The man who watches

She woke up to the faint sound of boots outside her bedroom door—slow, controlled, deliberate. No one in this house walked like that except him.

Rafe.

Her personal nightmare.

Her unwanted shadow.

Her dangerously attractive bodyguard.

She stretched lazily, pretending she didn’t hear him, pretending she wasn’t aware of every shift of air when he passed. But her heart betrayed her—beating a little faster, a little louder.

Definitely louder than necessary.

She threw on a loose tee and shorts just to annoy him and opened the door.

He was standing there.

Black shirt.

Black jeans.

Black mood.

His arms were folded, tattoos peeking under his sleeve, jaw clenched like she had personally offended the sun.

“Morning, princess,” he said without looking at her. “You took long enough.”

Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me? I didn’t ask you to wait.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

His eyes finally fell on her legs—bare legs.

He went still.

Oh.

So she did annoy him.

Good.

She lifted her chin. “Do you mind not staring at me like I’m doing something illegal?”

“Not illegal,” he murmured, gaze rising to her face with slow precision. “Just… distracting.”

Her heartbeat stuttered.

“Not my problem,” she said, brushing past him.

But he caught her wrist—gently, yet firmly enough to stop her.

His voice dipped, low and dangerous.

“Actually, sweetheart… it is.”

She turned, eyebrow arched.

“You planning to arrest me now?”

“No.”

His eyes darkened.

“But I am planning to make you go change.”

She gasped. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He stepped closer, his breath ghosting her cheek.

“The man people try to kill you to get to,” he said quietly. “So yes, I get to complain about your outfit.”

Her lips parted in shock—then curved into a wicked smile.

“You sound jealous.”

He blinked once. A dangerous, controlled, annoyed blink.

“I’m not jealous,” he said.

“You’re absolutely jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you glaring at my shorts like they ran over your dog?”

That earned her a slow, deep exhale.

The kind he only took when fighting the urge to either strangle someone or kiss them. She hadn’t figured out which he wanted more.

Probably both.

He let go of her wrist. “Get ready. We’re leaving in ten.”

She walked away, hips swaying more than necessary—just because she knew he was watching.

And oh, he was.

She could feel his eyes burning holes into her spine.

---

Fifteen minutes later, she came out dressed in jeans.

A victory for him.

But she wore a fitted top just to annoy him again.

His eyes narrowed.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“That.”

His gaze dipped to her top then snapped back up. “You know what.”

“Rafe,” she sighed dramatically, “I can’t help it if you get flustered over normal clothes.”

His jaw flexed—twice.

He opened the car door for her, but when she leaned in, his hand pressed against the frame right beside her head, caging her in.

Her breath hitched.

“Let me make something clear,” he said, voice dropping to that knee-weakening tone only he had. “If you were trying to get a reaction out of me…”

He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear.

“…you succeeded.”

Heat shot down her spine.

But then he pulled away abruptly.

“Get in.”

She almost cursed.

He always did this—pulled her close only to push her away, leaving her breathless and annoyed.

She slid into the car.

He got in next to her, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh.

And she hated how much she watched that hand.

---

The drive was quiet for five minutes.

Then she smirked.

“So… about the reaction I got—”

“Don’t.”

“It was pretty strong.”

“Stop.”

“You practically growled.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. Slowly. “Princess.”

“Yes?”

“Say one more word…” His hand tightened on the wheel. “…and I’ll gag you with your own attitude.”

Her entire face heated.

She stared at him.

He stared at the road like nothing happened.

“You can’t just say things like that!” she hissed.

“You wanted flirting. Don’t complain now.”

“That was not flirting!”

“It was.”

“It was a threat.”

“Same thing,” he muttered under his breath.

She covered her face with both hands.

She was going to die.

He was going to kill her—from embarrassment.

“Rafe?”

“What.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re trouble,” he said. “The dangerous kind.”

She peeked at him.

He was smirking slightly.

Just slightly.

Which for Rafe was basically a full-blown grin.

---

As they reached the underground parking lot, Rafe’s smile vanished.

He stopped the car so suddenly she jerked forward.

“What happened?” she whispered.

His eyes scanned the shadows. Sharp. Cold. Deadly.

“We’re not alone,” he said.

Her blood froze.

He reached under his seat, pulled out a gun, checked it with cold precision.

Then he turned to her.

“Stay behind me. Do not speak. Do not move. And do not try to play hero.”

She swallowed. “I’m not stupid.”

“Sometimes you are,” he said. “But not today.”

He opened her door and pulled her out by the waist, keeping her flush against him as he scanned the area with the gun raised.

Her heart hammered.

He felt it.

He leaned down, whispering against her temple:

“Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be,” he murmured. “Because I’ll kill anyone who even looks at you wrong.”

Her breath caught.

Not from fear.

From the way he said it—

as if it was a promise, not a threat.

He pushed her gently behind him.

“Stay close,” he growled.

And she did.

Not because he told her to.

But because, for the first time…

she wanted to.

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