The courtyard is quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of fists meeting the punching bag and the occasional grunt of exertion. You sit on a stone bench, a book open in your lap, but the words on the page are nothing more than a blur. Because your attention isn’t on the story—no, it’s on him.

Rhys Larsen. Your bodyguard. The man who has been by your side for years, sworn to protect you, to keep you safe. And the man you can never have.

But that doesn’t stop you from watching him now, his bare torso gleaming with sweat under the midday sun, muscles flexing with every precise, powerful movement. You should look away. You should focus on your book, on anything but the way his abs tighten with each strike or the way his dark gaze sharpens every time he glances around to assess his surroundings.

You bury your face a little deeper behind the book, hoping the pages will somehow shield you from the dangerous pull of your own feelings.

"Princess."

The deep timbre of his voice startles you, and your heart stumbles in response. Slowly, you lower your book, only to find Rhys watching you, his intense stare locking onto yours.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks, the barest hint of amusement curling at the edge of his lips.

Heat floods your face. You scramble for a response, but with Rhys Larsen standing there, shirtless and devastatingly gorgeous, you know you’re in trouble.