awritesthings

[awritesthings]

Chapter one of betting on desire!!

•

"Your Highness," he began, his tone low, calm, and unmistakably firm. "I am Guard Simon Blackwood, appointed as your personal protector and attendant."

He took one deliberate step closer, his gloved hands resting behind his back in a posture of discipline.

"As your new guard," he continued, "my sole purpose is to ensure both your safety—and your adherence to the expectations set forth by the Crown. I will be at your side at all hours. No exceptions."

Though his features were concealed, there was no mistaking the authority in his voice. This was not a man easily swayed, nor one who spoke lightly.

The princess arched an elegant brow as the masked figure introduced himself, the edges of her painted lips curling into a sly, knowing smile. She tilted her head slightly, as if studying a familiar game with a new player.

A soft, incredulous laugh slipped from her throat—low, melodic, and laced with amusement.

"They hired another one?" she mused aloud, more to herself than to him. Her tone dripped with condescension and amusement, as though she were commenting on a tired performance she'd seen far too many times before. "How brave... or desperate they must be."

Her gaze flicked over him like a blade—assessing, testing, already peeling back the layers of his stoic posture. She reclined lazily in her chair, amusement dancing in her eyes like a spark waiting to catch flame.

"Let's see how long you last."

The slightest movement in Simon's mask betrayed a shift—subtle, but unmistakable. Though his face remained hidden, there was a tension in the air, a quiet tightening of posture that suggested a frown forming beneath the dark fabric. Her laughter hadn't amused him—it had unsettled something colder, something sharper.

He remained silent for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting her words hang in the air like a challenge. Then he stepped forward with deliberate precision, the sound of his boots echoing against the marble floor as he closed the distance between them.

"Yes, they did," he said at last, his voice low and edged with a warning. "Apparently, the Crown has grown tired of failure."

He now stood directly before her, his form casting a long shadow across her seated figure. Though he never raised his voice, there was a weight behind his words that demanded attention—commanded respect.

"It seems the previous guards weren't... effective enough," he added, the pause deliberate, pointed.

He leaned in slightly—not threatening, but unmistakably dominant—as his tone dropped to something quiet and razor-sharp.

"Let's make one thing clear, Your Highness," he said, each word precise and controlled, "I'm not here to play your games. I'm not here to be tempted, toyed with, or tested. I'm here to keep you alive, in line, and far from scandal."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It pulsed.

The princess's smile vanished like a flame snuffed out by wind, replaced by a cold, regal stillness. Her spine straightened, and the playful gleam that once danced in her eyes hardened into something glacial and unyielding. She didn't flinch under his looming presence—instead, she rose to meet it with the kind of force only born of privilege, pride, and practiced command.

"No," she snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade of ice. "Let's make one thing clear, Simon."

She stood slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact, her chin lifting just enough to assert dominance, though he still towered over her.

"I am the Princess of this realm," she continued, her tone low and sharp, laced with venomous poise. "You answer to me. Not the other way around."

Each word struck like a gavel—final, unwavering. Her presence, once coy and teasing, now radiated the full authority of her title, as if daring him to question it.

"Forget that," she added coldly, "and you'll find your assignment ends just as quickly as it began."

Simon didn't so much as blink. Her words—sharp as they were—bounced off him like arrows against armor. He remained perfectly still, a shadow of control wrapped in iron discipline. The fire in her eyes might have scorched a lesser man, but his mask, and the man beneath it, showed no sign of retreat.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rasp—quiet, but edged with unshakable command. There was no anger in it. No arrogance. Just the cold, calculated tone of a man who'd buried better threats than her.

"In matters of security, Your Highness," he said, the title tasting like stone in his mouth, "the hierarchy is quite simple."

He took one slow step forward—not to threaten, but to remind her he was not like the others. His presence was a wall, unshifting, immovable.

"I keep you alive," he continued, voice steady and stripped of emotion, "and that means I give the orders."

There was a silence that followed, heavy and electric, as if the air itself waited for the explosion neither of them was willing to start—yet.

"Your title," he added, after a beat, "doesn't change that."

His words hung between them like a drawn blade—unspoken consequences coiling in the air. Two forces, unwilling to yield. And the battle lines had just been drawn.

The princess didn't flinch. Not at his tone, not at his words, not even at the raw authority laced within them. If anything, his cold confidence only seemed to amuse her further.

She arched a perfectly shaped brow, then let out a soft, mocking laugh—low and laced with venom. It wasn't the laugh of someone who found something funny. It was the laugh of someone who had seen too much, broken too many rules, and knew exactly how to cut someone without lifting a single finger.

"Tell that," she said coolly, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "to the thirty guards who either died... or ran in the last sixty days."

She stepped forward now, deliberately entering his space, her chin tilting upward as her gaze locked with the flat black mask that obscured his face. There was no fear in her eyes. Only challenge. Only fire.

"They came with rules and orders too," she continued, her smile widening just enough to show teeth. "They came thinking they could control me. That they were above the crown they were supposed to serve."

She paused, her voice dropping to a silken whisper—deadly soft.

"They're gone. You're not special."

She leaned in just enough that he could feel the heat of her breath beneath the mask.

"Let's see how long you last."

The silence that followed was suffocating—thick with tension, thick with threat. Neither of them blinked. Neither of them backed down.

Before she could draw another breath, he moved—swift and deliberate.

Simon stepped into her space with fluid precision, his movements controlled but unmistakably assertive. One gloved hand slammed flat against the wall beside her head, the sound sharp and final. The other remained at his side, relaxed but ready. His body didn't touch hers, but the space between them had vanished, replaced with a charged silence that cracked like lightning waiting to strike.

She was trapped—not by force, but by intention. A cage made of willpower and unspoken warning.

"Maybe those guards," he said, his voice low and edged like a blade drawn too slowly, "didn't understand what it truly means to protect royalty..."

He leaned in just enough for his breath to skim her cheek, the fabric of his mask concealing his expression, but not the tension behind it.

"...To put their life before their dignity. Their mission before their comfort."

His words were wrapped in steel—not a threat, but a promise. One forged in discipline, pain, and the ghosts of all the things he'd already survived.

Then, after a beat, his tone dropped lower. Darker.

"Or perhaps..."

He let the words trail off like a blade dragged across stone, unfinished but razor-sharp—inviting her to fill in the threat for herself.

She didn't wait for him to finish whatever dark thought he was dangling in the air between them.

Her jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with the cold, imperious fire of someone who had never been told no—and didn't plan to start now. The game had stopped being amusing the second he invaded her space.

"Back. Up."

The words came out like a whipcrack—sharp, clipped, and ice-cold. Not a request. A command.

Her voice carried none of the flirtation or amusement she'd wielded so effortlessly before. It was the voice of royalty—undeniable, authoritative, and dangerously close to snapping. The distance between them had disappeared, but her control? That hadn't wavered for a second.

"You may think you're different from the rest," she added quietly, eyes locked on the mask inches from her face, "but that doesn't mean you get to forget your place."

Simon eased his gloved hand away from the cold stone, the faint scrape echoing softly in the charged silence. Yet even as he retreated, his dark eyes remained locked on the princess's face—unblinking, unyielding, like a predator measuring its prey.

"As you wish, Your Highness," he said, his voice calm and controlled, each word dripping with quiet respect—but never submission.

He stepped back with measured precision, his posture easing into a relaxed stance, though the sharp intensity in his gaze never wavered. The space between them reopened, but the tension hung thick in the air, taut and electric.

Her eyes narrowed, icy and unyielding as they locked onto his. Every word she spoke cut through the charged silence like a blade.

"You will remain strictly professional," she commanded, her tone sharp and unwavering, leaving no room for argument or hesitation. "Follow me without question, without a sound, if that's what it takes to serve as my guard. Is that understood?"

Her posture was rigid, every inch the commanding princess who demanded obedience — not just in words, but in the very way he carried himself.

Simon's breathing grew more pronounced, a subtle but unmistakable sign of the irritation simmering just beneath his calm exterior. His gloved hands clenched briefly at his sides before he spoke, voice dropping to a low, controlled growl that carried a weight of warning.

"Professionalism means one thing above all else: ensuring your safety," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "not turning a blind eye to... inappropriate behavior."

His gaze sharpened, locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air between them crackle.

"And I wouldn't expect anything less from someone who believes they can simply order their personal protector around."

A slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of the princess's lips—a sharp contrast to the cold fire blazing in her eyes. Her voice dripped with playful condescension as she glanced over her shoulder, her tone laced with a mixture of challenge and mockery.

"Well, someone's mouthy," she teased, the words hanging in the thick, charged air like a spark daring him to ignite a flame.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned sharply on her heel, her silken gown swishing with practiced grace as she began to ascend the grand staircase that led to her private chambers. Each step was deliberate, a rhythmic assertion of power and control that echoed softly against the marble floors.

The heavy wooden door loomed before her, ornate iron hinges creaking as she pushed it open and slipped inside, the faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood trailing in her wake.

Simon followed close behind, each measured step of his heavy boots echoing sharply in the corridor, mirroring the soft rhythm of her heels. As she swept into her chambers, the subtle click of the ornate door closing behind them marked a boundary—one he was sworn to guard, yet one where his presence was anything but welcome.

He took his position silently by the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, the darkness of his mask catching and reflecting the shimmering light of the crystal chandelier above. The gleam only served to make his impassive facade more intimidating.

He remained utterly silent, but the weight of his presence filled the room—an unspoken reprimand hanging thick in the air. His posture, rigid and unyielding, spoke volumes: he was there to watch, to protect, and to judge.

The princess rolled her eyes with a dramatic flair, the gesture sharp enough to slice through the heavy silence that lingered between them. A slow, exasperated sigh escaped her lips—a breath that seemed to carry the weight of countless frustrations accumulated over years of being watched and controlled.

As she stepped fully into her room, the soft rustle of her gown brushing against the polished floor punctuated the moment. She paused, casting a sidelong glance over her shoulder at Simon, who remained a silent sentinel by the door.

"So," she began, her voice dripping with a mix of incredulity and simmering defiance, "you're really going to follow me everywhere... no matter what?"

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken challenges and barely concealed irritation. There was a sharpness to her tone—as if she was daring him to prove her wrong.

The flicker of candlelight caught the subtle curve of her lips, which twisted in a blend of disdain and reluctant acknowledgment. It was clear: the princess didn't welcome his presence, but she was acutely aware that resistance would only make the cage tighter.

"Yes, Your Highness," Simon replied, his voice steady but carrying a subtle edge of disapproval beneath the calm. Each word was carefully measured, as if choosing to say just enough and no more. "Even when you're... entertaining."

His gaze didn't waver, sharp and unyielding as he took a slow, deliberate step closer—closing the small distance between them while preserving the strict professionalism that defined him.

"Sleeping, eating, or otherwise occupied—my duty is to remain by your side. Always vigilant, always present."

The room seemed to tighten around them, the air thick with the weight of unspoken rules and the invisible boundary his presence enforced. His words weren't just a reminder of his role, but a challenge—an assertion that no matter how much she resisted, he was there to watch, to protect, and to command respect.

The princess let out a sudden laugh—sharp, amused, and just a touch mocking. It cut through the tension like a blade, but the sound carried something else too: challenge.

She turned slowly, her silken gown whispering around her legs as she faced him fully. Her eyes sparkled, not with innocence, but with calculated mischief—the kind that made it hard to tell if she was truly amused or simply enjoying the game.

"And what exactly does entertaining mean, Guard?" she asked, the word rolling off her tongue like silk over steel. Her tone was light, playful even, but her gaze was anything but. It was sharp, piercing, demanding an answer he'd have to tread carefully to give.

She took a few casual steps toward him, arms folding over her chest as her smile widened just enough to seem dangerous.

"Is that your polite little soldier code for something scandalous? Or are you just afraid to say it aloud?"

The room suddenly felt smaller, the walls closer, the chandelier's glow casting long, dancing shadows between them.

He hesitated—but only for a fraction of a second.

It was barely noticeable, but it was there—a pause where calculation flickered behind his mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, measured, and composed, as if each word had been weighed in his mind before it left his lips.

"Entertaining, Your Highness," he repeated with deliberate precision, "refers to any leisurely activity, social engagement, or private indulgence that could—directly or indirectly—compromise your security."

There was no venom in his tone, no overt judgment. But beneath that smooth professionalism was a tightly controlled tension—something coiled and waiting, like a wolf politely observing the rules of the hunt.

"Even in your... more personal moments," he continued, his eyes locked onto hers, "my duty remains unchanged. I am to be aware of who enters your presence, what they bring, and what risks they pose. That responsibility does not vanish behind closed doors."

The words lingered between them like smoke, the implication bold without crossing the line.

She arched a brow, her smirk fading into something colder—sharper. The air in the room thickened with her disdain as she stepped further into the glow of the chandelier, letting the golden light catch the glint of challenge in her eyes.

"And what exactly are your credentials?" she asked, her tone laced with bitterness, every syllable dipped in scorn. "What makes you better than the thirty others who came before you—those who either ran or bled trying to do the same job?"

She crossed her arms, posture defiant, as though bracing for another rehearsed response. But her gaze never left him. It was a look that tested, prodded, dared him to flinch.

"Because all I see," she continued, voice low and cutting, "is another man with a blade, a badge, and a promise."

She let the words settle into the space between them like shards of glass—daring him to step forward and prove they wouldn't cut him too.

His stance remained unshaken, posture firm and unbothered, as though her bitterness rolled off him like rain on polished armor.

"My credentials," he said calmly, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, "are extensive, Your Highness."

His eyes, shadowed beneath the edge of his mask, remained locked onto hers—unyielding and unreadable.

"I've served in every capacity the crown could test a man in—palace guard, battlefield commander, personal escort to diplomats whose lives hung by a thread, and royal bodyguard to more than one heir with a target on their back."

As he spoke, he stepped forward—only slightly, but enough to shift the air between them. His presence seemed to expand, a quiet force pressing inward, not with violence, but with certainty.

"I've stood between blades and crowns. Between assassins and sleeping children. Between chaos and the fragile illusion of peace. And I've never failed."

His voice lowered, just enough to send a shiver down the spine.

"So if you're asking what makes me different, Princess—it's simple. I don't run. And I don't die easy."

She tilted her head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing with thinly veiled irritation as he stepped closer. The air between them grew heavier, charged—like the quiet just before a lightning strike.

"You really don't know the meaning of personal space, do you?" she said coolly, her voice edged with both mockery and command.

With a deliberate, almost theatrical exhale, she took a step back, her heels clicking softly against the polished stone floor. Her gown shifted with her movement, the fabric rippling like water disturbed by a stone.

"Seriously," she added, the amusement fading from her tone as her gaze hardened, "if you're going to play the role of protector, then keep a professional distance."

The word professional snapped out like a whip—meant to cut, to reestablish control, to remind him that despite his imposing presence, this was still her space, her rules.

But the flicker in her eyes betrayed something else, too—an awareness of the power struggle unfolding in silence, and the strange thrill of the tension that neither of them dared to fully name.

He responded without hesitation—one sharp, disciplined step backward, the motion smooth and precise, like a soldier snapping back into formation. His spine straightened, shoulders squaring with practiced ease, and his hands folded neatly behind his back.

"My apologies, Your Highness," he said evenly, his voice returning to that cold, clipped neutrality that made it almost impossible to read him.

Almost.

Because beneath the perfectly measured tone, there was something else—a flicker just under the surface. Not enough to break composure, but enough to feel. A faint tightening in his jaw. A subtle edge that slipped into the tail end of his words like steel beneath silk.

"Professional distance will be maintained at all times."

His eyes, however, didn't soften. They remained locked on hers—calm, yes, but unyielding. There was no regret in them. No submission. Only the quiet, simmering heat of a man who would obey the rules, but never be owned by them.

The princess turned from him with a soft rustle of silk, crossing the room with a grace that was effortless but deliberate—like a queen in waiting who knew exactly how much power she held in her movements. She perched on the edge of her bed, her posture relaxed but her tone anything but.

Her gaze found him again, sharp as a blade beneath velvet lashes.

"What else have you done," she asked coolly, tilting her head just slightly, "that makes you worthy of protecting the most targeted, most important person in the world right now?"

She emphasized the word worthy, letting it linger in the air between them like a challenge.

Her voice was calm, but the undertone was unmistakable—doubt, disdain, curiosity... and perhaps just the faintest hint of something else. Something dangerous. She was testing him, probing not just his résumé, but his confidence, his restraint, the very foundation of his resolve.

The chandelier above cast a golden light over her, the diamonds in her earrings catching the glow like stars. But her expression remained unreadable, save for the flicker of amusement dancing at the corners of her mouth—as if daring him to break under pressure, like the others had.

He stood tall, posture rigid with discipline, eyes fixed on a neutral point just above her crown—as if refusing, even now, to give her the satisfaction of direct eye contact while she lounged like royalty surveying her next move.

"I've undergone intensive training in multiple martial arts disciplines," he began, voice low but steady, like a man reciting a litany carved into his bones. "Hand-to-hand combat, tactical firearms, and close-quarters defense. I've completed advanced courses in battlefield medicine, studied diplomatic protocol, and even taken instruction in psychological warfare."

There was no boast in his tone—just fact. Cold, clean, controlled.

But then he hesitated—just for a breath. A rare flicker of something human breaking through the mask of precision.

"And," he continued, clearing his throat lightly, his voice dipping slightly, "I've developed an... instinct."

He glanced at her then. Fully. Directly. No more evasion, no more looking past her. His gaze locked with hers, steady and searching—stripping down pretense without so much as raising his voice.

"A natural aptitude for reading people—their fears, their lies, their temptations. I see beneath what most people try to hide. And I use that understanding to stay three steps ahead. It's how I keep my principals alive."

He let the silence hang just long enough to be intentional, then added with quiet intensity:

"Even the ones who think they don't need protecting."

she leaned back on her hands, one brow arching with casual disdain, like a cat toying with a wolf. Her legs crossed slowly, deliberately, and her tone turned deceptively light—laced with curiosity, yet barbed with challenge.

"Right," she said, as though brushing aside everything he'd just listed. "All very impressive."

A beat passed.

"But what about poison?"

The question dropped like a dagger into still water—softly spoken, but dangerous in its implication.

She tilted her head again, watching him like he was part of a game she intended to win. "Assassins don't always come with blades or bullets, Simon. Sometimes they come dressed as dinner guests... or sweethearts. Sometimes all it takes is a drop in a glass."

A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips as she added, "Tell me—can you taste death before I do?"

His expression didn't change—still calm, unreadable—but his eyes sharpened, narrowing just slightly as he weighed her question. It wasn't just curiosity she was playing with—it was challenge, maybe even provocation.

"Poisoning is more common than most people realize, especially for someone in your position," he said, his voice steady, clipped, but laced with a quiet edge of authority.

"I've studied hundreds of compounds—natural and synthetic. Their scents. Their symptoms. Their timing. I can identify most poisons before they leave a mark on the body, and administer the correct antidote if needed."

He took a single step forward—not too close, but enough to feel the weight of his presence again.

"I've seen victims convulse within seconds. Others die quietly, with no more than a fading pulse and a pale tongue. I know where to look—your cup, your skin, your breath. I'll know if something's wrong before you do."

His voice lowered slightly, enough to make her lean in—if only a fraction.

"And if someone dares to try it, I'll know who, too."

Then, just for a moment, his tone darkened into something more primal—something that hinted at the soldier beneath the suit of civility.

"And I don't forget faces."

She let the silence stretch between them, the faint flicker of candlelight casting shifting shadows across her face. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"Are you immune to any?" she asked, her voice low and measured, almost teasing—but with an edge that hinted at a deeper, unspoken meaning.

Her gaze pierced him, searching for cracks beneath the calm exterior—as if testing whether his defenses extended beyond skill and training into something more primal, something born from experience.

He paused for just a fraction of a second—long enough for a rare flicker of amusement to breach the stoic mask he wore so well. His eyes glinted with a hint of something almost mischievous beneath the surface.

"Immune, Your Highness? That's a bold claim," he said, voice low and steady, but with an unmistakable edge of pride. "No one is truly immune. But through relentless training—and a fair share of harsh trials—I've developed an unusually high tolerance to several toxins and venoms."

He leaned in just slightly, the movement deliberate, as if sharing a secret meant only for her ears.

"Let's just say, I've survived things that would've felled most men before breakfast."

The princess' eyes glinted coldly, her voice dropping to a sharp, clipped tone that brooked no argument. She straightened on the edge of her bed, the faint glow of the room casting harsh shadows across her striking features.

"Immune to thirty-two types of poisons," she declared, each word deliberate and laced with icy pride. "And that's just as of right now."

Her gaze sharpened, narrowing to a dangerous gleam as she took a slow breath, measuring her next words with ruthless precision.

"I've been tested—endlessly. By those who want me dead, by those who want me to suffer. They think they can break me with venom. They think they can erode my will, corrupt my blood, and make me vulnerable."

She let the silence stretch, her eyes boring into his like a blade.

"They're wrong."

Her voice softened only slightly, but the underlying threat remained unmistakable.

"I don't just survive. I endure. I adapt. And I fight back."

His eyebrows lifted subtly, a flicker of genuine intrigue briefly softening the rigid lines of his expression before he smoothly reclaimed his stoic demeanor. The weight of her declaration clearly registering, if only for a moment.

"Thirty-two..." he repeated, each syllable measured, as if tasting the gravity behind her claim. "You're referring to specific categories, I take it—neurotoxins, hemotoxins, cytotoxins, and the like?"

His voice remained calm, professional, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of respect beneath the surface—as if recognizing not just the facts, but the fierce determination and resilience that such immunity implied.

"Impressive," he added quietly, locking eyes with her, "but immunity is a rare and fragile thing. It takes more than chemistry to survive what's truly meant to kill."

She let out a dry, dismissive sigh, rolling her eyes as if the whole explanation were nothing more than a tedious formality. "They inject me with poison every single day," she said coolly, her tone edged with a mix of boredom and defiance. "A little more each day, gradually building my immunity until my body simply won't react."

Her gaze locked onto his, sharp and unyielding. "It's a slow, painstaking process, but necessary. Easy for me now—just another part of my routine. Most wouldn't last a week."

There was an unmistakable edge of pride beneath her words, but also a subtle warning: this wasn't a game, and she was far from vulnerable.

His eyes widened subtly, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his otherwise impassive face at the cold, casual manner in which she described the ordeal. The weight of the revelation hung heavy between them.

"Daily injections..." he repeated slowly, voice low, almost reverent. "You mean they systematically expose you to escalating doses of different poisons, forcing your body to adapt, to build a resistance against death itself?"

He swallowed hard, the image of such a brutal, unrelenting process pressing against his mind. The thought of enduring that—day after day, with no respite—was almost unbearable.

"I can only imagine the pain, the toll it takes..." His gaze locked with hers, shadowed by newfound respect and a hint of unease. "It's a cruel regimen—one that would break most people."

She dismissed the heavy moment with a sharp flick of her hand, her tone brisk and unapologetic. "Yes, that's enough about poisons." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she shifted gears, a sly smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Now, what about showers? Do you intend to accompany me there as well, Simon?"

The question hung in the air, loaded with both challenge and a hint of teasing, testing the limits of his professionalism—and his patience.

He cleared his throat, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks as the conversation took an unexpectedly intimate turn. "Your Highness, as your personal guard, it is my solemn duty to ensure your safety at all times—even during... private moments."

His eyes briefly flickered away, betraying a flicker of discomfort beneath his otherwise composed exterior, as if navigating this delicate boundary tested his professionalism more than he cared to admit.

After a moment, she nodded with a sly smile. "Alright then," she said smoothly. "Go fix my shower. If it's going to be broken, I expect it to be working perfectly before my next bath."

Her tone was light, but there was an unmistakable edge of command woven into her words — a reminder that, despite everything, she held the upper hand in this strange, tense dance.

Chapter one of betting on desire!

•

Without another word, he turned and exited the room, his boots clicking with measured cadence across the polished floors. As he made his way toward the shower, his mind lingered on the princess's revelation—the daily poison injections, her nonchalant attitude toward such a brutal regimen.

It was a stark reminder of the peril that shadowed her every moment, and of the heavy responsibility now resting squarely on his shoulders.

[awritesthings]

prologue of betting on desire! My new book on wattpad and now here.

•

The Queen reclined gracefully in her ornate chair, her gaze locking onto the imposing figure who had just stepped into the chamber. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding without effort. The sharp contrast of his jet-black hair against the immaculate white of his shirt drew her immediate attention, a striking detail she silently noted.

"You must be Simon," she said at last, her voice smooth and poised, laced with just enough warmth to soften the weight of her authority. With a subtle tilt of her hand, she gestured toward the velvet-upholstered seat positioned across from her. "I believe we're ready to begin the interview now, don't you think?"

The man strode toward the chair with deliberate purpose, each step punctuated by the solid thud of his heavy boots echoing against the cold stone floor. There was a quiet confidence in the way he moved—calculated, unhurried, as though the room belonged to him already. When he reached the seat, he lowered himself into it with fluid, effortless grace, his powerful frame settling in a way that seemed both relaxed and ready.

He crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest, the leather of his jacket creaking softly with the motion. Then he leaned back, unbothered by the grandeur around him, his gaze steady as it met the Queen's.

"Your Majesty," he said at last, his voice a deep, resonant baritone—calm, unwavering, and laced with a hint of something unreadable. He offered a small nod, more a gesture of respect than submission.

The Queen leaned forward slightly, the soft rustle of her silken gown the only sound as she studied the man seated before her. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, lingered on his expression, searching for any flicker of hesitation.

"As you are no doubt aware," she began, her tone measured but laced with underlying urgency, "I am in need of a guard—not merely a swordsman or a silent shadow, but someone capable of a far more complex role."

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle.

"My daughter is... spirited," she continued, choosing her phrasing with care. "Rebellious, to put it plainly. She defies protocol, questions orders, and has a troubling habit of vanishing when she's most expected to be present. I require someone who can do more than protect her from harm—I need someone who can ensure she fulfills her duties, upholds the dignity of her station, and learns the value of restraint."

Her gaze hardened, challenging now. "Can you shoulder that responsibility? Do you believe you are equal to the task I'm placing before you?"

With that, the Queen began outlining, in deliberate detail, the expectations she held for the ideal candidate—discipline, loyalty, discretion, and the ability to command respect without drawing a sword. This was not merely a test of strength. It was a test of character.

The man's face remained hidden behind the dark mask that clung to his skin like a second layer, offering no hint of expression, no flicker of emotion. The fabric obscured all but his eyes—piercing, unblinking, and locked unwaveringly on the Queen as she spoke. He listened in silence, the tension in the room coiling around him like smoke, though he gave no outward sign of discomfort or surprise.

As her words tapered off into silence, he shifted forward with measured deliberation. His broad shoulders rolled slightly with the motion, and his powerful arms came to rest on his thighs—thick with muscle, coiled with quiet strength. The weight of his presence seemed to grow heavier in that moment, as though the air itself had taken notice.

Then he spoke, his voice a low, commanding baritone that resonated through the chamber like the first notes of a war drum.

"Your Majesty," he said, each syllable delivered with calm authority, a confidence that left no room for doubt. "I am more than prepared to fulfill the duties you've outlined. Whatever challenges your daughter presents, I will meet them without hesitation. You may trust that I will uphold your expectations—and exceed them, if given the chance."

The promise hung in the air, not boastful, but absolute.

The Queen's eyes held his, sharp and unyielding, as silence stretched between them like a drawn bow. Then, with a subtle breath, she spoke again—her voice lower now, more deliberate.

"There is one more matter," she said, her tone taking on a weightier, more personal gravity. "Something that has become... a recurring issue."

She paused, as if carefully selecting her next words.

"My daughter, as you will discover, possesses a certain boldness. A charm, yes—but one that borders on dangerously provocative. She is well aware of her effect on others, and she uses it with precision. Time and again, my guards—men trained in restraint and loyalty—have found themselves compromised. Distracted. Entangled."

The Queen leaned back slightly, her fingers drumming once against the armrest before falling still.

"I require someone who is impervious to her games. Who can see past the allure, past the manipulation, and remain unswayed. Someone whose loyalty lies with their duty, not with her beauty or bravado."

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, the final question hanging in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.

"Tell me, do you believe you can resist her?"

The Queen studied him intently, aware of the gravity of what she was asking—and the rarity of finding a man who might truly be equal to the challenge.

A subtle shift played at the corners of his mouth—just enough to betray the faintest smirk beneath the shadow of his mask. It was the only sign of emotion he permitted himself, and even that seemed calculated, controlled.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice smooth and self-assured, each word laced with quiet intensity. "I have stared into the eyes of creatures born of nightmare—things that would drive lesser men to madness. I've walked through fire, faced down demons and monsters without so much as a tremor."

He leaned in slightly, his tone lowering to something almost conspiratorial, almost amused.

"If your daughter believes her charms can unnerve me, she will be sorely disappointed. Her teasing will pale in comparison to what I've endured."

The confidence in his voice wasn't arrogance—it was conviction, hard-earned and battle-forged. And though the mask concealed his expression, the fire in his gaze made one thing clear: he was not a man easily swayed.

The Queen let out a slow, deliberate sigh, the sound heavy with irritation. Her gaze sharpened, the warmth in her expression vanishing like mist beneath the sun.

"I'm quite certain that's true, Simon," she said coolly, her voice edged with steel. "But this isn't about her trying to unsettle you. This is about her trying to seduce you."

She tapped her fingers against the polished surface of the desk—slow, rhythmic, and deliberate—like a ticking clock counting down to something inevitable.

"She's not testing your nerves," the Queen continued. "She's testing your loyalty, your restraint, your very ability to obey the crown. And let me be perfectly clear: if you falter—if you so much as indulge in the temptation she will surely offer—you will not merely lose your position. You will be branded a traitor. You will be executed, as those before you were."

Her words hung in the air like a blade suspended above them, silent but deadly. The chamber seemed to hold its breath.

"Do you still believe you can handle that?" she asked, her tone deceptively calm, but the gravity in her eyes was unmistakable.

It was no longer a hypothetical. It was a warning—one laced with dire consequence and finality.

Simon remained utterly motionless, like a statue carved from stone, his posture unshaken by the Queen's chilling words. The silence that followed was thick, pressing in around them, as if the very walls were listening. Her warning had not been subtle—it was a threat wrapped in protocol, a reminder of just how high the stakes truly were.

Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity before he finally moved. A slow breath escaped him, measured and deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was steady, cool as forged steel, and free of fear.

"Treason or not, Your Majesty," he said, each word carefully enunciated, "I am not a man who succumbs to temptation easily."

There was no arrogance in his tone—only quiet certainty, the kind born not of ignorance, but of hard-earned discipline. His eyes, visible just above the line of his mask, held her gaze with unwavering focus.

It was not a boast. It was a promise. One he seemed ready to stake his life on.

The Queen's expression shifted suddenly, a slow, deliberate smile curving her lips—though whether it was one of approval or something more calculating was difficult to tell.

"Good," she said softly, her voice like velvet wrapped around iron. "I trust you're not foolish enough to throw everything away. You have an impressive record—commendations, field experience, discipline. It would be a shame to waste it."

With a graceful motion, she reached forward and closed the leather-bound dossier that held his credentials. The soft click of the clasp echoed faintly in the quiet room, final and absolute.

"Now," she continued, folding her hands atop the case, "shall we move on to the real interview, hm?"

She held his gaze, her smile lingering just a moment longer. There was a glimmer in her eyes—not amusement, not malice, but a certain anticipation. She waited, perfectly still, for his response—as though the next words from his mouth might reveal whether he was truly the right man for what lay ahead.

Simon inclined his head slowly, a gesture of both respect and acknowledgment, his eyes never wavering from the Queen's face. There was something in her manner—sharp, unflinching, and unapologetically direct—that he found rare, especially in palaces where words were often wrapped in layers of diplomacy and deception.

He appreciated it. The honesty. The lack of pretense. It spoke to a ruler who valued clarity over courtly games, and that, to him, was a strength more commanding than any crown.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he said at last, his voice calm and measured, every syllable carrying the weight of discipline and unwavering resolve.

His tone was professional, but beneath it was something more—an unspoken readiness, as if this moment, this challenge, was exactly what he had been preparing for all along.

The Queen leaned back in her high-backed chair with practiced elegance, the subtle clink of porcelain accompanying her movements as she lifted a delicate teacup to her lips. The faint aroma of chamomile wafted through the air, soft and calming—a sharp contrast to the edge in her tone.

She took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving Simon, assessing him over the rim of her cup with quiet intensity. Then, setting the cup down with meticulous care, she spoke—each word crisp, precise, and edged with authority.

"State your name, age, and gender," she began, her voice cool and composed. "Then tell me what you believe qualifies you for this position—your most significant credentials, your most noteworthy achievements. What, in your own words, makes you stand out?"

The question, though formally phrased, carried weight. This was no routine formality—it was a test of identity, self-awareness, and conviction. The Queen settled into her seat, watching closely, as if daring him to impress her.

Simon leaned forward slightly, the faint shift in his posture signaling his readiness to speak. The firelight caught in his eyes—dark, focused, and unwavering—as if each word he was about to say had been weighed and measured before ever reaching his lips.

"My name is Simon Blackwood," he began, his voice low but clear, with the calm confidence of a man who had long since learned to master fear. "I am twenty-eight years old. Male."

He paused briefly—not for effect, but out of a quiet discipline that governed everything he did.

"My credentials," he continued, "include a decade of military service, during which I served on the front lines of three border conflicts and completed advanced combat and survival training. I then spent five years as a royal guard—stationed in two different courts, both during times of political unrest. For the past three years, I've operated as part of an elite special forces unit, handling covert missions and high-risk assignments that required absolute discretion, precision, and loyalty."

His tone never wavered, his delivery as precise as a soldier's march. But behind each word was the weight of experience—battle-tested, hard-earned, and unmarred by bravado. He wasn't just listing qualifications. He was revealing the foundation of the man he had become.

The Queen studied him for a long, thoughtful moment, her fingers idly circling the rim of her teacup as her mind sifted through the numbers he had just spoken. A flicker of curiosity crossed her features—followed by something that resembled faint amusement.

"Twenty-eight," she murmured, her gaze narrowing slightly. "And yet you claim eighteen years of service?"

Her tone was skeptical, but not dismissive—laced with a wry note, as if she were challenging him to explain the impossible.

She let out a soft, incredulous breath, the corner of her mouth curving just slightly.

"You expect me to believe you've been in military service since the age of ten?"

Though her words carried a hint of jest, the look in her eyes was sharp and discerning. She had read his file—every line of it—but hearing the truth from the source carried its own weight. She wasn't just questioning his timeline. She was probing the story behind the man, searching for the truth hidden between the lines of his exceptional record.

Simon gave a slight nod, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth—more restrained amusement than arrogance. His eyes never left hers, steady and unwavering, as if daring her to question the truth behind his words.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly. "I enlisted at the age of ten—officially, as a cadet in the Royal Military Academy."

His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, but beneath it was a quiet pride forged in discipline and years of sacrifice.

"My instructors noted early signs of aptitude—tactical thinking, physical conditioning, psychological resilience. The academy accelerated my training, placing me into advanced tracks typically reserved for much older recruits. By the time I was fifteen, I had earned a commission and was already serving in the field as a junior officer."

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of that timeline settle in the air between them.

"I didn't have a typical childhood, Your Majesty. But I was never meant for one."

There was no regret in his voice—only certainty. The kind born from a life spent in shadows, on battlefields, and in service to something greater than himself.

The Queen sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, clearly taken aback by Simon's revelation. There was a flicker of pride in her eyes—perhaps even a hint of admiration—and unmistakable amazement at the depth of his dedication and resilience.

"You're... incredible," she finally admitted, her voice low and sincere, as if the weight of his past had shifted something within her.

But then, with a subtle shift in expression, she steered the conversation toward a more pressing concern.

"However," she said, folding her hands in her lap and leaning slightly forward, "you've been married for eight years, haven't you? Tell me—how do you intend to balance the demands of that life with the reality of guarding my daughter around the clock, without respite?"

Her gaze sharpened, probing. This was no trivial question. The role she was offering was one that required total commitment, sacrifice, and vigilance—qualities that could strain even the strongest of personal bonds.

"Can your loyalty truly extend so far? Can you endure the strain of constant duty without faltering?"

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Simon began, his tone measured and respectful, acknowledging the weight behind her question. "I fully understand your concern regarding my personal life and how it might intersect with the demands of my duties as protector."

He paused briefly, choosing his words with care, his gaze steady and sincere.

"However, I want to assure you that my relationship with my wife is both strong and stable. We have spoken at length about the nature of this position and the sacrifices it will require. She knows the weight of the commitment I am about to undertake, and we have reached a mutual understanding grounded in trust and unwavering support."

The Queen gave a slow, deliberate nod, her gaze sharp and decisive. "If you truly believe you can shoulder all of this," she said, her voice steady and commanding, "then I would like you to begin your duties tomorrow without delay."

With that, she reached across the polished surface of the desk and placed a sealed envelope firmly in front of him. The weight of it seemed to carry the promise—and the burden—of what was to come.

She arched a brow, a faint hint of challenge flickering in her eyes. "Would a monthly stipend of twenty thousand suffice to meet your needs?"

Her tone was businesslike, but beneath it lingered the unspoken implication: the price was high, and the expectations higher.

Simon's eyes flickered with a brief, almost imperceptible widening at the generous offer, but his expression remained composed—disciplined and unreadable as ever. While he had anticipated a fair wage, this exceeded even his most pragmatic expectations.

"Your Majesty," he replied with measured respect, his voice steady and unwavering, "that sum is more than sufficient."

He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle firmly in the room.

"Yet I assure you, my loyalty and dedication are not commodities to be bought or swayed by gold. They are forged in duty and honor. No matter the compensation, my commitment to this role will remain absolute."

His gaze locked with hers, conveying the gravity of his promise—one that transcended payment and rested solely on principle.

A slow, approving smile curved the Queen's lips, her eyes gleaming with a rare warmth that hinted at genuine respect. She clearly appreciated the weight and sincerity behind his words.

"Good," she said softly, her tone carrying both satisfaction and quiet authority.

Rising gracefully from her seat, she extended her hand across the polished desk. Their fingers met in a firm, deliberate handshake—an unspoken pact forged between sovereign and protector.

"Then," she added, her voice steady and resolute, "may the Crown guide your every step—and may your loyalty never waver."

The room seemed to pulse with the gravity of the moment, the beginning of a partnership that would be tested in ways neither could yet foresee.

Simon rose smoothly, his movements measured and deliberate, the air between them heavy with purpose. He met the Queen's gaze unflinchingly, the gravity of the moment etched into the sharp lines of his face.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, his voice calm, low, and resolute. "I accept this responsibility fully, knowing what it demands. My loyalty does not come with conditions. I will protect the Crown, your daughter, and the realm—with everything I am."

He extended his hand and met hers in a firm, unwavering grip. A silent oath passed between them, stronger than ink and parchment.

"May the Crown guide your steps," he said, voice steady as steel, "and let its will be final."

•

I hope you enjoyed this! I’m not a good English writer so I hope it’s not too bad. I love you all and please feel free to leave kind criticism down below.