Page 9 of Royal Protector

This is what happens when you spend most of your life holed up in a mansion in Madrid. Even the tiniest glimpse of something new and exciting fuels me as if I were starving to death.

The rest of the car is silent, the cozy atmosphere only interrupted when Bastien, the younger, red-headed bodyguard, asks me questions about my flight into the States, or whether I’ve been to Louisiana before—all basic, friendly questions. In return, every time I spy a new sight or attraction, I point it out excitedly, and he answers me like the most helpful tour guide in the state.

The other bodyguard, Antoine, is not friendly at all. He has barely spoken to me since I met him in baggage claim, and every once in a while, he glares back at me through the rearview mirror like I’m the worst sort of passenger.

I don’t know what wrongs I’ve done to him in the half hour we’ve known each other, but clearly, I annoy the hell out of him. Well, that makes two of us then. I really wish I were here on a sightseeing vacation, and not having to be guarded constantly like a prized racehorse.

Even though he has the personality of a grumpy grizzly bear, Antoine is extremely handsome to look at. His hair is dark as the night sky outside, and he wears it swept back from his face, long on the top and short on the sides.

His eyes, though weary, are a deep chocolate shade of brown, and his lashes are long, softening a little bit of the harshness that the rest of his face holds. He has a strong nose and a firm jaw, and his body is broad and muscular. If I weren’t so annoyed athimfor being annoyed withme, I might actually develop a crush on his grumpy ass.

But that isn’t going to happen, not in this lifetime. Because he looks at me like I’ve punted his favorite dog from here to the moon.

Gradually, the city of New Orleans disappears, fading into the Delta wilderness. Highways become roads, and those roads turn to bumpy dirt paths as we close in on the Bayou.

“How do you live here, with so much water around?” I ask, peering down at the swampy ditches on either side of the road. “Where do you even put your homes?”

“There are pockets of land,” explains Bastien. “Enough that we can build our houses. And we keep those houses on stilts, just in case of flooding.” His jaw tenses, and he looks away from me and out through the window into the night. “It doesn’t help much for fire prevention, though.”

“I am sorry for your recent losses,” I say automatically, trying to put all the polite grace into my words that I’ve been trained in through various elocution lessons over the years. And I am genuinely sorry, even if I have to use my ambassadorial skills to convey it.

I can’t imagine losing loved ones like that. My parents live in Barcelona now, and we aren’t very close, but I would still be devastated if something happened to them, especially something so sudden and violent.

“Thanks,” he says with suspiciously wet eyes. “But anyways, we make it work out here. Plus, we are Rougarous. We are made for the swamp, and vice versa.” He grins at me, letting his fangs descend just a centimeter. As he does, Antoine growls a warning from the front seat.

It is not the growl of an older werewolf chastising a younger one for being silly. It sounds predatorial and dangerous, a hunter warning away the others from his bounty. Bastien squeaks and his pointed fangs retreat back and disappear.

“And what about you, Antoine?” I ask, trying once more to bring him into the conversation, and trying to understand what that strange growl was even for. “I heard you just moved back into the territory. Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles,” he says gruffly. His square jaw sets, indicating the end of that conversation. I let my head fall back on the leather seat. At least I got him to say something, even if it wasn’t more than two words.

Eventually, the dirt road leads us to a clearing, and Antoine parks the Jeep among several dozen other vehicles. I clamber out through the side door, eager to be in fresh air at last after hours on an airplane and another in the car. The Bayou in the evening is beautiful, in its own frightening way. I touch a mossy patch on a nearby tree, marvelling at its damp softness.

“Come on,” says Antoine, jerking his sharp chin to the east. “We’ve got visitor cabins for you and Martina. Single room only, if that’s okay. She’ll still be near you if you need her.”

Single room only? He just went up a few spots on my list of favorite people. I hate sharing a room with Martina with a passion. She makes me feel like a caught butterfly, constantly being observed scientifically, all the while living with pinned down wings.

The two men lead me to the modest village of their pack. Antoine walks in front of me, and Bastien behind me, reminding me that even in the quietness of the wilderness, security protocols still exist to cage me.

Many of the wooden buildings are still in good condition, though I can see some that are broken down to just the foundation, and others still have scorch marks across them from the fire earlier this month. We walk past the main bulk of utility buildings and houses until we get to a row of small bungalows.

“My cabin is just down that way,” says Antoine, pointing a few yards away to a slightly larger home. “I’ll be able to see everything, even when I’m not with you. We should also have cameras installed by the end of tomorrow.”

A delicious shudder runs through me at the thought of him watching me through a camera, or even just through a window. I know he only referred to it in terms of security protocol, but part of me wants to take him up on the opportunity, to tease him through the window, and try to get any emotion out of him other than anger.

“You also have a guard in front of your door at all times,” he continues, pointing to a folded chair on the side of the front stoop. “There is no back door or back window. The guard will be able to see any entry points. You will be safe.” Taking an overfilled key ring from his pocket, he pulls a single brass key off and hands it to me. “You and I are the only ones with keys to this bungalow. Not Martina, not even the Alpha. The less people that can get to you, the better.

“No last minute visits from the Alpha, got it,” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh. I sigh at his humorless expression, and open up the door under his careful watch.

Inside, the bungalow is plain, but comfortable. The front room acts as a kitchen and living room, with a tiny counter, and wooden table seats for two. The loveseat sits across from a small TV, and above that, an antique map of the area hangs in an old wooden frame.

I toss my backpack onto the sofa and open what I believe is the bedroom door. The room contains a queen size bed, a simple wooden dresser, and a lamp.

I can already imagine Martina’s complaints, pointing out that an Untouchable deserves the royal treatment, but I actually like this setup. It makes me feel like a regular person.

When I return to the living room, Antoine is still there waiting. He hasn’t moved or spoken since we got here, his mouth set in a permanent frown. I think about pointing out that he’s going to get wrinkles keeping his mouth like that, but I don’t think he’d like it.

“I’m going to get settled in,” I say, hoping to urge him out of my cabin. “Maybe take a nap.”

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