Praise Me: Princess (Praise Me Daily)
Praise Me: Princess: Chapter 4

There is no reason for me to feel like this much of a bastard.

Joking around or having conversations with my charge is not in the job description. Neither is spending any significant amount of time in her bedroom. I only went in there because it baffled me that she would be moving furniture at such an odd hour and I wanted to know why. I didn’t expect to be so fucking impacted by the sight of her in a nightgown.

Might as well admit it, my rude treatment of her is partially in defense of her beauty.

My God, she is spectacular.

Standing before Greta, her long hair unpinned and her face clean of makeup, I nearly slipped into a trance, words deserting me, my body reacting almost violently to the softness and delicacy of her. My body can’t even comprehend what flesh that perfect would feel like beneath me. She’s a woman unlike any that I’ve encountered while stationed in hundreds of ports.

There’s something about her that makes me feel…necessary.

Like being here isn’t a mistake. Even if I am highly annoyed about it.

Greta looks at me in a way I don’t understand. As if she sees something inside of me. Something she needs. But I can’t even begin to define what that something is. Nor am I in a position to give it to her. I’m her bodyguard. She’s the fucking princess. And apparently, she’s about to become engaged.

All of that equates to a big hell no.

Even if I could define what she sees in me, even if I had all the freedom in the world, I wouldn’t pursue some pampered princess, would I?

I scoff at the very idea, the sound echoing along the stone corridor.

Stop thinking about her in that stupid nightgown then.

Stop thinking about how…

…how I’d bend her over onto all fours in that thing, eat her little pussy from behind until my face is wet. But I’d want her on her back to fuck, at least the first time. Yeah, I would. I’d want those big blue eyes to widen in shock as I seat myself and pin her so hard to the bed with that first thrust, she whines for me to take it out, in, out, in…her spoiled, royal body shaking with the excitement of finally being handled properly by a man. A fucking solider. Not some prince with a manicure.

Has she even met this guy she’s supposedly marrying?

I’m staring a hole in the door and I don’t even remember turning to face it. I’m raising my fist to knock, no idea why, when a bloodcurdling scream drains the blood straight out of my body. A scream that comes from inside Greta’s bedroom, right on the other side of the door. I’m numb, but I’m moving, chilled down to my fingertips, but those fingertips are curled around the butt of my gun, finger on the trigger, ready to take out whoever made the bad decision to come after the girl I’m protecting.

But there’s no one.

The room is totally still, dark except for moonlight.

Was she taken?

No. No, impossible. We’re three floors off the ground and there’s no means of scaling the wall of the palace. I secured the grounds myself, before meeting with the queen this morning. Greta should be in her bed. What the living fuck is going on?

“Greta,” I bark, the blood flowing back into my veins with a hot vengeance, pulse pounding in my temple, everything moving in fast motion as I lunge for the bathroom, sweeping in with my gun, prepared to find the princess held captive by some ghoul—or worse, a rebel—but once again, there’s nothing. Empty. “Greta!”

There’s a whimper. A faint one.

I heard it—and it’s enough to have me throwing open doors like a man possessed. Toiletry cabinets, the frosted shower door, her closet.

There.

At first, she’s just an outline, but as my eyes adjust to the light, I see the princess is huddled on the floor wrapped in a blanket, a dagger clutched in a death grip. Her eyes are luminous, looking right at me but not seeing anything, and the utter terror on her face rips my heart sideways.

“They’re going to come back,” she whispers. “Close the door or they’re going to come back with the bat. Please.”

“Bat,” I choke out, shoving my gun into the back waistband of my pants and dropping down on my knees. My hands hover above her face, useless. Do I wake her up? Is that dangerous? I don’t know, but I can’t leave her in the scary headspace where she’s living right now. “Baby, you’re safe. You’re home at the palace and I’m right here.”

“They told me next time they’re going to break the bones in my face instead of my leg,” she pants, recoiling.

The anger that grips me is deadly. I’ve encountered plenty of PTSD in my military career. Enough to know whatever the princess has been through, it was fucking bad. I’m not even touching her skin and I can feel the chill radiating from the surface. “Greta.” I take her face in my hands, stunned by the smooth texture. Is she even real? “You’re having a nightmare. It’s just a nightmare.”

“The nightmare is real.”

“No.” I sit down beside her in the closet, carefully removing the dagger from her hand before pulling her into my lap. Slowly, putting my arms around her and tucking her head beneath my chin, natural as can be. No lie, my eyes cross over the firm weight of her bottom in my lap, her rose water scent, the way she just seems to lock into a place I didn’t know I had. Just click. “The nightmare is not real, but if it is, when the bad guys come back, I’m going to slaughter them all. None of them are going to lay a finger on you, princess.”

“Really?” she whispers.

“Yes. You are safe with me. What did I tell you earlier?”

She’s quiet for several beats. “Nothing gets through you.”

“That’s right.” She’s starting to calm down, her body relaxing into me, but I want to be positive she’s reassured. I want to completely drive out the fear. Thus, I find myself unbuttoning my shirt down to my navel. Then I pick up her hand and guide her fingers inside the opening of my shirt, taking her on a tour of my scars, which are many. “Not bullets, not acts of nature…” I slide her palm down to my right abdomen where one of the worst puckers lives. “Not shrapnel or blades. I’m a wall between you and danger.”

“You don’t even like me,” she yawns.

My throat muscles are strained in an instant, my heart suspiciously sensitive. “You’re not as bad as I thought,” I manage, hoarsely.

“That’s nice,” she murmurs, her eyes closing, head lolling against my shoulder. “You can go now. I’m fine.”

I drop my chin more securely atop her head. “Go to sleep.”

A moment passes where I sense she wants to protest sleeping in my arms. Hell, I want to protest it as much as I want…need it to happen. But her argument dies in its inception, and she snuggles into me, some of the blanket falling away from her thighs.

That’s when I see the rebel brand seared into her hip.

And my carefully constructed resentment shatters like a fist through glass.

I will never leave her side again.