"He's hot." I hear the admiration in her voice and stop smoothing the dress down. I know all my friends have a crush onmybodyguard. But that's just it, he's mine!
"He's infuriating," I correct her, even though a traitorous heat climbs my neck. For the past few months, I've been trying to convince my friends—and myself—that Idon'tlike Raffael.
"You’ve had a crush on him since you were sixteen. Don’t lie." She counters. I hate it when my best friends know me too well.
"Whatever. That was a phase. I’m over it." I ignore the little sting in my chest and sit down by my vanity to apply some makeup.
"Sure you are," she teases. "Text me when you ditch the royal leash, and we'll come pick you up, okay?"
"Let's go toClub Siren." I want to bite my tongue the moment the words are out.
"Club Siren?" I hear the frown in her voice. It's not a club owned by any member of our families.
"I heard Angelo talk about it," I explain, omitting the fact that I heard him mention the club to Raffael earlier, followed by,Do it tonight. Which I took as meaning Raffael would be there tonight.
"I've heard of it. It's kind of edgy, isn't it?"
I have no idea. I didn’t know it existed before tonight. "I think so."
"Sure, why not. I'll talk to the others," Gigi agrees. "Later."
"Later," I reply before she hangs up, unsure if I have just opened the door to something I shouldn't have. But seeing Raffael out of his suit and element will be worth it. I've seen him once or twice in hisstreet clothes—dark jeans and a leather jacket, and he looked hot as hell. My heart is hammering harder than it should at the thought of doing forbidden things tonight.
I end the call and sigh. My crush on Raffael wasn't a phase, or if so, I'm still in it. Ever since Raffael became my official shadow at sixteen—assigned by my father, after I ran off to Sicily to see my brother—I’ve been painfully aware of him. Of how he never quite looks at me the way other men do, no matter how provocatively I dress. How his silences say more than his words. How he always hovers close enough to protect me, but never close enough to touch.
He always calls me princess. Not principessa like everyone else. Not Miss Orsi, like the staff. Just that one word. I wish it were a nickname, but I'm sure it's not. It's more like a reminder to himself of who I am. His boss, Carlos Orsi's, daughter.
Finished with the makeup, I check my phone’s clock. Raffael's shift should be over, and Rufus, my nightguard, should be on duty. I pad toward the hall to check on Rufus. It'll be much easier to escape him than Raffal. As I walk down the stairs, I'm trying hard not to think about the way Raffael looked at me this morning. I could have sworn I read desire in his eyes—not that I know much about that.My father, brother, and now Raffael have been making sure that no boy or man ever gets close to me.Why not simply slap a chastity belt on me? I grumble, not for the first time. Everything else feels medieval enough. Marry to advance the family. Do as the men say. Don't have any ambitions of your own.
Gigi and Izzy are more rebellious about that than Cammie and me, probably because their fathers and brothers seem to live more in reality than in the past, and they actually love their daughters. For me? I accepted my fate a long time ago, but that doesn't stop me from dreaming about a certain bodyguard, nor does it keep me from occasionally rebelling in my own way. Like tonight.
Downstairs, the kitchen lights are on, and I hear voices. There’s a hard laugh that I know belongs to the night cook. I'm willing to bet Rufus is already in there as well, stacking the poker chips for the night staff's evening game. They'll all be busy until the morning.
I'm about to sneak toward the guest wing—that has a separate entrance—when I notice the door to the back patio is cracked open. I pause at the threshold, and my blood runs first cold and then hot. Raffael is standing just outside, leaning against the railing, one hand tucked into his jacket, the other holding a cigarette that glows at the end. He hears me before I speak. He always does.
"Outfits like that usually mean someone's up to no good," he says, not turning around.
Now he notices? I glance down at my short black dress.Tight. Bold. Nothing I’d normally wear around the house.
"It's none of your business what I wear." I huff.
He exhales a slow drag. Fascinated, I watch the smoke curling around him like it belongs there. It makes him look even more dramatic. Not that he needs it. He's leaning against the marble column like he owns it, one foot crossed over the other, suit stretched across broad shoulders that make it look custom, even though I know it isn’t. It’s cheap. Off the rack. But on him? It looks lethal. Like everything he wears molds to the man underneath. Like even his clothes are afraid not to obey.
He exhales another drag from the cigarette, and I swear, time slows. I hate the way the smoke curls around him, making me wish I could do that. A light from the patio plays shadowed lines over the sharp edge of his jaw, dancing over his lips, framing him in something dark and dangerous and impossible to look away from.
He doesn’t need the theatrics. The shadows cling to him naturally. He was born in them. That face—too harsh to be beautiful, too beautiful to be ignored—turns slightly in my direction, and even from a few feet away, I feel it.
The awareness that brings heat to my insides.
The slight warning he always wears in his eyes.
This man doesn’t need weapons.
He is one.
His expression is unreadable, and as always, it makes me feel small and seen all at once.
"It is my business. You're under my protection."
