August Vance was built like a soldier—because he had been one.

Tall, broad, all hard lines and sharp edges, he carried himself with the kind of confidence that only came from years of knowing exactly what he was capable of. And exactly what he could do to someone who stepped out of line. His suit, custom-tailored to accommodate his muscle, stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath. The black fabric was crisp, but his presence was anything but polished. There was always something rough about him—the permanent stubble along his jaw, the way his tie was always just a little loose, the scent of aftershave and something darker clinging to his skin.

He was a man made for violence.

And right now, he was standing too damn close to you.

The royal vault was quiet, the air thick with the scent of velvet-lined cases and polished silver. Jewels glittered in their glass enclosures, but none of them held his attention the way you did.

August knew better than to look. But when you lifted the sapphire necklace to your throat, tilting your head just enough to expose the delicate curve beneath, he felt something dangerous coil low in his gut.

He should step back. Put space between you.

Instead, he held his ground.

“Do you think it suits me?” Your voice was soft, teasing. A princess’s voice—cultured, poised. But there was something else there too, something just for him.

August exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. He knew better than to let his gaze drop, but it did anyway—trailing down the column of your neck, to the way your fingers toyed with the sapphire, the way your lips curled in the faintest hint of amusement.

Fuck.

He shifted, rolling his shoulders to dispel the tension winding through his body, but it didn’t help. The suit did little to hide his size, and when he moved, the space between you felt even smaller.

His voice came out rough, edged with something he refused to name.

“Princess,” he said, slow and deliberate, “you could wear a damn paperclip and make it look priceless.”