Rhys Larsen had been in many ridiculous situations throughout his career. Car chases. Shootouts. Escorting high-profile figures across hostile territories.

But never—never—had he expected to find himself sprinting through a dimly lit bar after a drunk princess who was chasing a stray kitten.

"Princess!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and loud chatter. Heads turned, but the woman in question didn’t even pause.

Princess of Eldorra, future queen, the woman he had been assigned to protect with his life, was currently stumbling through sticky floors, arms outstretched, your long golden hair wild as you giggled at a tiny, darting kitten.

Rhys swore under his breath, shoving past a couple making out near the jukebox. His patience was hanging by a thread. How did we get here?

One moment, he had been standing stiffly in the corner of a gala, nodding at diplomats while keeping an eye on his charge. The next? The princess had vanished. A frantic search led him here—to a seedy bar where you had somehow acquired four tequila shots and an unwavering determination to befriend a street cat.

You cooed, bending down and nearly toppling over. The kitten bolted, weaving between tables, and so did you.

"Princess, for the love of—" Rhys lunged just as you tripped over your own damn feet. He caught you mid-fall, arms locking around your waist before you hit the floor.