The words are casual, dismissive even, but her touch burns through the fabric of my sleeve.
Tonight, I'm not leaning against a wall; I'm her date.
At least, that's the story she gave the press and donors. Just the "family associate" escorting her to the annual gala. In reality, I'm still her protection detail. Only now I'm playing a part that requires standing too close, touching too often, and enduring the sickening warmth curling in my gut every time she leans into me.
An old lady's eyes sweep over me, lingering on the tattoos visible at my wrists where the cuffs don't quite reach. "My, my. Handsome and mysterious. Keira, you do know how to pick them."
Keira laughs, the sound light and practiced. "He's excellent at what he does."
I nod, saying nothing, because what the hell do you say to that?
Her laugh reminds me of the car ride. I hadn't laughed like that in so long. I still don't know why I did. But it felt good.
I think since I saw her the other day, when Callum told her about her father, it pulled at something in me. Relatability. Probably thoughts of my brother.
I shake my head and think about other things, though clearly I haven't been able to.
I glance at my watch. I've been beside her for two hours. Two hours of champagne flutes and forced smiles. Two hours of her perfume wrapping around me every time she leans close to speak over the music. And what feels like a hundred hours of watching men's eyes drop to her cleavage or lower when she walks, watching the curve of her ass when she moves.
I've counted four waiters, six donors, and two security guards who've looked too long and who I might have to kill after the event.
I've stopped myself from stepping between them and her eleven times.
I've told myself this is just a job, a fucking mission, but my body doesn't care about the distinction.
A waiter passes, his gaze sliding down Keira's body as he offers champagne. I shift my stance, blocking his view, and he startles, moving quickly away.
Keira doesn't notice. She's already turning toward the next cluster of donors, her smile bright and easy.
I follow.
A man at the bar watches her approach, straightening his posture, smoothing his tie. When she speaks to him, he leans in too close, his hand coming to rest on the bar beside hers.
My fingers curl into a fist at my side.
He says something that makes her laugh, genuine this time, not the fake performance she gives the others, and something dark unfurls in my chest.
I know the difference now. I've learned the cadence of her real joy versus the bullshit she wields in rooms like this.
Watching her use that fake laughter to charm wealthy donors is actually amazing to see. Impressive even.
A politician approaches next, his hand landing on her arm as he thanks her for the work here in the city. His thumb strokes her sleeve once, twice.
I take a step forward before I catch myself.
Easy.
But control is slipping through my fingers like water, and I'm drowning in the need to touch her the way these men think they have the right to.
At first I told myself that keeping these people's hands off her was for her protection. Now I'm starting to think it's mine. How long do I lie to myself that something is shifting and I'm losing my grasp on shit.
I should've just told her.
Earlier, when she asked how she looked, I should've said the truth.
Beautiful.
Not pretty. Not okay. Fucking beautiful.
