Well, the Olympics are long over, but I haven't forgotten about this story! I will finish it off with another chapter after this one.
He was an idiot.
Liam clearly thought so, and his brother was right. It was supposed to be an easy job - accompany a rich, spoiled princess to the Olympics, stand around for two weeks while she competed (in archery, of all things) and go home to London with a fat pay packet and a satisfied client.
Oh, he'd like to satisfy her, over and over again, and...not now, Killian!
He shifted in his seat and slouched down against Liam's sudden sideways glare, as if his brother knew exactly where his thoughts had just wandered.
Crown Princess Emma was in the back of the bulletproof SUV, her face shielded behind a large pair of sunglasses. Given the number of beers she had drunk the night before, she had to be hungover as hell and would probably prefer to be spending some quality time on the loo floor next to the toilet instead of driving along a pothole-filled road where every bump and swerve had her wincing behind the splashy designer frames. But there was no time to waste, she only had one day to prepare for her second chance at the gold medal. Killian thanked every deity he could think of that the men's qualifying round was scheduled for today and the women's final wasn't until tomorrow. At least that would give her some time to recover from their ill-advised night out on the town before she had to take the field with the weight of an entire country's expectations on her shoulders.
"Where are we going? This isn't the same route we took the other day."
Liam glanced in the rearview mirror, hands tight on the wheel, "My apologies, Your Highness, but I got word that the practice field has been staked out by several reporters waiting for you. We had a backup ready in case there was any security issues with the official venue, so we're going there instead. I thought you'd prefer some privacy from the press right now."
"Oh," she said, biting her lip and sounding relieved, "Yes, thank you, Mr. Jones. But what about my coach, Graham?"
"I've already called him, he'll meet us there."
The princess nodded, turning her head to look out the window. Liam focused his attention back on the road and Killian was grateful for his brother's foresight in having the other practice field ready. He'd seen how devastated she was at the press conference held after she failed to advance in the first round, the press of photographers all snapping away trying to get the best shot of the tear rolling down her cheek. Bloody vultures, the lot of them, and the last thing she needed was to be bombarded with inane questions as soon as she stepped out of the car.
"Are you afraid of letting your country down again, Your Highness?"
"Do you think you can come back from such a disappointing qualifier and make the podium?"
"Got anything to say about the interview your ex-boyfriend, Neal Cassidy, gave to the Daily Mail?"
One of the other Misthaven athletes, a young, redheaded swimmer who had the bedroom next to Princess Emma's at the Athlete's Village, had clued him in about the article when they returned there after the press conference and she locked herself in her room. Her relationship with him had been detailed in the dossier he'd read before he actually met her in person, the facts laid out impersonally in a few short paragraphs. It had seemed unimportant then, her ex wasn't considered any kind of threat to her safety and he'd quickly moved on to the next section with the official Olympic schedule, but now….he'd seen the look on her face when she missed that last shot. It was shown up close on the large screen next to the field and then over and over again on the TVs that were scattered everywhere. Princess Emma of Misthaven falters and fails to advance. Death knell to a dream of gold. Her voice had trembled during the press conference when Neal's name was brought up, and Killian had felt a sharp pang of sympathy deep in his gut.
He'd also wanted to the punch the bastard right in the face. Even though he only had one hand, he still had a mean right hook.
The backup field was literally that, a field. Grassy and bordered by a dilapidated fence, next to a pasture where a few cows were grazing with their tails lazily swishing and flicking away flies. No fancy facilities like the official venues had, freshly-painted locker rooms, jacuzzis, saunas, but the princess only asked if there was the proper Olympic-sized targets available and on Liam's reassurance that there was, got out of the SUV without complaint.
"What do you need, Your Highness?"
They hadn't spoken since she'd had him pressed against a wall with her lips hovering so, so close to his, green eyes bright even in the darkness of the alley as she wondered, "Would you kiss me if I asked you to?" He couldn't see her eyes now, they were still hidden behind her sunglasses as he popped open the hatch and gestured to the bags of equipment packed inside. He thought he saw the flicker of movement behind the glass, but she only pointed to one duffel and asked, "Would you bring that one, please, Mr. Jones?"
It wasn't his job to fetch and carry for her, but it wasn't his job to slide his hand over the curve of her hip and imagine what it would feel like to touch the skin that lay underneath the rough denim of her jeans either and he'd done that last night, so he carefully hefted the bag she wanted and followed along behind as Liam led the way to where everything was set up.
That was his job. Liam in front and him behind, following along whatever pop star or politician or rich businessman they'd been hired to guard. He'd followed Liam into the service as soon as he was old enough to enlist, followed him from post to post, into the highest levels of the Special Forces, into peacekeeping missions and warzones and secret assignments….until.
Until.
The prosthetic sat on his wrist, all titanium joints and space-age materials. He'd woken up in a military hospital with a shattered heart, a bandaged stump where his left hand had been and his brother at his bedside. Liam had followed him then, out of Pakistan to the rehab facility in the UK, out of the Special Forces when it became clear that what really happened was being swept under the rug and nothing would be done to avenge her death, and finally, out of the service completely and into private security work. He owed his brother everything - he would have been court-martialed if it wasn't for Liam pulling every string he could with the top brass - so he hadn't said a word in his own defence when Liam had laid into him as soon as the door to the princess's bedroom swung shut and it was only the two of them left in the Misthaven team lounge. Of course taking her out to a dodgy bar was a stupid, reckless thing to do, he'd known that right from the moment when she stomped over to him in a T-shirt that hugged enticingly across her breasts with her blonde hair loose down her back and those tight jeans, declaring her intention to go out and get drunk. A proper bodyguard would have tried to reason with her and if that failed, brought a full security team and vetted the bar before letting her set foot in it, but he recognized the look in her eye. It was a look that said she was going to do it no matter what he said and he made the split second decision that it was better to accompany her and keep her safe than risk her sneaking out on her own while he waited for Liam to bring reinforcements.
Of course, Liam didn't see it that way. The back of his neck still burned from some of the more colourful insults his brother had thrown at him.
A target was set up at the end of the field while she unpacked her bow. He had originally pictured something like the props from his fifth form production of Robin Hood, but the thing was nearly as tall as she was and clearly much more complicated. She tested the string with a finger and adjusted the...settings? Tension? He didn't know the terminology, he was just supposed to be her bodyguard, not her coach. That job was filled by the ruddy Irishman who was far too touchy-feely with her for Killian's taste, as well as tall, good-looking…
Whole.
He glanced away, staring into the distance at nothing for a long moment.
The thwack of an arrow hitting the target brought him back to himself. Clearly, Princess Emma wasn't going to wait for Graham to show up before getting started. She let another fly, scowling when it landed much farther from the centre than the first one. Her shoulders flexed with the movement, long, toned arms on display in a sleeveless shirt. It obviously took considerable strength to handle the long bow, this wasn't like throwing darts in the pub. There was power behind each pull of the bowstring to her chin as she balanced the arrow and stared down at the target in the distance, strangely graceful and captivating to watch. Or maybe that was just her.
Another arrow missed altogether and Killian saw her go absolutely still. He felt himself tense, wondering if she was going to cry or scream or fling the bow away like a javelin, but she only rolled her shoulders and fired another. It hit, but so close to the edge it just barely hung on. These were clearly not gold medal shots, she was shooting worse than she had in the qualifier. Killian noticed the sweat on her forehead and remembered there was a cooler with bottled water and Gatorade in the back of the SUV. He quickly jogged over and snagged one of each, bringing both out to her on the field and offering them with a silent question in the raise of his brow.
"Water, please."
Since she clearly couldn't open it and hold the bow at the same time he nestled the Gatorade on the grass and gripped the water bottle in his prosthetic, twisting the cap off with his hand. Most people couldn't help but gawk whenever he used the contraption, but Crown Princess Emma only thanked him and took the bottle with her fingers brushing his, tipping her head back and downing half in one swallow.
"If you're still feeling poorly after last night-"
"No," she interrupted, "It's not that, it's just…"
He could feel Liam's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head but he shifted closer and lowered his voice, "What, love?"
She had taken off the sunglasses when she started shooting so he could see her eyes now, red-rimmed and looking dull and defeated, "He's back in my head."
Killian didn't need to ask who "he" was, her ex and his money grab of an interview was the obvious culprit. Emma wiped her brow with the back of her hand and her shoulders slumped, defeat written all over her face.
"I know a thing or two about that."
"Yeah?" she said. Her American accent when speaking English had struck him as odd at first but in retrospect it made sense, her father was American, after all. Then plain David Nolan, he had been on a backpacking trip through Europe when a young woman stole his wallet. Only she wasn't a petty thief, she was the exiled Crown Princess Mary Margaret of Misthaven, cut off from her bank accounts by her stepmother and trying to get the money to return home and reclaim her throne. They famously fell in love while he helped her sneak back over the border, and quickly married in a lavish wedding that rivalled Prince Charles and Lady Di's several years prior.
"So, how do you deal with the people in your head, Mr. Jones?"
Milah's face flashed in his mind, followed quickly by her husband's. Liam had warned him that getting involved with the young wife of a high-ranking elder in the village near the military base where they were stationed in Pakistan was a bad idea, but he didn't listen. They were in love, and she was going to leave her husband and come back with him to the UK when his tour of duty was complete.
Her husband had gathered several of his male relatives and ambushed them just outside of the fence that surrounded the base. A few steps more and they would have been safely inside the gate, the soldiers on guard duty had come running at the screams but they were too late to stop Milah's husband and his cousins from holding him down and cutting off his hand while she was forced to watch. They fled with her still screaming his name as he passed out from the blood loss and shock, and by the time he woke up she was dead.
They called it an honour killing in the official reports.
He insisted it was murder.
Either way, it ended his career in the military.
"Killian?"
Princess Emma switched to his first name, looking at him with concern. She was as unlike Milah as any woman could possibly be, rich, famous, literally royalty, and she was the first woman since Milah who had made him think of more than just a one night stand or a quick fling. But, like Milah, she was supposed to be strictly off-limits.
"Would you kiss me if I asked you to?"
"Don't do it to show up Neal Cassidy."
The sound of her ex-boyfriend's name made her face go perfectly still and shuttered, as if a door had suddenly slammed shut between them. It was a look that dared him to continue, and he was very aware that one wrong word could see him and Liam both fired and blacklisted in the rarefied circles she travelled in. But Killian Jones was no coward, and he took a step closer.
"Don't do it for your mother, or even your country. Do it for yourself, Emma."
It was a shocking breach of protocol to call her by her first name, but in for a penny, in for a pound.
She frowned, a line appearing between her brows, "But...everyone's counting on me."
"Everyone's counting on Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess. Forget about her and just be Emma."
The wind stirred the wisps of hair that were escaping from her messy braid. She glanced down the empty field at the target.
"The last time I tried to just be Emma...it didn't go so well."
Killian could still feel Liam's eyes on them and knew he was going to hear about this later, but he didn't care. "The last time I was just Killian, I had two hands. Now there's a lot of whispering and staring wherever I go."
He saw the flush rise in her cheeks as her eyes flicked to his wrist and back away again. She'd obviously noticed it, but unlike most of their clients she hadn't said a word about the prosthetic, smoothly shaking his right hand when they were first introduced with a simple, "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Jones."
"But….last night, I felt like just Killian again."
It hung in the air between them for a long moment, like the freeze-frame they kept showing on the TV of her arrows in flight.
"Need I remind you-"
"Don't start, Liam," he interrupted, standing next to his brother while Princess Emma lifted the bow and drew the string back to her cheek.
"What you did was incredibly dumb and reckless, and I haven't forgotten what happened the last time you were dumb and reckless, brother."
He felt the anger well up in his chest as his voice dropped to a low hiss, "This isn't Pakistan."
Liam stepped in front of him, blocking his view with his taller frame and putting a hand on his shoulder, "No, it's not. But you know damn well that you can't let yourself get personally involved and do your job at the same time."
Killian felt both his hand and his prosthetic clench, "It's not personal."
"Right," Liam said with a sigh, rolling his eyes. The sudden thwack of the arrow hitting the target made them both turn to look. Emma lowered the bow and he saw the tiny smile at the edge of her lips.
Bullseye.
