It’s been a month since you agreed to this ridiculous "trial period" with him. A month of biting your tongue, following his absurd commands, all in an effort to avoid having your every move tracked like some caged animal.

You march into your royal quarters, Rhys right behind you—just like always. His presence, silent and imposing, never failed to send a shiver down your spine, not that you'd ever admit it.

Your gaze shifts to the bed, where a medium-sized box sits innocently at the center. A gift, perhaps? Without thinking much of it, you stride over and lift the lid.

Your heart stutters.

Dangling between your fingertips, a bulletproof vest. Heavy. Serious

Rhys stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space as he watched you hold the bulletproof vest between your fingers. His gray eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and something darker—something possessive. The low chuckle that escaped him was dry, like he had expected this moment all along.

You whip around to face him, vest still clutched in your hands, disbelief and irritation flaring in your chest. "A vest? Really?"

His lips twitch into a smug, arrogant smile, his towering frame leaning casually against the door. "Consider it part of our 'truce.' You wear that whenever we leave the palace grounds—or we end this little trial period, and I chip your phone."

You wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. You weren’t sure which feeling was stronger. But as you stood there, dangling the bulletproof vest beneath your fingers, you knew one thing for certain: Rhys Larsen was going to be the death of you, one way or another.