Chapter 7
So here’s the thing about nearly eating pavement and having your secret bodyguard catch you—you still end up looking like shit.
My ankle’s throbbing from the twist, there’s dirt on my knee from where I skidded before Gabriel yanked me upright, and my dignity?
That died the moment I yelped like a startled cat.
But I’m nothing if not adaptable. Today’s mission? Make Gabriel Torres’s life as complicated as my royal status legally allows.
Necessary for my mental health? One hundred percent.
The university library becomes my battlefield of choice.
I spot him tucked in his usual corner—because of course he has a usual corner, the predictable postgrad asshole—surrounded by what looks like the world’s most boring reading material, including a massive tome called “Geopolitical Security Frameworks in Post-Soviet States” that only an international relations nerd would voluntarily subject themselves to.
He looks so focused, so annoyingly composed, like he didn’t just have his hands on me an hour ago. Like he didn’t make my traitorous heart skip with that soft “careful.”
Time to fix that.
I stroll over with the confidence of someone who hasn’t been betrayed by their entire support system and toss my backpack onto the chair beside him. The thud is satisfyingly loud.
“Well, well, well,” I lean in with my cockiest grin, the one that used to make diplomatic wives clutch their pearls. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Libraries are usually for smart people, not professional stalkers. Or wait, what’s the politically correct term? Enhanced supervision specialists?”
Gabriel doesn’t even look up from his papers. “Smart people and spies often want the same thing. Information. Though I’d argue we’re generally better at acquiring it.”
Oh, so we’re playing it cool? Game on.
I lean closer, close enough that my breath probably tickles his ear. My voice drops to an almost-whisper, the kind that made bad decisions at too many parties.
“Hours and hours of watching me, cataloging my every move, writing your little reports… You absolutely sure it’s just information you’re after? Because that sounds like either a job or a very specific kink, and I’m trying to figure out which.”
That does it.
His fingers twitch first, just a tiny spasm, but I catch it. His grip on the pen loosens, and then—beautiful chaos—it slips from his hand and clatters onto the table. The sound might as well be a victory fanfare.
But wait, it gets better.
As he moves to grab the pen, clearly flustered, his elbow catches the precarious stack of books beside him. They topple like dominoes, each thud louder than the last, creating a symphony of disruption that echoes through the sacred library silence.
Half the room turns to stare. Someone actually snickers. A girl at the next table shoots us a death glare that could strip paint.
Gabriel’s jaw tightens as he bends to gather the fallen books, and I can practically see him counting to ten in multiple languages. His movements are still controlled, still careful, but there’s a tremor of something underneath.
Annoyance? Embarrassment? God, I hope it’s both.
“You’re attracting more attention than I am,” I observe cheerfully, not moving a muscle to help. “That’s genuinely impressive. Usually, I’m the disaster in any given room. It’s nice to pass the torch.”
He straightens, books in hand, and his face is a masterpiece of forced calm.
“I’m also still tolerating your shitty behavior without strangling you in a public space. That’s even more impressive, considering the provocation.”
“Kinky,” I shot back, sinking dramatically into the chair beside him. “But I don’t think the library’s the place for that. Maybe save it for somewhere more private?”
His eye definitely twitches. Score: Leo 1, Professional Composure 0.
The rest of the day unfolds in our new normal—barbed comments, hostile compliance, and enough tension to power a small city.
I’m still riding high on my library victory, already plotting my next move. Maybe I’ll “accidentally” change his coffee order to decaf. Or sign him up for the campus mime club newsletter.
But Gabriel, sneaky bastard that he is, strikes first.
I’m taking a break from pretending to study, heading to my favorite campus coffee shop for my usual afternoon fix. The place is packed with stressed students mainlining caffeine, but my usual corner table is miraculously free. Except—
There’s already a drink waiting for me.
I freeze, staring at what can only be described as a coffee shop fever dream. It’s topped with a mountain of whipped cream, violently pink foam art, caramel drizzle in what might be hearts, and—is that edible glitter?
“What the fuck is this diabetic coma supposed to be?” I ask the universe, though I already know who’s responsible.
“Equal retaliation for your assault on my nerves,” Gabriel’s voice comes from behind me, impossibly calm.
He’s at the next table with his laptop, not even bothering to look up.
“I thought you’d appreciate the aesthetic. Very on-brand for someone of your… dramatic tendencies.”
I pick up the cup cautiously, like it might explode. That’s when I see the label printed in cheerful pink letters: Sweet Princess.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it—part outrage, part genuine amusement.
“You’re either a master of psychological warfare or you have way too much free time on your hands. I’m genuinely concerned it might be both.”
“Try it,” he says, still typing. “I promise it won’t kill you. Though the sugar content might make you wish it had.”
Against my better judgment, I take a sip. Fuck. It’s actually delicious. Like, offensively good. It tastes like a unicorn’s fever dream but in the best possible way.
“The worst part is…” I start, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of finishing.
“It’s better than you deserve,” he completes smoothly, and I can hear the smirk in his voice even though he’s still not looking at me.
“Especially after the book incident. Do you know how much those manuals cost? The librarian looked at me like I’d personally offended her ancestors.”
I slide into my chair, cradling my ridiculous princess drink. “Consider us even then. Though I’m warning you now—this means war. Glittery, caffeinated war.”
“Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, fingers never pausing on his keyboard. “Your move, Your Highness.”
