POV Owen
Almost a month of babysitting the Morris princess, and she's testing my goddamn sanity.
Every day, the dresses get tighter. Every day, the skirts get shorter.
Every fucking day, she finds new ways to bend over in front of me, brush against me, make those little comments that dance right on the edge of inappropriate.
Today's outfit was a damn masterpiece of psychological warfare.
Black sundress that hugs every curve, neckline that shows just enough cleavage to make my mouth go dry, hemline that barely covers her ass when she sits down.
She knows exactly what she's doing.
This morning, she "accidentally" dropped her keys right in front of me, then took her sweet time picking them up. Bent at the waist, dress riding up, giving me a perfect view of her thighs.
When she straightened up, she shot me this look—all wide eyes and innocence—like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
Fucking tease.
I can't deny that she's attractive. Devastatingly so. The kind of beautiful that makes smartest men stupid and stupid men dead.
All dirty-blonde hair and sharp wit, with legs that go on for days and a mouth that's built for sin.
But I can't fall for her.
Not only because I'm her temporary bodyguard, but because of who she is. Whose daughter she is. And because she's twenty-one fucking years old.
Twenty-two. Christ.
I'm thirty-eight. When she was learning to tie her shoes, I was already killing people for a living. When she was starting high school, I was running black ops in the East.
When she was probably having her first kiss, I was burying my third body.
The math is simple and brutal.
Michael Morris is my old friend. We've shared drinks, war stories, mutual respect built on years of professional courtesy.
His daughter is sixteen years younger than me and completely off-limits for more reasons than I can count.
Maybe she's trying to get me to stay in the distance. Maybe she's just interested in older guys because her daddy was never around.
Hell, maybe she's just bored and thinks flirting with the help is entertaining.
Girls like her—rich, sheltered, daddy issues stacked to the ceiling—they go through older men like accessories. Collect them for the thrill, the rebellion, the way it makes them feel grown-up and dangerous.
I've seen it before.
The wide-eyed college girl who thinks she wants a real man, then runs screaming when she realizes what that actually means.
The princess who fantasizes about rough hands and dark fantasies until she gets a taste of the real thing.
Whatever her motivation, I don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Not a flinch, not a glance, not even a fucking twitch. I'm a statue in a suit, and she's just Michael's daughter testing boundaries she doesn't understand.
But fuck if it isn't getting harder.
Yesterday, she spent an hour in the library studying, and I spent that hour watching her bite her lip while she read.
Watching her tongue dart out to wet her lips when she was concentrating. Watching her stretch like a cat when she was tired, arching her back and making these little sounds that went straight to my cock.
Professional distance, my ass.
The irony is that her daddy's money is literally keeping my mother alive.
Cancer's expensive. The good treatments, the ones that actually work, cost more than most people make in a lifetime.
When Michael Morris calls in old friendship favors, I expect him to want blood.
Instead, he offers me a different kind of payment plan.
Keep his daughter safe, and he'll make sure my mother gets the best treatment money can buy.
Some deals are too good to refuse.
The restaurant is upscale enough that they don't blink at two men in expensive suits ordering the kind of whisky that costs more than most people's rent.
Michael sits across from me, looking every inch the successful businessman he pretends to be.
"The Vancouver shipment is moving smoothly," he says, swirling his glass. "Quality control has been exceptional."
"No issues with the transport vehicles?"
"None. The routes are clean, the drivers are reliable." He takes a sip, then leans back. "This deal could change everything, Owen. We're talking about the biggest distribution network in the northern territories."
I nod, understanding the weight of what he's not saying.
The Morris family is about to corner the market on every major drug route from here to the Canadian border. The kind of deal that makes you rich enough to buy countries, and dangerous enough that everyone wants you dead.
"The competition?"
"Handled." Michael's smile is sharp as a blade. "Some people learn the hard way that you don't fuck with family business."
We drink in comfortable silence, two old friends, professionals discussing the kind of work that keeps us in expensive suits and sends other people to early graves.
There's something almost relaxing about it, this dance of coded language and mutual understanding.
A reminder of who I am, what I do, why I can't afford to get distracted by short skirts and smart mouths.
"How's my daughter?" Michael asks, and the shift in his tone is subtle but noticeable.
"She's... spirited."
"That's one way to put it.” Michael laughs, a sound that's equal parts affection and exhaustion. “She gets that from her mother."
The mention of his wife hangs in the air like a ghost.
I know the story—everyone in our world knows the story. Car accident, they said. Faulty brakes. Just one of those tragic things that happen to good people.
Bullshit.
It was a hit. Clean, professional, meant to send a message. The only problem is that the message was meant for Michael, not his wife.
Now Michael's trying to protect what's left of his family, and I'm the weapon he's chosen to do it.
"She doesn't understand," I say, because it's true.
"She's got every right to be angry." Michael's voice is quiet, almost sad. "I'm never here. I miss everything. Her birthdays, her graduations, her whole fucking life."
"You're keeping her alive."
"Am I? Or am I just keeping her prisoner in a gilded cage?"
It's a fair question.
Noelle Morris lives a life that most people can only dream of. Designer clothes, expensive education, a house that's bigger than most small towns. She's got everything money can buy.
Except the one thing she actually wants.
Her father.
"I can't wait to come home," Michael says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes me look at him differently. "This deal closes, and I can finally step back. Be a real father instead of just a checkbook."
My phone buzzes against my chest, and I pull it out to check the alert.
Estate security. Motion sensors triggered at the north gate. The little princess is making another escape attempt.
"Duty calls," I say, standing and throwing cash on the table.
Michael's smile is knowing. "She's giving you a hard time, isn't she?"
"Nothing I'm not prepared for."
"I know." Michael raises his glass in a mock toast. "I know my daughter would be safe with you, my friend."