Guarded

“This has to stop,” my father says. In fact, he has been saying this same phrase for the last ten minutes in various tones and with various exasperated inflexions. He sits in front of me, staring into my soul from the other side of his lavish acacia desk. I roll my eyes, and they land on the gardens.

It is dark outside, but the palace grounds are lit up by delicate lamps and sparkling water fountains illuminated by LEDs. My father’s study is dimly lit by a few oil lamps. Despite living in the 21st century, he is intent on maintaining an old-age look for the palace. I glance at the family portrait on the wall behind him. My two brothers, who have aged out of living at home, sport beaming smiles that reflect off the many war medallions that litter their army uniforms.

Besides them, I look like the runt of the litter, small and with dark curly hair, as opposed to the rest of the family’s jarringly bleached blond, straight hair. My father said that when I was born, my late mother could do nothing but whisper about my dark hair being a bad omen. Maybe I heard her, and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. My gaze returns to my father now. He looks tired, dark bags cradling his eyes.

“Beatrice, I have given you everything. Money, holidays, and every member of staff to make your life as easy as possible. And you throw it all down the drain. How can I...”

His voice trails off as he cups his face in his hands. He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to. I know exactly what he is going to say.

How can I trust you to inherit the throne when I die?

And the truth is, he cannot. On account of being born to different mothers out of wedlock, my brothers aren’t eligible for the throne. I am next in line. And all I want is to take that throne and chuck it in the ocean. To let it succumb to the waves so that I can finally find freedom.

Tonight is one of many lectures I have suffered at the hands of my father. Today’s crime? Stealing one of the golden chariots and taking it for a joy ride around the palace grounds with my friends. Personally, I don’t think what I did is that bad. Nobody saw us; we did it in the dead of night, around the most protected grounds in the small country of Lestiva, a former colony of Britain. But my father doesn’t see the humour in this. Not at all. He might not have taken it so hard, except...

“And now your fifth bodyguard of the year has quit. Just like that! I do not blame him.” Oh, Tristan. I knew he wouldn’t last. He was a nice guy, with bright bushy eyes and a voice like a safari tour guide. Excitable yet trying to mask his terror. It’s a shame he’s gone, really. He was the biggest pushover out of all my bodyguards.

“It’s not very professional to quit in the middle of the night,” I say with a shrug.

“And it’s not very professional to take a joyride in the middle of the night, Beatrice. You are adisgrace.”

The way my father’s teeth grit on the final word makes my stomach turn. As much as I want to stick it to this stupid monarchy with all of its stupid rules, it hurts to see what a disappointment I have become to my father. That doesn’t mean I plan to change any time soon. My father, King Francis, draws his hand through his silver-blond hair and sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging like I have placed literal weights on them.

“Father, just remove my succession to the throne. That is all I ask.”

“No!” he exclaims, shooting up from his chair. It clatters to the floor, making me jump. He hardly seems to notice it. His left hand balls into a fist, and he slams it on his desk, shaking the various ornaments and paintings that adorn the lavish study. “You are not escaping this duty. I am not handing it off to some cousin or nephew. You will continue the Nightingale name with pride and honour. You will learn some sense. This debauchery, this rebellion, it has–”

“To stop?” I ask, completing his sentence. A deafening pause fills the air. He replaces his chair and sits back down. A smug look overcomes his face. He looks like someone who has just won a particularly challenging game of chess. Nausea fills my stomach.

“Yes, you get it. And I have enlisted just the person to make it stop. Dean, please enter.”

Dean? My head thrums as the door behind me creaks open. Hard footsteps click against the wooden floor panels. I stare forward until the person in question reaches my father’s side. I hazard a glance at him. Holy shit. My eyes trail up for a considerable time as my brain registers the sheer height of this man. Not only is he tall, but he is quite muscly too, toned biceps constrained by...a Lestiva Palace bodyguard uniform?

“Good evening, Princess Beatrice.”

The deepness of his voice surprises me so much that I reply with a polite, “Good evening.”

A satisfied look flashes across the man’s face, which is sculpted in places and yet quite soft and welcoming. He looks about ten years my senior, but. youthful glimmer twinkles in his eyes. On top of his head is a thick mass of dark curls, just like mine. Beneath the desk, I bunch my hands together and try to ignore the hammering inside of my chest.

My father clears his throat, smiling slightly now. “Dean is going to be your new bodyguard. He is a highly decorated soldier, well respected around Lestiva. I’m sure he will help to keep you in line, so that you can remain in line for the throne.”

I scoff. “It isn’t a bodyguard’s job to keep people in line, father.”

“No,” he says, clicking a pen on and off in his right hand. “That was the job of your nannies and educators. But you are twenty-one now, Beatrice. No bodyguard wants to put up with your unruliness. Their job is to protect, not to babysit. And that is why you have burned through so many of them. But that ends today. Dean has assured me of that.”

Throughout our conversation, Dean has been watching me, as if to try to figure me out. Well, I wish him luck with that. He will never know anything more about me than what I tell him. That is, if he lasts longer than five minutes.

“Oh, really? And how is he going to do that?” I ask with a smirk. My father shrugs and places his pen on the table.

“I am sure Dean has his ways.”

“Indeed, I do,” Dean says, his deep voice vibrating through my chest. “It is late, King Francis.Shall I take the Princess to her quarters?”

“Please,” my father says. “I have many matters to attend to in the morning.”

Dean nods. “Come along, Beatrice.”

For some unknown reason, I find myself following him out the door, down the long winding corridors and out into the cool evening air. Silently, we cross the gardens, footsteps crunching over gravel pathways. I can’t help but steal looks at his stacked figure and face, which wears a perpetually dangerous expression. He reads as someone who could choke someone out in a fight and tend to their wounds afterwards. That should unnerve me. Instead, I find it deeply interesting.

“Why did you take this job, Dean? It won’t be easy. Was it money? I bet it was.”

“Not at all,” he says. “I just like a challenge.”

“Well, I hope you like losing,” I say. Dean shrugs, hardly looking at me as we reach my small cottage at the edge of the grounds. He pushes the door open and holds it for me as I step inside.

“And I hope you like learning some discipline.”

I turn to him and scoff. He stands at the threshold of the front door, a dreamy dark silhouette against the backdrop of the palace grounds. “Not a chance. I like my life the way it is. And, besides, you couldn’t handle me.”

For the first time, Dean’s face breaks into a smile. As condescending as it looks, I can’t help the way my stomach flutters. His smile manages to be both gentle and mocking at the same time. It is intoxicating.

“I have been to war. A bratty little Princess is not going to get the best of me. Now take yourself to bed before you learn just what I mean by discipline.”

I attempt a staring contest with Dean, fighting to ignore the tornado of butterflies in my stomach.

He steps inside, towering over me. “I’m sure you know my room is just beside yours. Come and get me if you need anything, okay?”

I nod wordlessly. He cracks that beautiful smile again.

“Good girl,” he says. “Goodnight, Princess.”

I am so stunned that it is only when he passes me and his door clicks shut that I whisper, “Good night, Dean.”