CHAPTER 1

LOGAN

Five years earlier

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, Prince Nicholas?”

Here’s a confession: when the powers that be first offered me a position on the royal security team, I wasn’t interested. The idea of following around some self-important aristocrats who were in love with the sound of their own voices—and the smell of their own arses—didn’t appeal to me. The way I saw it, guards were only a step above servant-boys—and I’m no one’s servant.

I wanted action. A blaze of glory. Purpose. I wanted to be a part of something that was bigger than myself. Something noble and lasting.

“Yes, Logan—have a seat.”

I’d distinguished myself in the military pretty quickly. And Winston— the head of Palace Security—had taken notice. They were looking for very particular qualities in Prince Nicholas’s personal team, he’d said. Young

lads who were quick on their feet, loyal and ferocious when required. The type who’d be just fine bringing a knife to a gunfight—’cause he wouldn’t be needing a fucking knife or gun to win.

After only a few weeks, I had a different take on the position. It came to feel like a calling, a duty. Important men make things happen, get things done—they have the power to make life easier for the not-so-important people.

I protect them, so they can do that.

And the young prince sitting across from me, behind the desk in the library of this luxurious penthouse suite—he’s an important man.

“How old are you, Logan?” “My file says I’m twenty-five.”

If Saint Peter was a fisher of men, I’m a reader of them. It’s a skill that’s essential to this occupation—possessing a gut feeling for what someone else’s intentions are. The ability to read a man’s eyes, the shifting of his feet

—to know what he’s capable of and just what kind of man he is.

Nicholas Pembrook is a good man. To his core. And that’s a rare thing.

More often than not, important men are prime scumbags.

His mouth twitches. “I know what your file says. That’s not what I

asked.” He’s also not a fool—and he’s been lied to enough in his life that he’s got an ear for things that don’t ring true.

“How old are you really?”

I look him in the eye, wondering where he’s going with this. “Twenty-two.”

He nods slowly, massaging his thumb into the palm of his other hand, thinking. “So you signed up for the military at . . . fifteen? Lied about your age? That’s young.”

I shrug. “They weren’t real discerning at the recruitment office. I was tall, solid and good with my fists.”

“You were still a child.”

“I was never a child, Your Highness. Any more than you were.” Childhood is when you’re supposed to muck up, figure out who you are,

what you want to be. You’re given permission to be a jackarse. I didn’t have that privilege; neither did Nicholas. Our paths were set before we were born. Opposite paths, sure—but whether you grow up in a shack or a palace, the expectations and demands of those around you tend to snuff out innocence pretty damn fast.

“Why’d you leave home so young?”

Now it’s my turn to smirk. Because I’m not a fool either. “You know why. That’s in the file too.”

I’m good at identifying scumbags because I come from a long line of them. Criminals—not especially successful ones. Petty, scrounging,

desperate enough to be dangerous—the kind who’ll smile to your face, pat you on the back, then stab you as soon as you’re not looking.

My grandfather died in prison—he was in for murder committed during an armed robbery. My dad will die there too, hopefully sooner rather than later—he’s in for manslaughter. I’ve got uncles who’ve done stints for a

whole range of criminal activities, cousins who’ve been killed in broad daylight in the middle of the street and aunts who’ve pimped out their daughters without a second thought.

By the time I was fifteen I knew if I stayed in that shit-hole, I’d start to stink. And then I’d have only two options: prison or the cemetery.

Neither one of those worked for me.

“What’s this really about? All the questions?”

It’s always better to cut to the chase, deep and quick.

His gray-green eyes focus on me, his face probing, his shoulders slightly hunched, like an elephant’s sitting on them.

“Now that I have Henry in hand, the Queen wants us back in Wessco, in two days. You know this.”

I nod.

“I want to bring Olivia home with me, for the summer.”

For a time, I was on the fence about the pretty New York baker. She put ideas in Nicholas’s head, made him reckless. But she’s a good lass— hardworking, honest—and she cares about him. Not about his title or his bank account. She couldn’t give a shit about those and probably would prefer him without them. She makes him happy.

And in the two-odd years I’ve worked with the Crown Prince, truly happy is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be.

“Is that wise?” I ask.

Olivia Hammond is a sweet girl. And the Palace . . . has a knack for turning sweet to sour.

“No. But I want to do it anyway.”

And the look on his face—it’s raw and exposed. It’s yearning. From the outside looking in, you’d think there’s nothing a royal could want that he can’t have. Nicholas has private planes, servants, castles and more money

than he can spend in a lifetime—but I can’t think of a single instance when he did what he wanted, just for the hell of it. Or when he let himself do something he knew he shouldn’t.

I admire him, but I don’t envy him.

“Olivia wants to come, but she’s worried about leaving her sister alone for the summer. Ellie’s young, still in school and . . . naïve.”

She’s got a wild streak in her too. As bright as the pink in her blond hair, which has been joined by blue, then green, during the two months we’ve been in New York.

“I could see her attracting trouble,” I comment.

“Exactly. Also, Ellie will have to run the coffee shop on her own, with just Marty for help. Olivia’s father is—”

“He’s a drunk.”

I’m good at spotting them too—can smell them from a mile away.

“Yes.” Nicholas sighs. “Look, Logan, you’ve been around long enough to know that I don’t trust easily, or often. But I trust you.” He pushes a hand through his black hair and meets my eyes. “Which is why I’m asking you.

Will you stay in New York? Will you help Ellie, watch over her . . . make sure she’s safe?”

She seems like a decent girl, but I already said I wasn’t a servant—and I’m also not a nanny. Protecting the royal family is a duty I’ve chosen; keeping tabs on an American teenage girl is a fucking headache waiting to happen.

Nicholas glances out the window. “I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s not your job; you can say no. But there’s no one else I would choose . . . no one else I can depend on. So, I’d consider it a personal favor if you say yes.”

Ah . . . hell.

I have a brother. To say I wish I didn’t would be an understatement. And not in the same way Nicholas wishes his royal snot of a brother would grow the hell up, or how Miss Olivia seems put out by her younger sister at times.

The world would be a better place if my brother weren’t in it—and that’s a stance shared by others.

But if I had a choice, if I could assemble a brother from the ground up, I would build the man sitting across from me right now.

Which is why, even though I’m going to bloody regret it, it takes only a moment before I give him my answer.

“James has a boy back home—about a year old, so he’ll want to go home with you. Tommy’ll be happy to stay—the Bronx is like his own

personal harem. Between the two of us, and two more men, Cory and Liam maybe, we’ll keep the girl out of trouble and the business afloat for the summer.”

Nicholas’s face splits into the biggest smile and relief lights up his eyes. He stands, holding out his hand to shake mine, pounding my shoulder with gratitude.

“Thank you, Logan. Truly. I won’t forget this.” If nothing else, this summer will be . . . different.