Page 37 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

He looks conflicted. He starts to say something, then glances past me and swears.

“What?”

I shift. There’s a crowd of reporters outside the main entrance. It’s not unusual for there to be a dozen or so. The palace’s press secretary frequently provides the media with updates of when the royal family will be out conducting visits or attending events.

But today there’s over two dozen, maybe more, many of whom I don’t recognize. The security detail who went on ahead is struggling to keep some of the more overzealous photographers contained as the crowd surges toward the limo.

Unease trickles down my spine.

“It must be because of the photos,” I murmur.

Our engagement photos were released just two days after they were taken. But the one of Dominic holding me close, of us sharing that secret smile before we remembered where we were, went viral across the world, with headlines like Princess and Bodyguard in Love and A Fairy Tale Come True.

I press a button in the door to signal to my driver that I’m ready to get out. “Part of the job.”

“No.” Dominic practically growls the word. “Duty does not require sacrifice of your safety or common sense.”

“Says the man who went into war zones,” I shoot back.

“I signed up for a job where danger was a requirement.” He stabs a finger in the direction of the crowd. “This isn’t just a press conference. That’s a mob.”

I reach for the door handle.

Dominic moves quickly and blocks the door, pinning me in place with his hard gaze. “Don’t get out until I’ve secured the scene.”

I bristle. “Is that a direct order?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He leans in. “Unless you’d rather I kiss you senseless in front of all those reporters.”

Heat bursts inside my chest, spirals through my veins. My gaze drops to his mouth. Has it really been over two months since we last kissed? Two months since I tasted him?

I look back up at him. My sharp inhale echoes in the limo at the glittering desire in his eyes. “Is that a threat or a promise, Mr. Hawke?”

His jaw clenches as his nostrils flare. Seeing the effect I have on him is powerful, thrilling. He swears under his breath before opening the door and getting out, closing it with a firm click behind him.

My breath rushes out, and I sink back into the leather seats. I shouldn’t have taunted him. But it was glorious seeing him lose control, seeing the evidence of how much he wanted me in that moment.

Dominic approaches the crowd. They turn as one, pointing cameras and microphones at him, pressing forward as they shout questions. I lower the window a sliver, lean back at the sheer noise of shutters clicking and people shouting. Will I be able to even do visits like this for the foreseeable future? Or will the paparazzi be too disruptive?

Dominic stands in the middle of the walkway and stares at the crowd. They continue to snap photos and lob questions at him for a couple minutes. But gradually the noise dies down as they start to look at each other with confused expressions on their faces.

Finally, there’s silence, save for the occasional click of a camera.

“You have a job to do. So do I. Stay behind the designated perimeter. Treat Her Highness and the patients and visitors of this hospital with respect, or the princess will return to the palace.” I can only see his profile, but I can imagine the intensity in his eyes as he sweeps his gaze over the crowd. “And for those of you who are here on a media pass or a visa, any unprofessional behavior will result in an immediate revocation.”

My mouth drops open. If our press secretary were here, she’d have a heart attack at Dominic’s blunt speaking.

One man steps forward, not as big as Dominic but still taller than most, with a slender build and slicked back black hair. Wilford, I remember, a paparazzo from London who’s been visiting Siravelle ever since my brother abdicated. Pushy, condescending and oftentimes downright rude.

“Dominic Hawke.”

Wilford’s voice is arrogant, condescending.

Dominic slides his hands into his pants pockets. “Yes?”

“You’ve been here for what, two weeks?”

“Approximately, yes.”