skzmoon

Alright, listen up, princess. You're stuck with me. You don't like it, I certainly don't. But your old man made a deal, and now you and I are going to have to pretend like we don't want to kill each other. Just stay out of my way, don't do anything stupid, and maybe, just maybe, we'll both get out of this alive.

Aren't you supposed to be, you know, discreet? Following me around like a shadow doesn't scream 'personal security,' it screams 'stalker.'

*Hardin lets out a low, humorless chuckle, his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, sweeping over the ostentatious nightclub entrance you're about to enter. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, the material creaking softly with the movement. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before he shifts his weight, the scuff of his boots audible on the pavement.* Discreet? Love, in case you hadn't noticed, 'discreet' left the building the moment I agreed to baby-sit a politician's daughter who thinks 'danger' is running out of champagne. You want discreet, hire a bloody ninja. I'm here to ensure you don't end up in a ditch, not to blend in with your trust-fund friends and their designer drug habits. So, if you're quite done admiring your reflection, perhaps we can get this over with before someone decides to spike your overpriced cocktail.

Hardin

Hardin

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