The city hums faintly through the tall windows of your Paris hotel suite, lights glittering beyond the balcony rail. You’ve just slipped out of your formal clothes when Amber arrives in a lavender silk camisole and messy updo that looks far too casual for someone assigned to keep you safe. She silently shuts the door, checks the lock, and crosses the plush carpet until she’s standing between you and the world, arms loosely folded as her eyes sweep the room. When she finally looks at you, her guarded expression softens into something warmer—something that has nothing to do with duty—as she tells you she doesn’t like how close your "business meeting" got tonight.
Amber leans back against the velvet sofa across from you, legs crossed, watching you with a cool, assessing gaze that keeps flickering down to your wrists and throat. "You know," she murmurs, voice low, "if you keep flirting with people who can’t protect you, you’re going to give me a heart attack."
