Twisted Games (Twisted, #2)(38)

Transition.

My breath, my heart. Everything stopped. “You’re resigning?”

“You don’t need me here. You have the Royal Guard. I resign, or the palace releases me from my contract. Same ending.”

The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but it made sense. The palace had hired Rhys because they hadn’t wanted to pull any Royal Guard members away from their family when I was living in the U.S. Now that I was moving back, they didn’t need a contractor.

“But I…” I do need you.

Rhys and I may not have gotten along in the beginning, but now, I couldn’t imagine not having him by my side.

The kidnapping. Graduation. My grandfather’s hospitalization. Dozens of trips, hundreds of events, thousands of tiny moments like the time he’d ordered me chicken soup when I was sick or when he’d lent me his jacket after I left mine at home.

He’d been with me through it all.

“So, that’s it.” I blinked away the ache behind my eyes. “We have one more month and then you’ll just…leave.”

Rhys’s eyes darkened to a near black, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Don’t worry, princess. Maybe you’ll get Booth as your bodyguard again. It’ll be like old times for you two.”

I was suddenly, irrationally angry. At him, his dismissive tone, the entire situation.

“Maybe I will,” I snapped. “I can’t wait. He was the best bodyguard I ever had.”

It was a low blow, and judging by the way Rhys stiffened, it hit its target.

“Good. Then it’s a win-win all around,” he said in a cold, controlled voice. He stood and walked to the exit without looking back.

The door slammed behind him, causing me to jump.

The ache behind my eyes intensified until a stray tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily.

I had no reason to cry. I’d changed bodyguards plenty of times before, and I was used to people leaving. Rhys hadn’t even been with me for that long. Booth had been with me for four years, and I hadn’t cried when he left.

Another tear fell. I wiped that one away too.

Princesses don’t cry. Elin’s disapproving voice echoed in my head.

She was right.

I refused to spend my last month of freedom agonizing over Rhys Larsen, of all people. We would return to New York, I would sort my affairs, and I would soak up every minute of my remaining time as a mere princess, not queen to be.

Forget propriety and protocol. If there was ever a time to live my life the way I wanted, it was now.

And if Rhys had a problem with that? Too bad.





14





Rhys





3 weeks later

Some people have shitty days or shitty weeks. I’d had a shitty month.

Things between me and Bridget had been chilly since she told me she was moving back to Eldorra, and I hated that was how we were spending our last days together.

Our last days together.

My chest clenched at the thought, but I forced myself to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. I was still on the clock. We had a week left in New York. After that, I would accompany her back to Athenberg, where I would stay another week until her new guard fully transitioned into the role.

We didn’t know who the new guy would be yet, but I already hated him…though not as much as I hated the guy Bridget was dancing with right now.

We were in the VIP room of Borgia, a fancy nightclub in downtown Manhattan, and Bridget had her arms wrapped around the pretty-boy douche who’d been ogling her all night. I recognized him—Vincent Hauz, an electronics heir and notorious womanizer who spent the majority of his days drinking, partying, and keeping the city’s drug dealers flush with cash. He and Bridget had attended a few of the same events in the past.

I’d never wanted to rip his arms off until now.

A person only had to look at his face to know what kind of thoughts were running through his mind, and they had nothing to do with dancing. At least, not the vertical kind.

My blood burned as Bridget laughed at something Vincent said. I was positive he wasn’t capable of saying anything witty even if someone threatened to take his inheritance away, but Bridget was also drunk. She’d already downed two cocktails and five shots—I’d counted—and I could spot the alcohol-induced flush on her cheeks from across the room.

She wore a sparkling silver dress that barely covered her bottom and a pair of lethal-looking heels that transformed her from tall to Amazonian. Tousled golden hair, long legs, skin gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat—she was magnificent. And not herself.

Normal Bridget would’ve never worn a dress like that—not because she couldn’t, but because it wasn’t her style—but she’d been acting strange since that night on the rooftop. Wilder, less inhibited, and more prone to questionable decisions.

Case in point: Vincent Hauz. She didn’t like the guy. She’d said so herself one time, and yet there she was, cozying up to him.

He pulled her closer and slid his hand down her back to cup her ass.

Before I knew what I was doing, I’d shoved my way across the dance floor and clamped my hand on Vincent’s shoulder tight enough he flinched and pulled back from Bridget to see who the interloper was.

“Can I help you?” His tone dripped with disdain as he looked me over, obviously unimpressed by my lack of designer clothes and fancy accessories.