8. Chapter Eight #2
“That’s why we’re doing this,” Bran says. “So you aren’t the next person who does.”
Silence drops over the table.
Simone’s anger flickers.
For less than a second, fear replaces it.
Then she pushes back her chair.
“Thank you for the lecture.”
She rises.
“I’ll be in my studio, where I don’t have to listen to three men explain my own life to me.”
She stalks from the room.
Her frustration shouldn’t please me.
It does.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I can’t stop the faint satisfaction that comes from knowing her attempt to report me to Francis accomplished nothing.
It’s shortly after midnight when I hear the faint creak of a window opening.
Protecting Simone around the clock means sleeping at the estate, though sleep is a generous description of what I do.
Years of training have taught my body to rest while keeping part of my mind alert.
The sound pulls me fully awake.
I leave the guest room without turning on a light and move silently toward Simone’s bedroom.
I press one ear against her door.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No movement.
But I already know she isn’t inside.
I head downstairs and take the quickest path through the kitchen to the back garden.
It doesn’t take long to find her.
Simone is halfway across the lawn in a tiny black dress and sparkling heels that have no business touching damp earth.
She moves carefully, glancing over both shoulders as though she has spent years practicing how to escape her own home.
Maybe she has.
Maybe she saves these tricks specifically to make my job harder.
I follow without making a sound.
She is too focused on reaching the garden gate to notice me behind her.
Then I deliberately step onto the gravel.
The stones crunch beneath my shoe.
She freezes.
Her bare spine straightens before she slowly turns toward me.
I can’t decide whether to be disappointed or impressed.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say.
She faces me fully.
My stomach twists.
Moonlight catches the subtle shimmer of her black dress. The fabric clings to her hips and leaves her shoulders, back, and a narrow strip of her stomach bare.
Thin straps cross behind her neck.
Her legs look impossibly long in the heels. Her hair falls in deliberate waves around her shoulders, and her lips are painted the same deep red as her nails.
Dark makeup frames her eyes.
She doesn’t look remotely guilty.
She looks bold.
Defiant.
Dangerous.
For one unforgivable second, I forget why I’m supposed to stop her.
My gaze travels down her body before I force it back to her face.
My throat is dry.
I tell myself the reaction is concern.
My pulse disagrees.
“I’m young,” she says, swinging a tiny silver purse from her fingers. “I’m allowed to enjoy my life.”
“You’re violating every protocol we discussed.”
“Don’t bore me.”
She lifts her chin.
“You caught me. Congratulations. What happens now? Because I’m not missing this party.”
“You’ll freeze before you reach the car.”
“That’s my problem.”
I step closer.
Her perfume reaches me, sweet and strong enough to make my thoughts blur.
“Do you remember the rules?”
She rolls her eyes. “You aren’t my father.”
“No.”
She closes the remaining distance before I can continue.
She’s near enough that I feel the warmth of her skin and the soft brush of her breath.
“Listen carefully, Luca.”
Her voice lowers until it’s nearly a whisper.
“I’m not staying locked inside this house like a grounded teenager while the rest of the world continues without me.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I need to breathe. I need one night that feels normal.”
I struggle to keep my thoughts focused on the threat rather than her mouth.
“You were nearly shot three days ago.”
“And you’ve been using that as an excuse ever since.”
Her eyes flash.
“You enjoy this, don’t you? Ordering me around. Playing the hero.”
I study her face for a moment too long.
The heavy sweep of her lashes.
The shimmer near the corners of her eyes.
The red curve of her lips.
“You think I enjoy following you around like a glorified babysitter?”
“Are you finished?”
She looks toward the gate.
“I’m already late.”
I knew she would fight the arrangement.
I knew she would test every boundary Francis established.
But dragging her into the house would prove every accusation she has made about me.
And calling her father would turn security into punishment.
She isn’t a child.
She’s also going to that party with or without my permission.
“I’m coming with you.”
Her expression darkens. “No, you aren’t.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll ruin it.”
“Then give me no reason to.”
I step back.
Frustration moves across her face. She considers arguing again, then realizes I’m not changing my mind.
“Stay here,” I tell her. “I’m getting the keys.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Do not move.”
I return to the house, expecting the garden to be empty when I come back.
To my surprise, she’s still there, staring at her phone.
She doesn’t acknowledge me. She simply follows as I lead her toward the garage.
Once we’re inside the car and beyond the estate gates, I glance toward her.
“Where is the party?”
She locks her phone and gives me a serious look.
“If you’re going to follow me, you cannot hover.”
“I’m your bodyguard.”
“I know what you are.”
She begins counting demands on her fingers.
“Don’t stand behind me like a stalker. Don’t glare at everyone who says hello. Don’t act like you want to punch anyone who tries to have a conversation.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
She points one red nail at me.
“You need to blend in. Act natural. Pretend you aren’t miserable for one evening.”
Her eyes narrow.
“And do not embarrass me.”
I turn onto the main road.
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“How I keep you safe is up to me.”
Her mouth flattens.
The silence that follows is thick with irritation.
But she doesn’t argue again.
She thinks this is about rules.
About curfews.
About me trying to control her.
She still doesn’t understand.
Somebody tried to murder her father in front of hundreds of witnesses.
Until we know who ordered it—and whether Simone is next—behaving might be the only thing that keeps her alive.