Chapter 10 Quiet Watcher #3
“Your form is perfect. Your lies are not.”
That landed. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes went cold.
“I don't answer to you, Viktor. You're here to keep me alive, not interrogate me about every bruise.”
“Is not interrogation.” I moved closer, dropping my voice. “Job that is impossible when you hide injuries. When you lie about where you get them.”
“I told you. Training accident.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Is bullshit. Training accidents do not leave finger-shaped bruises on bicep. Do not cause defensive wounds on forearms. Do not—” I gestured to his shoulder, “—tear through muscle tissue in pattern consistent with knife graze.”
“You don't know that's what it is.”
“I know exactly what it is. I have seen enough knife wounds to recognize one.” My hands fisted at my sides. “What I do not know is why you are lying to me about it.”
“Maybe because it's none of your business.”
“Your safety is my business. Your injuries are my business. Everything that affects your ability to survive is my business.” I stepped closer, invading his space. “So tell me. Where did you get knife wound that you are pretending is arrow scratch?”
Sebastian's mask cracked. Just for a second. I saw fury underneath. And something else. Fear, maybe. Or shame.
“Back off, Viktor.”
“No.”
“I'm not doing this with you.”
“Then when? When will you trust me enough to tell truth? After third assassination attempt? Fourth? After you are dead and I am writing report about how I failed because you would not let me do my job?”
“My job,” he shot back, voice rising, “is to lead. To represent the crown. To be visible and present and available. Your paranoia is making that impossible.”
“Is not paranoia when people keep trying to kill you.”
“Two incidents. That's all. Two incidents that could've been accidents—”
“Support bolts do not accidentally fail. Motorcade routes do not accidentally get leaked.” I moved even closer. Close enough to see gold flecks in green eyes. Close enough to watch his pulse hammer in his throat. “And princes do not accidentally get knife wounds they hide from their bodyguards.”
“You're overstepping.”
“I am doing what I was hired to do.”
“What you were hired to do is follow me around and look intimidating. Not interrogate me like I'm a suspect.”
“What I was hired to do,” I said through gritted teeth, “is to keep you alive. And you are making that impossible. Every lie. Every hidden injury.”
“You've been tracking my movements?”
“Is my responsibility to know where you are.”
“At all times? Even when I'm in my own chambers? Even when I'm supposedly off-duty?” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “What else, Viktor? Are you monitoring my communications? Reading my mail? Checking my visitors?”
“I am doing what is necessary.”
“You're being a controlling bastard.”
“Controlling,” I repeated. Voice flat. Cold. “I am trying to keep you alive. If that makes me bastard, so be it. Better controlling bastard than bodyguard who writes condolence letter to your father.”
“Don't.” Sebastian's finger jabbed toward my chest. “Don't you dare use my father to manipulate me. I'm doing everything you asked. I cancelled appearances. I'm staying in secure areas. I'm letting you dictate my entire life. What more do you want?”
“I want truth. I want you to stop lying about injuries. I want you to stop treating security protocols like suggestions. I want—” I cut myself off. Because what I wanted was complicated and inappropriate and had nothing to do with professional boundaries.
“What?” he pushed. “What do you want, Viktor?”
“I want you to trust me.”
The admission hung between us. Raw. Honest. More vulnerable than I'd intended.
Sebastian stared at me. Something flickered across his face. Too fast to read.
“Trust you,” he said slowly. “You want me to trust the man who threatened to tell my father I'm being difficult? Who monitors my every movement? Who looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved instead of a person?”
“I do not—”
“You do.” His voice cracked slightly. “You look at me and see a liability. A job. Someone whose only value is staying alive long enough for you to collect your paycheck and move on to the next assignment.”
“That is not true.”
“Isn't it?” He stepped back. Put distance between us. “Then what am I, Viktor? If I'm not just an assignment, what am I to you?”
The question was a trap. A loaded gun pointed at my chest. Answer honestly and I'd cross a line I couldn't uncross. Lie and I'd prove his point.
“You are my principal,” I said carefully. “My responsibility. Someone I am tasked with protecting.”
“Right.” His smile was bitter. Sharp. “Your principal. Your responsibility. That's all.”
“What else would you be?”
“I don't know. Maybe someone you actually give a damn about instead of just someone you're paid to care about.” He turned away. Started walking. “I'm going to my chambers. Alone. Try not to track my movements too closely. Wouldn't want to violate my privacy any more than you already have.”
“Sebastian—”
“Save it.” He didn't look back. “I'll be the good, obedient prince you want me to be. I'll stay locked in my rooms. Won't cause you any trouble. Isn't that what you wanted?”
He disappeared around the corner before I could answer.
I stood there in the empty corridor, hands still fisted, breathing hard. Anger and frustration and something worse churning in my gut.