Page 5 of Heartbreak Prince

“There’s a first time for everything.” I really need to keep my mouth shut. Renfrow’s eyes are shooting daggers of reproach at me.

Thankfully a server approaches at that moment, bringing the prince a fresh cocktail that glows sunshine yellow and features a pink bloom floating on its surface. I turn my attention back to the room, sweeping the far corners with my gaze. A trio of men in a faraway booth have been staring at the prince and his friends ever since we arrived. Which shouldn’t be a problem, because everyone stares when he’s around—but they’ve barely taken their eyes off him, and none of them have touched the drinks or the food on their table.

I’m about to alert Renfrow to the fact, but the prince speaks again. “Syth, come test my drink.”

“I can check it for you, Highness,” interposes the server.

Vawn waves him off. “I want her to do it the old-fashioned way. Come on, Syth. Take a sip. Tell me if it’s safe.”

I’m not supposed to drink on duty, but a direct order from the prince supersedes any such guidelines. Vawn doesn’t pass the cocktail to me, so I have to lean far over the table to grab the glass.

Too late, I realize that he did this on purpose. He made me bend over so my cleavage would be on full display for him. The appreciative smile curving his mouth and the lascivious droop of his lashes confirm it.

Renfrow was right. I wasn’t chosen for this detail because of my talent. I was picked because I’m fuckable. Because the asshole playboy prince, fifth in line for the throne, wants a beautiful female bodyguard. I’m just an accessory to him, like the pink highlights in his hair or the chains looping across his bare chest.

I’ve lost this job anyway. Might as well go out with fireworks.

Lifting the cocktail to my lips, I take one sip. Then another. Then I cock my head, as if I’m uncertain, and take a third.

“Syth.” Renfrow’s tone is a condemnation.

“I can’t be certain if it’s poisoned,” I muse. “Let me check again.” One more sip. Then a long gulp.

When there’s a single swallow left in the glass, I bow low across the table, giving the prince a full view of the only assets he seems to appreciate. Holding his gaze, I extend the drink to him. “It seems to be safe.”

The girls with him are slack-jawed in shock. Vawn lifts the glass high. “Do you know how much a Kredissian Sun-bloom cocktail costs, guard girl?”

A horrible sinking sensation hollows out my gut. “No, Your Highness.”

He names a price that’s nearly half what my glyph set cost me, and I’m stunned speechless. I can’t imagine spending such an astronomical sum on a beverage.

“Oh Syth, don’t panic. It’s all right.” The prince grins, showing a long row of brilliant teeth and feral-looking canines. “You’ll just have to pay me back. I’m sure we can think of something you can do for me.”

The girl on his lap squirms, clearly unhappy at his lack of attention to her.

“Feeling neglected, darling?” Vawn croons.

She nods, pushing out her full lips in a pout.

“Oh, precious. Let me fix it.” He kisses her mouth repentantly, lightly at first, and then he slides his tongue in.

Swallowing past the residual panic in my throat, I scan the room again. I don’t dare look at Renfrow.

This night hasn’t gone according to plan at all. I should have listened to my roommate. She warned me about the royals, especially the “Naughty Prince,” as many people in the kingdom call him. “He’s the worst of the bunch,” she told me. “Obsessed with drugs and drink. A complete whore.”

But after going through the Academy, enduring countless suggestive jokes, and proving myself to people who didn’t consider me competition, I thought I could handle Vawn Molloi.

I guess I underestimated him.

I make it a point not to look at Vawn again for a long time. I watch the exits, the balconies, the skylights, and the guests. I keep an eye on the servers, the musicians, and the dancers. But my gaze keeps traveling back to those three men in the darkened booth, the ones who aren’t drinking. Why would they stay if they’re not enjoying themselves?

I sidle toward Renfrow and speak in an undertone. “Do you see those men?”

“The ones in the purple booth?” he confirms. “I noticed.”

“What should we do?”

“Can’t kick people out for sitting and staring,” he says. “Just keep an eye on them. They could be storygraphers from the Featherwhistle.”