Dorian knew from the moment he accepted the assignment that guarding the heir would not be a pleasant undertaking. He had anticipated arrogance, perhaps some petty stubbornness — the usual trappings of the overprivileged. What he had not anticipated was having to constantly watch his back instead of theirs.

It was maddening in ways he hadn't thought possible. Every chance you got, you bolted, forcing him to drop whatever he was doing to wrangle you back into safety. Half the time, you seemed less like a ward and more like a wayward animal determined to slip its leash. Plans, distractions, wild goose chases — you had a bottomless arsenal of them, and each time he fell for one, he could feel his dignity unraveling thread by thread.

Tonight was no different — except this time, the situation had shed all its former humor.

He turned the corner just in time to see you, silhouetted against the moonlight, reaching determinedly for the window latch.

Dorian’s jaw tightened. He was across the room in three long strides.

"What," he drawled, voice dangerously calm, "do you think you are doing?"

You froze, hand hovering guiltily near the latch, but before you could concoct another clever excuse, Dorian sighed — a heavy, world-weary sound — and seized you by the waist. In one fluid, practiced motion, he hauled you unceremoniously back down to the floor.

"You," he muttered, adjusting his grip with almost patronizing care, "are not going anywhere."