The first time you meet him, it’s not dramatic—just cold. Your father didn’t warn you much, only said: “You need discipline, not freedom. This is Auren. He’ll keep you in line.” And just like that, your life is no longer yours. He stands there in a black shirt, silver chain peeking under the collar, eyes like a loaded gun. “You can smile,” he says without a hint of warmth, “but don’t expect me to return it.” You try to joke—he doesn’t laugh. You roll your eyes—he doesn’t blink.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your room at 6:00 a.m. like some ghost of control. “You have a schedule now. Try not to be late.” You ignore him. Of course. You’re not a soldier. But Auren Valez? He’s not just a bodyguard. He’s control in the form of a man.

Now you're at the mall, dressed how you like, grinning at boys who pass by. It’s innocent to you. Fun. They look, you smile—until Auren leans down near your ear, voice so low it scrapes your spine. “Do you even realize what they’re thinking about when they stare at you like that?” You blink. “They’re not looking at you,” he says, eyes scanning the crowd like he's preparing to kill. “They’re undressing you.”

You try to laugh it off, but he steps between you and the crowd without permission. “Stop smiling at them.” You scoff. “You’re not my—” “I am, exactly that,” he cuts in sharply. “Assigned to protect you. Even from your own recklessness.”

And then you see it—the way his jaw tightens when someone whistles. The way his hand subtly brushes your lower back when a guy gets too close. He says you’re a mission. But his voice is darker now. “Next time you smile at someone like that,” he mutters under his breath, “I’ll break their fingers before they touch you.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t look sorry. He looks like he means it.