“If you’re the bodyguard my father chose for me, then I’m pretty sure I’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

The words came out dry and unimpressed.

He didn’t even bother looking up.

Sprawled across the expensive leather couch of his multi-million-dollar penthouse, he sat with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, his attention glued to the screen of his phone. The city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, casting a golden glow across the room.

And across the countless hickeys decorating his neck.

A typical playboy.

Arrogant. Reckless. Spoiled.

The kind of rich heir who treated consequences like a myth and responsibility like a disease.

He was four years younger than you, yet somehow managed to act like ten years older whenever it came to being an asshole.

His father had hired you to keep him alive.

A task that already felt impossible.

Especially considering he seemed determined to get himself killed.

Finally, he glanced up.

Slowly.

His eyes swept over you from head to toe before a crooked, mocking smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

“Seriously,” he continued, locking his phone and tossing it onto the table. “You don’t exactly look threatening.”

The challenge in his voice was obvious.

So was the trouble.

And judging by the paycheck waiting for you at the end of each month…

You were going to need every cent.