Heat flooded her face. Anger, she told herself. Definitely anger. Not embarrassment. She didn't get embarrassed. "So what, you just wait in here while I'm bathing? You watch me sleep? Where exactly does your job description end, Coy?"
"I knocked." His voice stayed calm. Level. Infuriatingly professional. "Three times. No answer. The door was unlocked—which, by the way, shouldn't be. Protocol says if you don't answer and the door's unsecured, I check on you. Make sure you're not unconscious or in danger."
"Protocol." She laughed. Sharp. Bitter. The sound of glass breaking. "Of course. Protocol. Did *protocol* tell you to lurk in my bedroom like some kind of creep?"
Something flashed in his eyes. Fast. Dark. Irritation, maybe. Or anger. But his voice stayed level when he answered. "I got here two minutes ago. Tops. I've been standing by the door—" He gestured to where he'd clearly positioned himself, near the entrance, not near the bed or the bathroom or anywhere that could be considered invasive. "—waiting for you to come out. Nowhere near 'lurking.'"
"You're here. In my bedroom. Without permission. That's lurking enough."
Coy exhaled through his nose. A long breath that suggested he was counting to ten in his head. Or maybe to twenty. "Look," he said, and there was the smallest edge of frustration in his voice now. Good. She wanted him frustrated. Wanted him angry. Wanted him to quit so she wouldn't have to keep doing this. "I know you don't want me here—"
"Brilliant deduction."
"—but I have a job to do. Your father hired me to keep you safe. That's what I'm doing. So we can make this easy, or we can make this hell. Your choice."
Norah walked further into the room, putting distance between them even though she was acutely aware that the movement made the robe shift, made her conscious of her body underneath in a way that made her furious. She was covered completely. Head to toe. Nothing showing. But his presence made her hyperaware of her bare skin still damp from the bath, her hair dripping water down her neck, the vulnerability of being undressed even when you were technically dressed.
She hated that awareness. Hated him for causing it.
"Hell," she said flatly. Meeting his eyes. Challenging him. "Definitely hell."
"Figured." Coy uncrossed his arms, and she noticed for the first time that he wore a watch. Simple. Functional. Black face, leather band. Probably expensive in that understated way that people who actually had taste preferred. Her father wore watches like that. "Classes start at nine. It's seven fifty-seven. I'll wait outside while you get dressed."
"How generous of you."
"Thirty minutes," he continued, ignoring her sarcasm like it was background noise. "That enough time, or do you need longer?"
"I need you to leave me alone."
"Not an option."
"Then I guess we're at an impasse."
They stared at each other across the room. Her in a bathrobe with wet hair, feeling exposed and angry and something else she didn't want to name. Him dressed like he was about to infiltrate somewhere dangerous, looking calm and professional and utterly unbothered by her hostility.
The morning light caught his face from the windows behind her, and she noticed details she'd missed last night in the darker lighting of the study. A small scar above his left eyebrow—thin, white, old. The sharp line of his jaw that suggested he was probably rigid about everything, the kind of person who followed rules and ate the same breakfast every day and never let himself be messy. Eyes that were darker than she'd thought in the car—brown, almost black, the kind of brown that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Observant eyes. The kind that saw too much.
Too observant. That was dangerous. People who saw too much asked too many questions.
"Thirty minutes," he repeated, already moving toward the door. Not turning his back on her—she noticed that, noticed that he kept her in his peripheral vision even as he walked away, like she might attack or run or do something unpredictable. Good instincts. "I'll be right outside."
"What if I climb out the window?" She said it to be difficult. To see how he'd react. To test the boundaries of this new cage she'd been put in.
He paused. Hand on the doorknob. Looked back at her over his shoulder. And the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something closer to acknowledgment of her attempt at defiance. "Third floor, Norah. You'd break your legs. Probably both of them. Maybe your spine if you landed wrong. But if you want to try, I won't stop you."
"Don't call me that."
"What?" He turned slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to show he was listening.
"Norah. My name. Don't use it like we're friends."
"What should I call you then? Miss Hanrot? Princess? Your Highness?"
"You shouldn't call me anything. You should pretend I don't exist."
"Hard to protect someone who doesn't exist."
"Then don't protect me. Problem solved."
Coy opened the door but didn't leave yet. He stood there in the doorframe, silhouetted against the hallway light, and when he spoke again his voice was different. Softer. Almost tired. The voice of someone who'd had this exact conversation before with someone else and knew how it would end.
"You know what your problem is?"
Norah's spine stiffened. "I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"You think being difficult makes you strong." He looked at her then. Really looked. Not at her body or her hair or the obvious things. At her face. At her eyes. At whatever he could see there that she couldn't hide behind sarcasm and hostility. "You think that if you push hard enough, everyone will just leave you alone. That being angry is the same as being in control."
She felt something sharp twist in her chest. Something that felt too much like recognition.
"But all it does is make you lonely," he finished quietly.
Norah couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't think of anything cutting enough to say that would make him take it back, that would make him wrong, that would rebuild the wall he'd just casually walked through.
"Get out," she whispered. It was supposed to sound commanding. It sounded broken.
This time, he did.
The door closed with a soft click. Not a slam. Just a quiet closing. Somehow that was worse.
She stood there alone in her enormous bedroom—five hundred square feet, probably, with vaulted ceilings and expensive furniture and windows that looked out over grounds that went on forever—and felt like the walls were closing in.
All it does is make you lonely.
"You don't know anything about me," she said to the empty room. Her voice shook. "You don't know anything."
But she was lying. And she knew it. And somehow, after one day, he knew it too.
She walked to her closet—huge, organized by color and season and occasion, full of clothes she didn't remember buying because someone else bought them for her, picked them out, decided what Norah Hanrot should wear—and started pulling things out.
Not the designer pieces. Not the things that screamed money and privilege and look at me. Simple things. Forgettable things.
Jeans. Dark wash. Expensive but not obviously so. A sweater—cashmere, gray, soft enough to make her want to crawl inside it and never come out. Boots with a low heel. Practical. The kind of outfit that didn't draw attention. That let her blend in. That let her be anonymous.
Velvet wore red. Velvet wore leather and masks and confidence like a second skin. Velvet walked into rooms like she owned them and made men twice her size step aside.
Norah Hanrot wore cashmere and kept her head down and pretended to be exactly what everyone expected.
She dressed quickly. Efficiently. Pulling on clothes like armor. Underwear. Bra. Jeans that fit perfectly because everything fit perfectly when you had money for tailoring. The sweater that hung just right. The boots that were broken in enough to be comfortable.
Then she sat at her vanity—massive mirror, perfect lighting, drawers full of makeup she barely used—to dry her hair. The blow dryer was loud. Professional-grade. Expensive. It cut the silence and filled her head with white noise that was better than thinking.
In the mirror, she looked tired. Young. Nothing like the woman who'd put a bullet in—
She stopped that thought before it could finish. Pushed it down. Locked it away in the same place she locked everything else that threatened to surface at the wrong time.
Her hair dried straight and glossy. She ran a brush through it. Applied minimal makeup—enough to look awake, not enough to look like she was trying. Mascara. Lip gloss. That was it.
The girl in the mirror looked normal. Put together. Fine. The girl in the mirror was a liar.
Twenty-eight minutes later, she opened the bedroom door.
Coy was leaning against the opposite wall, scrolling through his phone like he'd been waiting there the entire time. Probably had been. He looked up immediately. Those observant eyes finding her, cataloging her, probably making mental notes about her outfit and her expression and whether she was a flight risk.
"Ready?"
"No," Norah said, brushing past him close enough that her shoulder almost touched his arm. Almost. "But let's get this over with."
She walked down the hallway toward the stairs. Didn't look back to see if he followed.
She already knew he would. That was the whole problem.
He would follow her everywhere. Watch everything. See too much. And eventually—maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week—he would figure out that the scared angry girl in the bedroom was the least dangerous thing about her.
Eventually, he would figure out what she really was.
And then her father's concern about keeping her safe would be the least of anyone's problems.