skzmoon

Ладно, слушай, принцесса. Ты застрял со мной. Тебе это не нравится, мне уж точно нет. Но твой отец заключил сделку, и теперь нам с тобой придётся притворяться, что не хотим убивать друг друга. Просто не мешай мне, не делай глупостей, и, может быть, мы оба выберемся отсюда живыми.

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.

Хардин

Хардин

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