Protecting His Playboy Prince

Bastian

The first rule of being royal is simple: never show what you’re actually feeling.

I mastered that art before I could tie my shoes, though according to my father, I’d been slipping lately. Hence my current “private visit” to New York—diplomatic speak for “get your act together somewhere the European press can’t document your every move.”

I gazed out the tinted window of the sleek black SUV as we glided through Manhattan traffic. April in New York. Still cool enough that the city hadn’t developed that distinctive summer smell, but warm enough that people filled the sidewalks, all deliciously unaware of the minor European royalty in their midst.

“Your Highness, we’ll arrive at the residence in approximately ten minutes.”

I didn’t bother looking at the driver, one of the security team who’d met me at the airport. “Fantastic.”

The man said nothing. They never did. My sarcasm was as expected as my title.

I returned to watching the city.

Father had practically banished me for what—a misunderstanding involving a diplomat’s son, a bottle of century-old cognac, and an unfortunate Instagram live session?

Hardly worth exiling me across an ocean for a bit of fun that, admittedly, went viral. Another jewel in the crown of Prince Shallow. Not that I wanted to be shallow, but somehow, that’s all anyone ever seemed to see.

The vehicle slowed, turning into a private entrance of what appeared to be a luxury apartment building—not a hotel, which surprised me. Usually, they stashed me somewhere with maximum security and minimal opportunities for trouble.

“We’ve arrived, Your Highness.”

Two security men appeared as the car door opened, flanking me as I stepped onto the sidewalk. I straightened my light blue Tom Ford blazer, adjusting my cuffs with practiced nonchalance as I assessed my temporary prison. At least it wasn’t obviously royal—no flags, no ceremonial nonsense.

The security team guided me through a private lobby to an elevator that required a keycard. One of the men inserted it, and we ascended silently to what must have been one of the top floors. When the doors opened, I stepped directly into a sprawling penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a breathtaking view of Central Park.

Well. Perhaps exile wouldn’t be completely terrible.

“Your belongings will be brought up shortly, Your Highness,” one of the security men informed me. “Mr. Beck is waiting to brief you on security protocols.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Beck? Don’t tell me Father has assigned yet another nanny.” I twisted the sapphire signet ring on my finger—a nervous habit I’d never quite overcome when new minders were announced.

“Your personal security detail, sir.”

I let out a sigh that could have won awards for theatricality. “How utterly predictable.”

I strolled into the living area. The space was modern, all clean lines and neutral tones with strategic pops of color. Someone had clearly been briefed on my aesthetic preferences.

And then I saw him.

Standing by the windows, looking out over the city with his hands clasped behind his back, was easily the largest man I’d ever seen outside of a rugby pitch. He turned as I entered, and something in my chest did an unexpected little flip. My breath hitched.

Most men, royal or not, offered some flicker of reaction when I entered a room. This one was a granite cliff. I noted the hazel-green of his eyes as they passed over me—not skimming, but assessing. For a breath, I felt stripped bare of the princely costume. For a moment, the world felt steadier, anchored by his presence. That was before I remembered I was annoyed by yet another minder.

He was not what I had expected. Not at all.

Most of the security personnel my father hired were interchangeable—neat, forgettable men with government haircuts and identical suits. This man was... impossible to overlook. Tall—towering, really—with broad shoulders that strained against his dark suit jacket. His face might have been carved from stone: firm jaw, straight nose, and those eyes that watched me with unsettling directness. His dark hair was cut military-short, and a faint scar traced along his jawline.

He moved toward me with surprising grace for someone his size, stopping at a respectful distance before giving a short, formal nod.

“Your Highness. Soren Beck, head of your security detail during your stay.”

His voice was deep, with the faintest hint of an accent I couldn’t immediately place. Scandinavian, perhaps? Not that it mattered. What mattered was that my father had assigned me a walking fortress with cheekbones that could cut glass and hands that looked capable of... well, many things I shouldn’t be thinking about within seconds of meeting him.

I recovered quickly, sliding into my most practiced smile—the one that had graced countless magazine covers. This was, for him, a test. “Mr. Beck. How delightful. And here I was worried New York might be boring.”

Not even a flicker of response crossed his face. His eyes remained focused on me. Interesting. Most people, even the professionally stoic ones, betrayed something. A slight shift, a tell. Not him. It piqued my interest more than any fawning ever could.

“I’ve prepared a security brief on the residence and protocols for your time here,” he continued, as though I hadn’t spoken. “When you’re ready, we can review your schedule and any adjustments you’d like to make within security parameters.”

I stepped closer, deliberately invading his personal space, as I peered up at him. The top of my head barely reached his shoulders, forcing me to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact. The size difference sent an unexpected thrill through me, a novel sensation.

I always appreciated a new challenge. I bit my bottom lip, just for a second, as I strategized.

“Parameters. How exciting. Tell me, Mr. Beck, have you worked with royalty before, or am I your first?”

His expression remained neutral, but something tightened almost imperceptibly around his eyes. “I have extensive experience protecting high-profile clients, Your Highness.”

“Sebastian,” I corrected, observing him. “Or Bastian, if you’re feeling particularly friendly. ‘Your Highness’ gets so tedious after the first few hundred times.”

“As you wish, Prince Sebastian.”

I bit back a smile, running my tongue over my bottom lip. So that’s how it would be.

“I understand you have an engagement this evening,” he continued, stepping away to retrieve a tablet from the coffee table. The sudden increase in distance between us felt deliberate. “The Vaughn Gallery opening begins at eight. Your car will be ready at seven-thirty.”

I flopped onto the plush sofa, stretching my legs out in front of me. “Ah yes, my cultural alibi. Father loves to parade me at arts events. Makes me seem intellectual rather than troublesome.”

Soren didn’t take the bait.

He simply handed me the tablet, which displayed a detailed schedule for the next week. I skimmed it without really reading, more interested in studying his reaction—or lack thereof—to my deliberate provocations.

“Is there anything else you require at the moment, Prince Sebastian?” he asked, his tone perfectly proper.

I looked up at him through my lashes, a move that had proven effective on men far less attractive than Soren Beck. “So many things, Mr. Beck. But I suppose they can wait until we know each other better.”

For just a moment—so brief I might have imagined it—something flashed in his eyes. Not embarrassment or discomfort, but something hotter. Then it was gone, replaced by that impenetrable professionalism. He crossed his arms, the movement highlighting the breadth of his chest.

“I’ll be outside when you’re ready to discuss security arrangements.” He gave another quick nod and turned to leave.

“Mr. Beck,” I called after him, unable to resist. When he paused and looked back, I offered my most innocent smile. “I’m looking forward to our time together.”

He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “My job is to keep you safe, Prince Sebastian.”

“And what if I don’t want to be safe?” The words slipped out before I could censor them.

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of genuine assessment rather than polite deference. Then he squared his shoulders, his face returning to that unreadable mask.

“That’s not your decision to make.”

And with that, he left me alone in the lavish penthouse. The door closed with a quiet click that somehow felt like a challenge.

I exhaled slowly, surprised by the tension coursing through me. Well, well. Perhaps New York would be more interesting than I’d expected.

* * *

Two hours later, I emerged from my bedroom freshly showered and dressed for the gallery opening. I’d chosen a slightly provocative outfit: slim-fitting black trousers, a silk shirt in deep burgundy left open at the collar, and a tailored jacket with subtle silver threading that caught the light when I moved. Just the right balance of appropriate and enticing—perfectly on-brand for Prince Sebastian de Varenne, and specifically chosen to see if I could get a flicker from Mr. Beck.

Soren was waiting in the living room, speaking quietly into a communications device at his wrist. He fell silent when he saw me, his eyes performing a swift, professional assessment that left me feeling exposed. The cool appraisal in his gaze traveled from my face down to my shoes and back up again, lingering briefly on the open collar of my shirt.

“The car is ready downstairs,” he said after a moment.

“Excellent.” I gestured to my outfit, turning slightly to give him the full effect. “Do I pass inspection, Mr. Beck? Suitable for public consumption?” I held my breath, waiting for something, anything, other than pure professionalism.

His expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary. “The gallery has a significant security presence. Stay within sight of the detail at all times.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re not very good at compliments, are you?”

“It’s not in my job description.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Pity,” I murmured, brushing past him toward the elevator. The scent of his cologne—something woodsy and understated—briefly enveloped me. “We’ll have to work on that.”

The ride down to the garage was silent, but I was acutely aware of his presence beside me. The sheer size of him made the elevator feel suddenly smaller. When my shoulder accidentally brushed against his arm, I he stiffened slightly.

In the car, I settled into the back seat while Soren sat up front, conferring quietly with the driver. I studied his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the tension he carried in his broad shoulders. What would it take to make him crack that perfect composure?

The evening ahead suddenly held more promise than I’d initially thought.

The Vaughn Gallery was housed in a renovated industrial building in Chelsea, its brick exterior understated but its interior transformed into a gleaming temple to contemporary art. Tonight’s opening featured a much-hyped exhibition of emerging European artists—hence my royal presence, waving the flag for cultural diplomacy.

As we pulled up to the entrance, I saw a small crowd of photographers and art world denizens gathered outside. Nothing like the paparazzi frenzy I sometimes faced in Europe, but enough people with cameras that Soren’s expression tightened minutely.

“Stay close,” he said as the driver opened my door. It wasn’t a request.

I flashed him a smile. “If you insist.”

The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, I transformed into Public Prince Sebastian—confident, charming, just the right amount of approachable. I smiled for photos, offered brief, elegant soundbites about supporting emerging artists, and moved into the gallery with practiced ease.

Soren remained a constant shadow, close enough to intervene if needed, but far enough that he wasn’t in my camera shots. I caught glimpses of other security personnel strategically positioned throughout the space, but he was the only one who held my attention.

Inside, the gallery hummed with the particular energy of wealthy people pretending to understand art. Crystal chandeliers illuminated stark white walls where colorful, challenging pieces hung like statements waiting to be misinterpreted. The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faintest hint of fresh paint.

I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and circulated, making the expected small talk with curators and patrons while occasionally examining a piece with appropriately thoughtful expressions.

I was good at this part—the performance of royalty. I knew how to make boring people feel interesting, how to leave an impression saying nothing of substance. It was the family business, after all.

These people saw the crown, not me. They wanted proximity to royalty, not connection with the person wearing the title. It was always the same, whether in Brussels, London, or New York.

After about thirty minutes of dutiful mingling, I spotted him across the room—a tall, dark-haired man in a perfectly cut suit, watching me with undisguised interest. Not Soren, who maintained his vigilant position near the wall, but someone new. Someone who looked at me with the kind of heat that promised a pleasant distraction.

Perfect. Maybe now I’d get a reaction from my stoic guardian. My primary focus shifted entirely to Soren. Every move I made from this point on was for his benefit.

I caught the man’s eye and smiled, just slightly, before turning back to the gallery director, who was droning on about brushstroke techniques. When I glanced back moments later, the attractive stranger was making his way toward me. I could feel Soren’s gaze, even from across the room. Was he watching? Was that a muscle ticking in his jaw?

I excused myself from the conversation and drifted toward a large abstract canvas, sipping my champagne while waiting for him to approach. From the corner of my eye, I watched Soren shift his weight forward, ready to move.

“The artist claims it represents the chaos of modern existence,” the stranger said, stopping beside me to study the painting. “Personally, I think it looks like someone spilled paint and called it art.”

I laughed, turning to face him. “How refreshing to meet someone who actually says what they think at these events.”

“James Harrington,” he introduced himself, extending a hand.

“Sebastian,” I replied, deliberately omitting my title as I shook his hand. My eyes flicked towards Soren.

Still watching. Good.

His eyes widened slightly—he knew who I was, of course—but he played along. “Just Sebastian? How mysterious.”

“Perhaps I need a night without formalities,” I suggested, letting my gaze linger on him appreciatively.

James was attractive in that polished Manhattan way—confident, wealthy, well-maintained. Under normal circumstances, he might have been the distraction I’d pursue. But tonight, I was far more interested in the effect this conversation was having on my stoic bodyguard than in James himself.

I glanced over to find Soren watching us, his face impassive but his body coiled with tension. Our eyes met briefly across the room before he looked away, scanning the crowd with deliberate professionalism.

His jaw clenched, and he took a half-step forward before catching himself. A tiny victory.

“So, Sebastian,” James leaned closer, his interest obvious.

Good. Closer, I thought. Let’s see if Mr. Beck thinks this warrants intervention. His stillness by the wall was starting to bore me.

“What brings you to New York?” James asked. “Besides gracing us with your royal presence at this utterly forgettable exhibition?”

“A change of scenery.” I matched his conspiratorial tone, my focus still on Soren. “Sometimes one needs to... explore fresh territory.”

He smiled, clearly interpreting my words exactly as I’d intended. “I’d be happy to show you some of the city’s more interesting attractions. The kind not mentioned in tourist guides.”

“How intriguing.” I moved slightly closer, casually placing a hand on James’s arm. “What did you have in mind?”

As James launched into suggestions for exclusive clubs and private events, I maintained an expression of fascinated interest while secretly monitoring Soren’s reaction.

He had moved closer, ostensibly checking sight lines, but I knew he could hear every word of our conversation. The crease between his eyebrows had deepened, and his hands had curled into loose fists at his sides. This was better than I’d hoped. I wanted him to see me, not just the prince, but the desirable man. And clearly, he was seeing something.

“Perhaps we could continue this discussion somewhere quieter,” James suggested after a few minutes, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back.

Before I could respond, a flash went off nearby—someone taking a photo despite the gallery’s requests for privacy. I blinked, momentarily disoriented, and then suddenly Soren was there, stepping smoothly between James and me.

“Excuse us,” he said to James, his voice low but carrying absolute authority. “Security matter.”

James stepped back immediately, recognizing the unmistakable don’t-argue tone. “Of course. Perhaps another time, Sebastian.”

Soren’s hand settled on my elbow, firm but not rough, as he guided me away from the center of the room. I could feel the heat of his palm through the material of my jacket, each finger a distinct point of contact.

“There’s a photographer who slipped past security,” he explained, his mouth close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “We need to move you to a less exposed position.”

I was intensely aware of his proximity, the heat of his body next to mine, the guiding pressure of his hand on my arm. “And here I thought you were just jealous,” I murmured.

His stride hitched almost imperceptibly before he continued guiding me toward a less crowded corner of the gallery. “My job is your safety, not your social calendar.”

“You’d make an excellent deterrent for boring suitors.” I smiled up at him sweetly. “Though you did rather abruptly end a promising conversation.”

A thrill shot through me. I’d gotten a reaction.

“Mr. Harrington has a reputation.” Soren’s voice was neutral, but with an undercurrent I couldn’t quite identify. “Not someone your father would approve of.”

“Now you’re making him sound interesting.” I turned to face Soren, finding myself closer to him than I’d expected in the quieter alcove where he’d positioned us. “Tell me more about this reputation.”

Soren’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking along its edge. “It’s not relevant to security concerns.”

“I disagree. My personal interests seem very much a security concern to you.” I held his gaze, challenging him. “Or is it just that you don’t approve?”

Something flashed in his eyes—frustration, most likely. “My approval isn’t relevant either.”

“And yet I find myself curious about it, nonetheless.” I stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, close enough to feel the radiating warmth of his body. “What would meet with Soren Beck’s approval, I wonder?”

For a moment, just a moment, his professional mask slipped. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the heat I saw there made my breath catch. His pupils dilated slightly, and he took a shallow breath, his chest rising and falling with the effort of control.

There it was. Not the bodyguard, but the man, if only for a heartbeat. A jolt of genuine attraction. I’d hit a nerve.

Then someone passed by, a gallery assistant carrying a tray of empty glasses, and Soren stepped back, once again the perfect professional bodyguard.

“The photographer has been removed.” His voice betrayed nothing of what I’d just glimpsed. “You should circulate for another thirty minutes to fulfill your official obligations, then we’ll depart.”

I bit my lower lip, watching his eyes track the movement. “As you wish, Mr. Beck. I appreciate your guidance.”

I brushed past him deliberately, letting our shoulders touch, and returned to the main gallery space. For the next half hour, I was the perfect royal representative—charming, engaged, appropriately impressed by the artwork. But I was acutely aware of Soren’s gaze following me through the room.

When I discussed a striking installation with the artist, I asked thoughtful questions that would be quoted approvingly in tomorrow’s art and entertainment columns. I even posed for a few official photos, my public smile firmly in place.

But I didn’t approach any more attractive men, though a few clearly wanted my attention. That little game had served its purpose. I’d seen beneath Soren’s impassive exterior, if only for an instant.

After precisely thirty minutes, Soren appeared at my side. “The car is ready when you are, Prince Sebastian.”

I nodded, making my gracious farewells to the gallery director and accepting her effusive thanks for my attendance. As we moved toward the exit, I felt Soren’s hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd—a touch that was both protective and possessive.

Outside, the evening had cooled, and fewer photographers remained. Still, Soren kept me close as we hurried to the waiting car, his body partially shielding mine from view. Once inside the vehicle, I exhaled, letting my public persona slip away.

“Well, that was predictably tedious,” I said as Soren settled into the seat beside me rather than the front passenger seat he’d occupied earlier.

Interesting. Protocol usually dictated the front seat unless there was an imminent threat. Or perhaps he wanted to continue scowling at me more directly.

“Though not entirely without entertainment,” I added, glancing his way.

He didn’t respond, looking straight ahead as the car pulled away from the curb.

“You’re very good at your job, Mr. Beck.” I studied his profile in the shifting light as we drove through the city. “Though perhaps overzealous when it comes to potential suitors.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “My job is to protect you from all potential threats.”

“And you classified James as a threat because...?”

Soren turned to look at me, his gaze direct and uncompromising. “He has a history of indiscretion with his romantic partners. Photos, explicit details shared with friends. Not someone a public figure should associate with.”

“You researched everyone at the gallery?” He was more than just muscle, then.

“Everyone on the guest list,” he corrected. “It’s standard procedure.”

“How thorough of you.” I leaned back in my seat, reevaluating him. “And here I thought you were simply playing the jealous protector.”

Something flickered across his face. “I don’t play games, Prince Sebastian.”

“No,” I agreed, holding his gaze. “I don’t imagine you do.” He was a different kind of man than I was used to, and that realization sent a new, unexpected current through me.

I wondered what would happen if I reached across the space between us, if I touched him, if I gave voice to the tension I could feel building.

Instead, I turned to look out the window at the city lights blurring past. “Tell me, Mr. Beck, what does a royal bodyguard do for entertainment in New York? Or are you on duty every moment I’m awake?”

“I have a security team,” he replied after a brief pause. “There are rotations. But my primary responsibility is your protection.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

He was silent for a moment. “I require little entertainment.”

“Everyone requires something,” I countered, turning back to him. “What’s yours? Aside from scowling at potential threats to my virtue?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the closest I’d seen yet. “I prefer to keep my personal interests separate from my professional responsibilities.”

“How disappointingly proper of you.” I sighed. “Fine, keep your secrets. For now.”

We rode in silence the rest of the way back to the penthouse, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Something had shifted between us—the beginning of a connection, or at least an acknowledgment of the current running underneath our formal interactions.

When we arrived, Soren escorted me upstairs, performing a quick security check before pronouncing the space secure. He moved to leave, but paused at the door.

“You did well tonight,” he said. “At the gallery.”

I blinked, unexpectedly touched. No one usually noticed the effort behind the performance, the carefully calibrated charm. Coming from him, it meant something. “Thank you. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

He nodded, his hand on the door handle. “Goodnight, Prince Sebastian.”

“Bastian,” I corrected softly. “Just Bastian, please. At least when we’re alone.”

He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. “Goodnight, Bastian.”

The way my name sounded when he spoke in that tantalizingly deep voice made something warm unfurl in my chest.

After he left, I stood in the middle of the luxurious penthouse, feeling strangely unsettled.

I was accustomed to the game of attraction—the flirtation, the pursuit, the eventual conquest.

But something about Soren Beck made me feel like I wasn’t the one controlling the game this time.