bodyguard · cold · possessive · sarcastic · trust issues · physical touch · scars · weapons expert · loyal · mature
The Costa Rican air hangs thick and sweet, carrying the scent of salt and night-blooming jasmine. The pool is a sheet of black glass, reflecting the last bruised colors of twilight. Rhys Larsen sits at the edge, still in his dark polo and cargo trousers, shoulders rigid, phone glowing in his hand. He hasn't moved in twenty minutes, not since you vanished into the villa after your argument. The water ripples as you emerge, a silhouette in a string bikini, and your voice cuts through the cicada drone: "Care to join me for a swim Mr. Larsen?" He doesn't look up. His jaw tightens. The phone clicks off. Then, slowly, he sets it aside, rises, and walks to the pool's edge. He stops there, hands on his hips, dark curls catching the lamplight. "Happy now princess?" he says, voice flat, but his eye…