to the salt at the bottom of the bowl, watching the room without interest as Kris continued to chat with the guy and his friends, when someone brushed against her shoulder. She tensed, turning with a frown.
“Hey,” said a man with wavy hair, dark skin, and eyelashes for days. He held cash in one hand, presumably waiting for his drink, and smiled at her as he leaned against the bar.
“Hey,” she said, eyeing him over.
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
She wanted to say I’m with numbnuts, but instead said, “First time.”
“You look good in those shorts.”
She bit back a groan. Complimenting a woman’s legs was the most generic pickup line in Kiraly—mountain living worked wonders for the thighs—but admittedly, hers were on full display in her green high-waisted cutoffs. She’d dressed to blend in. She’d matched it with a cherry summer-weight jacket to conceal the gun in her shoulder holster. Before she could answer, Kris was leaning into her space, arm stretching along the counter in front of her, and saying, “Yeah, well you should see her in a crown.”
Shock slackened the man’s face. “Woah. Sorry, didn’t see you there, Highness,” he said, and hightailed it into the crowd without waiting for his drink.
Frankie rounded on Kris, her temper snarling. “What was that?”
He relaxed, sprawled against the bar, closer to her than he should be. “What?”
“That,” she snapped.
“That what?”
“You were being—” Her jaw slid as she bit the word back.
Eyes glittering, he leaned all the way into her space. Close, closer, until their breaths merged, and it was all she could do to glare him down without her eyes crossing. He challenged her in a voice sharp like drawn claws. “I was being what, Frankie?”
“Territorial,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You’re my bodyguard, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you dare—”
He cocked an eyebrow, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom what she meant.
“—make it sound so possessive,” she finished.
“Mine,” he said again, daring her, and she sensed his primal thrill at saying such a thing in the middle of a crowded bar. “You’re mine and he can’t have you.”
“Brute.” She flicked another glance over his shoulder—and stopped breathing as fear detonated inside her. Hand snapping to her earpiece, she said, “Secure the baby,” and launched off the barstool straight at the man who was coming up behind Kris for the fourth time in twenty minutes, withdrawing his hand from his pocket with a dark shape in his grip.
Kris landed on his front behind the bar counter. Peter crushed him and Hanna dropped into a crouch by one shoulder. His heart hammered; his muscles deadlocked.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted over the public’s startled screams. His cheek was pressed into a sticky spill on the wooden floor, and all he could see was the feet of the bar staff as they gathered at the opposite end. “Where’s Frankie?” Suddenly he was struggling like a deer in a drop net. “Where the fuck is Frankie?”
“She’s handling it.” Hanna’s thigh was pressed against the back of his head and right shoulder, her weight bearing down to help keep him pinned as she presumably watched over the top of the counter. Not that Peter needed help.
“Handling what?” Kris roared, pushing against the resolute weight on his back.
“The threat,” she answered severely. “Now don’t act like a man who thinks his wife can’t carry the groceries. She’s got this.”
“Got what?” He could hardly process what she was saying. “What’s happening?”
“A man was closing in on you.” Her words were clipped. “Frankie’s subduing him.”
“Still?” Panic clawed inside his lungs, shredding his breath. “Help her, for God’s sake!”
“Wait.” Hanna paused. “Oh, man.” Then she chuckled low in her throat. “Yeah, now he’s down.”
Kris struggled again. “Let me up.”
“Not yet, Your Highness,” Peter said firmly, leaning his weight more securely onto him. “Our team needs to conduct body searches of everyone present. Then you’ll be safe to stand.”
“Why?” Then it struck him, and he bucked under Peter’s hold. “The prick had a weapon. Did he get her? Is she hurt? If he laid a finger—”
“She’s fine.” Hanna’s hand briefly passed over his shoulder blade. “It was pepper spray and she didn’t give him the chance to use it.”
But it might have been a knife. A screwdriver. A gun. And Frankie had thrown herself at the man without hesitating.
Kris pounded his fist against the sticky floor. The impact acted as a release, pain to fight the panic, so he did it again. And again. Anything to stop the fear from clawing its