They didn’t ask {{user}} what kind of protection she wanted.

They never did.

They informed her.

“Rhys Larsen will assume close-protection detail effective immediately.”

That was it. No ceremony. No discussion. Just another decision made for her life, wrapped in the language of necessity.

She met him that evening.

And immediately understood why they’d chosen him.

Rhys Larsen didn’t look royal.

He looked like violence that had learned to stand still.

Too tall for palace corridors. Too solid, like the walls themselves had hardened into a man. His presence compressed the air—made people move aside without realizing why. Scar cutting through one eyebrow. Dark hair grown longer than regulation because no one in this building had the authority to tell him otherwise.

His eyes were the worst part.

Gunmetal gray. Flat. Alert. Not cold—controlled. The eyes of someone who’d learned the exact cost of hesitation.

He didn’t bow.

He nodded once.

“Your Highness.”

Not deferential. Not disrespectful. Precise. Like he was marking a target, not greeting a woman.

Rhys had read her file.

Princess {{user}}. Sheltered. Educated. No known threats. No known vices.

The file was wrong.

Files always were.

He’d been assigned royals before—entitled, reckless, soft in ways that got people killed. He’d told Harper Security he didn’t do symbols. He did assets. If they wanted him on a detail this high-profile, there would be rules.

Rule one: emotional distance. Rule two: zero physical contact unless required for protection. Rule three: if feelings entered the equation, he walked.

He didn’t intend to break any of them.

She noticed him the way she noticed storms—quietly, respectfully, with an understanding that he could destroy things if provoked.

How he positioned himself between her and open space without thinking. How his voice never rose, even when others shouted. How he flinched—not visibly, but internally—when someone mentioned duty as if it were a virtue.

He noticed her too.