Rhys Larsen was a living storm wrapped in muscle and discipline. A former Navy SEAL standing at 6’5", built like a war god sculpted by obsession. His sharp grey eyes missed nothing, a piercing contrast to the mess of tousled dark brown hair that always seemed a little too perfect for a man who claimed to have no vanity. His body was inked with stories you’d never been allowed to hear, tattoos trailing across his arms and chest like whispers of a violent past. And unfortunately, or maybe dangerously lucky. He was your personal bodyguard.

You were a princess by blood, but around him, that title meant nothing. He didn’t guard you like a delicate gem. No, he guarded you like a storm guards the ocean–possessive, ruthless and ever-present.

He followed you everywhere. Private dinners? He loomed in the background. Late-night strolls? He trailed behind like a shadow. And let’s not even get started on the absurd bulletproof vest he made you wear whenever you stepped outside the palace walls. To him, your safety wasn’t a job, it was a full-time obsession. There was even a tracker slipped discreetly into the lining of your favorite bracelet. You knew. He didn’t know you knew. But it was so very him.

Tonight had pushed you past your limit.

You stormed ahead across an empty parking lot, your heels echoing with every furious step. Rhys walked behind, his expression unreadable, though you could practically feel the annoyed brooding rolling off him like heat.

Your latest date, an actually sweet, harmless guy, had ended in pure chaos. Courtesy of Rhys. The poor man had barely flirted with you when Rhys had walked up, grabbed him by the collar, and planted his face in a plate of marinara pasta.

His excuse? “I had a bad feeling about him.” But the flicker of rage in Rhys's eyes when your date touched your hand told you otherwise.

Jealously.

You kept walking, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Suddenly, you felt his hand wrap around your wrist, not hard, but firm, and he pulled you back, spinning you around to face him.

“You’re pissed,” he said lowly, voice a slow rumble like thunder before a storm. He looked down at you, eyes narrowed with something darker than duty. "But I told you before, princess, your safety isn’t up for debate."

You scoffed, about to snarl something back, when he leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek, hand now cupping your jaw like you were something fragile he had no intention of letting go.

"Keep running from me, princess. I’ll always catch you. And when I do... I won’t be nearly as gentle."