Of, for fuck’s sake. What was this, the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry?
“That’s bull­shit.”
“Yes, but it’s bull­shit we have to fol­low. Includ­ing me, now that
I’m next in line to the throne.”
My mouth curled into a small snarl at the thought of her mar­ry-
ing anoth­er man. It was irra­tional, but noth­ing about my reac­tions
was ratio­nal when it came to her. Brid­get could wipe away every
sense of log­ic and pro­pri­ety I had.
She con­tin­ued, obliv­i­ous to my tur­moil. “The palace is mak­ing
the offi­cial announce­ment next week. I’m not sup­posed to tell any-
one until then, which is why I haven’t said any­thing.” She swal-
lowed hard. “After the announce­ment, I’ll offi­cial­ly be the heir to the
throne, and my life won’t be mine any­more. Every­thing I do and say
will reflect the crown, and I can’t let my fam­i­ly or coun­try down.”
She took a deep breath. “That’s why I’ve been going a little…crazy
late­ly. I want to savor being nor­mal for the last time. Rel­a­tive­ly
speak­ing.”
I was silent as I digest­ed her bomb­shell.
Brid­get, the future Queen of Eldor­ra. Holy shit.
She was right in that most women would kill to trade places with
her. But Brid­get was the girl who once ran out in the mid­dle of a
thun­der­storm and danced in the rain. Who spent her free time vol-
unteer­ing at an ani­mal shel­ter and would rather stay home watch­ing
TV and eat­ing ice cream than attend a fan­cy par­ty.
To her, becom­ing queen wasn’t a dream; it was her worst
night­mare.
“It was nev­er sup­posed to be me. I was the spare.” Brid­get
blinked, her eyes bright with unshed tears. My chest squeezed at the
sight. “It was nev­er sup­posed to be me,” she repeat­ed.
I grasped her chin and tilt­ed it until she was look­ing at me.
“You’re a lot of things, princess. Stub­born, infu­ri­at­ing, a pain in my
ass half the time. But I promise you, you’re not a spare any­thing.”
She let out a weak laugh. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve
ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Anoth­er small laugh, one that fad­ed as quick­ly as it had come.
“What am I going to do?” Brid­get whis­pered. “I’m not ready. I don’t
think I’ll ever be ready.”
“You’re Brid­get von Ascheberg,” I said. “You’ll be ready.”
Brid­get excelled at every­thing she did, and being queen would be
no excep­tion.
“In the mean­time…” I hoped I didn’t regret what I was about to
say. “You’re going to live your life the way you want. As long as it
doesn’t involve Vin­cent fuck­ing Hauz.”
If I ever saw that fuck­er again, I would break every bone in his
body just for touch­ing her and occu­py­ing space in her thoughts. He
didn’t deserve any inch of her.
Brid­get bright­ened a bit. “Does that mean you’ll fuck me?”
Def­i­nite­ly still drunk.
I groaned, well aware of the erec­tion that hadn’t waned at all this
entire time. “No, princess. That’s not a good idea.”
She frowned. “But it’s on my buck­et list.”
Oh, Jesus. I was almost afraid to ask, but… “You have a buck­et
list?”
Brid­get nod­ded. “For before I return to Eldor­ra.” She ticked off
the items on her fin­gers. “One, go some­place where no one knows or
cares who I am. Two, eat and read and sun­bathe all day with­out hav-
ing to wor­ry about an event lat­er or wak­ing up ear­ly the next day.
Three, do an adren­a­line rush activ­i­ty my grand­fa­ther will yell at me
for, like bungee jump­ing. And four, have an orgasm I didn’t give
myself.” Her shoul­ders slumped. “It’s been a while.”
Fuck. Now the men­tal image of Brid­get giv­ing her­self an orgasm
would for­ev­er be etched in my mind.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. How the hell did I get myself
into this sit­u­a­tion? The night had gone so far off the rails I couldn’t
see the tracks any­more.
“One is prob­a­bly off the table,” Brid­get said. “But you can help
me with four.”
She was going to achieve some­thing nei­ther my moth­er nor the
mil­i­tary had. She was going to kill me.
“Go to bed,” I said in a strained voice. “Alone. You’re drunk, and
it’s late.”
Brid­get stared at my groin, where my obvi­ous arousal tent­ed my
pants. “But—”
“No.” I need­ed to get out of there. Stat. “No buts. You’ll thank me
in the morn­ing.”
Before she could protest fur­ther, I left and head­ed straight to my
bath­room, where I took the world’s longest, cold­est show­er. It did
noth­ing to slake the heat of my arousal. Nei­ther did fist­ing my cock
until I reached a whol­ly unsat­is­fy­ing orgasm.