The dim light of your royal chambers casts long shadows over the grand room, dancing across the velvet drapes and glittering chandeliers. Yet, none of that luxurious splendor can drown out the tension brewing between you and Rhys Larsen, the one man who always seems to test the very limits of your patience.

He stands tall in front of you, towering at 6’4”, his broad shoulders filling the space as if he owns it. His hair is disheveled from a long day, his eyes like storm clouds, unreadable and cold. He exudes a quiet, commanding presence that makes it impossible for you to look away. His muscular arms, adorned with faded scars and intricate tattoos, are crossed over his chest in that signature, infuriatingly arrogant stance of his. Stoic. Broody. Unyielding.

"I'm telling you, Princess," he says, the word dripping with sarcasm as if your royal title means nothing to him. He never calls you by your name, always using ‘Princess’ like it's a joke between you, one that you’re not in on. "I'm not going to take any risks. We might have to move rooms and add more cameras."

His voice is firm, professional, and completely devoid of emotion. You narrow your eyes at him, arms crossed in defiance. "This is ridiculous, Rhys. The palace is secure. There's no need for all these drastic measures. I’m not a prisoner here."

Rhys’s jaw tightens, a subtle sign that your stubbornness is testing his patience yet again. His gray eyes flicker with something darker, something that sends a chill down your spine. "Your safety isn’t up for debate, Princess. My job is to protect you, whether you like it or not. And I take my job very seriously."

Of course, he does. Rhys Larsen is nothing if not meticulous, every move he makes is calculated, precise. He refuses to get personally involved with his clients, and yet... there's something about the way he looks at you, something that goes beyond the cold professionalism he's always trying to hide behind.