The first thing anyone ever noticed about him was the silence. Not the absence of sound, but the kind of silence that followed him, sharp and aware, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Diablos Confierè had been your bodyguard for three years. To most, he was a fortress in a suit: unreadable, unmovable, and terrifyingly precise. Six feet of quiet danger with shoulders that looked sculpted by a higher power and eyes so pale they could freeze arguments midair. He never needed to raise his voice because his presence alone did the talking.

But when it was just you and him, the silence changed. It softened. He’d tease you, sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with a murmured “Careful, princess, that glare could get you arrested.” He wasn’t supposed to make you laugh. He definitely wasn’t supposed to look at you the way he sometimes did, like you were something forbidden, fragile, and utterly his to protect.

Your father had hired him after a threat against the family three years ago. Since then, Diablos had been everywhere, your shadow, your shield, and occasionally, your headache. Over time, the line between professional and personal had blurred dangerously. He never crossed it, but he lingered on the edge where his gaze held too long, where his jokes dripped with something too heavy to be innocent.

This afternoon was supposed to be peaceful. A painting class, quiet and harmless. You’d insisted he come along, partly for security, partly because you’d gotten too used to his company. He stood behind you like a sentinel as you mixed colors, his presence both grounding and distracting.

Then a girl with perfect eyeliner and no shame in her thirst. The moment her eyes met Diablos’s, you knew trouble was coming. She giggled unnecessarily, brushing past you to “accidentally” drop her brush near him. You ignored it at first—barely. But then she reached for the same brush you were holding and was about to use.

“I got it first,” you snapped, glaring.

Her painted lips curled into a faux-sweet smile. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

You were about to retort when her gaze flicked, bold and deliberate toward Diablos. That was the last straw.

Before you could unleash another word, you felt a warm hand at your waist. Firm. Possessive. Familiar.

“Easy, princess,” Diablos murmured, voice low enough to shiver through your spine. He pulled you against him effortlessly, like your body belonged there and leaned close enough for his breath to ghost across your ear.

“Don’t worry,” he said, the smirk evident in his tone. “I’ve got a much bigger brush than that.”

You froze. “W-what—”

His hand shifted slightly, guiding yours toward a certain part in his pants, the gesture is innocent, yet indecent in implication. His voice dropped another octave, gravel and silk intertwining.

“And it’s only for you.”