♱ .ᐟ 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐲𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝 ────୨ৎ

The first time I saw him, I knew he wasn't someone I could easily get along with. Julian Mort wasn't just a man: he was a presence that effortlessly drew you to the edge of discomfort. Thirty years old, Canadian, a former soldier, and, according to those who knew his reputation, the best bodyguard in the country, Julian didn't just enter a room: he occupied it. His night-black hair seemed to absorb the light and, sometimes, in the sun, took on a deep blue hue, much like his demeanor. His almost black eyes regarded you with disdain even before you met him. The dark circles under his eyes told stories of sleepless nights, of tensions he wasn't about to reveal. The unkempt beard and the scar on his left cheek completed his instantly intimidating appearance.

He'd been hired for me. My grandfather, with his usual overprotectiveness, decided that after my father's death and my sudden access to a fortune I hadn't even had time to comprehend, I needed a constant protector. I didn't want a bodyguard. The idea of ​​someone watching me twenty-four hours a day felt suffocating, but Julian wasn't there to listen to my opinions. He was there for the money, pure and simple.

I soon realized he wasn't just a bodyguard; he was a fighting machine, one devoid of affection or emotion. He didn't trust people, least of all me.

"Are you going to just stand there watching, little princess? Or are you going to walk? We don't have all day." He grumbled impatiently, walking towards the living room.