Page 13 of Royal Protector

“It’s an honor to be here,” she says politely, giving a slight curtsey. “You have a wonderful home.”

“It’s extravagant, to be sure,” he says with an impish grin that I’ve never seen on a vampire before. “But this early into my reign, it might not be best to anger the interior decorators across our properties.” He leans in closer with a secretive smile. “But maybe next year, I’ll take them over to IKEA and see how uncomfortable they get.”

Isabella starts laughing, and he pulls back with a wicked grin. Already, I can tell he’s the most unusual vampire I’ve ever met. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, but it’s definitely different than what we are used to around here.

“The other guests will start filing in soon,” he says, adjusting his bright blue tie. “No more than a hundred, though. I wanted to keep the reception light and the floor relatively open for dancing.”

Dancing. For the love of God. How am I supposed to keep Isabella safe if she’s whirling around the dance floor?

Isabella must sense my distress because she slides her arm through mine. I inhale sharply. I like the way she feels against me, like I’m her protector in more ways than just as an assigned bodyguard.

“I’ll only dance with you,” she says, reading my mind. “It’ll be safer.”

“Not for your feet,” I say, but my tension eases a little. I think if I see her in someone else’s arms, I’ll have to be locked up for sure. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

“It won’t be difficult. We’re not at the ballet. Just move with me, move with the music, and we’ll be just fine.” She smiles at me, her eyes twinkling as much as her glittery dress. How will I ever let her go when this is done?

The next hour is filled with all the pander and nuance of greeting vampires and werewolves alike. While most of the visitors are local to New Orleans, there are a few from other packs across the country, and a few even from around the world, in town as observers to the conference.

A lycanthrope—a werewolf from Greece—spends entirely much too long flirting with Isabella. His name is Niko, and he fawns over Isabella, admiring her hair and pretty dress. He even makes her giggle, which is the last straw. I let out a warning growl, but he rolls his eyes at me.

“Bodyguards,” he says with a knowing shake of his head, and Isabella agrees, nodding as if it is their little secret. I roll my eyes, but at least he moves on from us to shake hands with Anna.

Finally, after I’ve shaken enough hands to make me want to never touch another person again—besides Isabella, of course—the music begins for dancing.

Like everything else in this crazy place, the music isn’t even from this century. It’s a soft waltz, one I’ve heard in movie soundtracks, but Isabella’s eyes light up all the same.

“Come, Antoine,” she says, taking my hand. “It’s important that they see their leaders dance.” She studies my sullen face. “It’s also important that they see their leaders smile. You can smile, can’t you?”

I grimace at her, barely showing my teeth.

She shrugs and tugs at my hand. “Close enough. Let’s go dance.”

We take our places on the dance floor, trying to stay away from other couples in case we crash into each other.

A few feet away, Jack and Anna are already dancing. Anna has her head thrown back in laughter, and Jack is grinning down at her. They are two people who have the rest of their lives to spend together.

I look down at Isabella, who is studying me with a curious glance.

“What does it feel like?” she asks suddenly. “The bond.”

“Shhh,” I hiss, shaking my head. “Don’t say it out loud. Not yet.”

She frowns at my refusal. “I just want to know. I can’t experience it. Tell me what it is like.”

I sigh at her insistence. “It’s like . . . it’s like . . .” I rack my brain and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s like sex.”

Her eyes widen, round as dinner plates. “It’s likewhat?”

I stumble, missing a dance step, but keeping us on our feet at least. Who knows what international protocol we would break if we fell on our asses. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I know you haven’t—”

“How do you know that?” she snaps, her sharp cheekbones flushed.

“Because I know,” I say. “In here.” I lift my hand from the curve of her waist just long enough to tap at my heart.

Her glare melts away. “You’re correct. And, of course, I’m not supposed to, in my role. But previous Untouchables have.”

I file that surprising fact away to think about later. “But you’ve made yourself . . . feel good?”

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