Two

The morning at Valeforte started off chilly and bright. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows of the Drevino mansion, illuminating the shiny floors and valuable artwork that seemed more like prizes than simple decorations.

Amara stood at the breakfast table, stirring her coffee though she had no intention of drinking it.

Her father had already left for his meetings, always meetings she was never important enough for him. The house felt larger, emptier without his presence looming over every room. But the silence didn’t last long.

Because Darius was there.

She didn’t hear him at first. He didn’t announce himself like normal men would. He moved like smoke quietly and controlled. She only realized he was in the room when she caught his reflection in the glass wall standing by the doorway, dressed in black again, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Do you enjoy lurking?” she asked without turning.

“Do you enjoy taunting  people?” His voice was calm, even, but carried an edge.

Amara smirked into her cup. “Depends on the person.”

He didn’t answer, but she felt his gaze on her, heavy enough to pull at her skin. She set the cup down and finally faced him.

“So, bodyguard,” she said, “what’s the plan for today? Follow me around, scowl at strangers, maybe even breathe down my neck if I wander too far?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you alive.”

Her brows lifted. “Alive? You make it sound like I’m seconds from death.”

He didn’t flinch. “In this city, you might be.”

His bluntness unsettled her. Most men softened their words around her, afraid of her father, afraid of her last name. But Darius didn’t sugarcoat. He didn’t bow. He didn’t play nice.

And that strangely made her want to push harder.

“Fine,” she said, slipping her coat off the chair and sliding it over her shoulders. “Come on, shadow. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

The city buzzed with energy during the day, but its charm was only surface deep. Underneath the shiny buildings and fancy cars, Valeforte was a harsh and dangerous place. Amara understood this well; she had experienced its darker side growing up.

Darius trailed her as she walked into the heart of it. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was constant like a storm cloud that followed her every step.

At first, she tried to ignore him. She went into her favorite boutique, tried on clothes she didn’t need, tossed sharp remarks at the saleswoman. Darius waited outside the fitting room, arms crossed, impassive.

“You know,” Amara called through the curtain, “most men would be thrilled to stand guard while a woman undresses.”

His reply came without hesitation. “Most men aren’t paid to keep their eyes forward.”

She bit her lip, a laugh threatening. “So you have thought about it.”

Silence.

Amara tugged the curtain open, stepping out in a silk dress that clung to her like a secret. His eyes flicked over her once, quick and sharp, then returned to the floor.

The reaction was small. Controlled. But she caught it.

And it made something hot curl low in her stomach.

They left the boutique, walking back toward the car parked on the curb. The street was busy pedestrians brushing past, vendors shouting, cars honking. But in the chaos, Amara felt it.

A shift.

Darius felt it too.

His hand went to her arm, subtle but firm. “Stay close.”

“What…”

Before she could finish, a man stepped out from the alley ahead. Then another from behind them. Both wore leather jackets, hands buried in pockets where weapons were too easy to hide.

Amara’s heart leapt.

Darius moved instantly. He placed himself between her and the men, his posture loose but his eyes sharp.

“Keep walking,” he murmured to her without looking back.

But Amara froze. The men were closing in. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

It all happened too fast to follow.

The first man lunged. Darius caught his wrist, twisted, and slammed him into the wall with a force that rattled bricks. The second reached for something under his jacket, but Darius was faster. A sharp strike to the ribs, another to the jaw, and the man dropped like a rag doll.

The whole fight lasted less than ten seconds.

For a moment, the world around them blurred.

The crowd on the street had already begun to scatter, pretending not to see what happened. In Valeforte, people knew better than to get involved. They hurried past, eyes lowered, leaving Amara standing in the open with her breath caught in her throat.

Darius stood with his hand at his side, still clenched as if he was holding onto past aggression. There was a slight mark on his knuckles, but he didn’t seem to notice it or care at all.

“You’re safe,” he said again, quieter this time, like the words were meant only for her.

Safe.

Amara had heard that word all her life but they always felt empty. The reassurances from her father, from guards, from family friends who promised the Drevinos were untouchable. But none of them had ever sounded like this.

With Darius, the word felt solid. Real. Heavy enough to wrap around her chest.

“Is this normal for you?” she asked finally, her voice thinner than she intended.

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. “Normal for me. New for you.”

She bristled. “I’m not a weakling.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

But the way he looked at her steady, unshaken, like he’d already mapped every possible threat in a ten-block radius made her feel as though he saw straight through the layers she built for herself.

A shiver danced down her spine

The ride back to the estate was silent.

Amara sat in the back seat, arms crossed, staring out the tinted window. She replayed the fight in her head the speed, the precision, the brutality hidden beneath control. Darius wasn’t just muscle. He was something else. Something trained.

Her father hadn’t chosen him at random.

And that realization burned in her.

When they pulled into the driveway, she stepped out first, heels clicking against the polished stone. Darius followed, expression unreadable, but she could feel the weight of him even without looking.

At the door, she stopped and turned, forcing him to halt a few paces behind her.

“Do you always make decisions without asking?” she demanded.

His brow arched. “Would you rather I asked permission while someone put a knife in your ribs?”

Her mouth opened. then closed. She hated that he was right.

But she hated even more how calm he was about it.

“Next time,” she said, chin lifted, “don’t manhandle me like I’m breakable.”

Something flickered in his eyes then something sharp, almost dangerous, but gone too quickly to hold.

“Noted,” he said.

And that infuriated her more than anything else.

Later that night,  Amara sat on the balcony outside her bedroom, city lights stretching in the distance like a thousand watching eyes. A glass of wine rested on the small table beside her, untouched.

She should have been furious. She should have been demanding answers from her father, or locking herself inside, or pretending the day hadn’t happened.

Instead, she kept thinking about Darius.

About the way his body moved with lethal precision. About the way his voice had softened, just slightly, when he told her she was safe. About the heat in his eyes when she accused him.

She shook her head, annoyed with herself.

He wasn’t her friend. He wasn’t her confidant. He was her father’s choice a weapon with a pulse, stationed at her side until he was no longer needed.

And yet…

She heard the faint sound before she saw him.

Turning her head, she found Darius leaning casually against the balcony rail, shadows painting him darker than the night sky. She hadn’t even heard the door open.

“You should sleep,” he said, voice low, even.

“You should learn to knock,” she countered.

He didn’t move. Just watched her, unshaken, like he had all the time in the world.

For the first time that day, Amara let her guard slip just a fraction.

“What are you, really?” she asked quietly.

His jaw tightened, the faintest twitch. “Your bodyguard.”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re more than that. My father doesn’t just trust anyone. I want to know what you are.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. His gaze didn’t leave hers, but he didn’t answer either.

And Amara realized, with a strange flutter in her chest, that maybe she didn’t want him to. Not yet.

Because whatever he was… it terrified her.

And it thrilled her.