It’s quite impressive.
Right now, he’s circling the perimeter of the dance floor, a predatory look on his face, his gaze laser-focused on Camille. I follow his progress, moving when he starts to get lost in the crowd, especially as the dance floor fills up from what is apparently a very popular song I’ve never heard.
It’s Camille I keep firmly in my sights and only a small bit of attention on the man who is stalking her. She’s oblivious, once again dancing with her girlfriends. They’ve got their arms around each other, laughing and acting silly. The song is fast and there’s more jumping around than anything, which is far too distracting because Camille’s breasts bounce with the motion.
I growl internally and tell myself to stop that shit.
Camille’s group gravitates my way, closer to the edge of the dance floor near where I stand. I’m wearing a tuxedo—part of a new wardrobe compliments of the king so I blend in—and I don’t look overly suspicious as I stand poised to move if necessary.
The Creep moves in closer, and my blood starts to boil as he comes up behind Camille, his eyes pinned lecherously to her ass. He has a drunk, sloppy smile as he slithers closer, an almost entitled look on his face that says, “Yeah … that ass is mine.”
There is no doubt he’s going to make a move I most certainly won’t approve of. I move closer until the tips of my toes are actually on the dance floor.
And when he does make said move closer, it isn’t to talk but rather to touch. His hands reach out to grab her hips with the intent of moving close and grinding against her in dance.
Unfortunately for The Creep, I’m pretty damn quick. His hands barely grab onto her before I’ve got one of them in mine, twisting his forearm and bending his wrist inward. It puts immense pressure on his ulnar and median nerves, sending excruciating pain all the way up his arm and into his shoulder.
The man screams like a baby while dropping to his knees. I’m aware of how disruptive this could get, and I want to minimize any further fallout. Luckily, the band is still playing at full decibels and the only people who’ve realized what’s going on are Camille, her group of friends, and a handful of other people around. I loosen my grip, releasing the pressure on his nerve so his pain recedes. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and haul him up with ease, as if he were a marionette with me pulling the strings, and before anyone can say a word, I’m escorting him through the crowd, out a side door that leads into the galley preparation area. The whole thing takes less than twenty seconds.
The Creep flails around as I drag him along a short hallway to an exterior exit door. I don’t have to look behind me to know that one of the other agents will be following. Paul will remain behind to be our primary eyes on the princess.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” the man demands in a weaselly tone, made even worse by his British accent. “I am the Royal Viscount Baxley Mankenshire, and I demand you unhand my person at once.”
It’s hard not to laugh at his formal language, but I merely tighten my grip, although the guy is so drunk, he’s easy to control one-handed.
I turn around and shove him not so gently up against the wall before releasing him. “You’re out here because you put your hands on Princess Camille. Your viscount title doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“Camille and I go way back,” the dickwad says, because any guy named Baxley has to be a dickwad. “We dated in college.”
I can’t help it… I’d clearly been gaining some respect for Camille over the last few days, and it just got dinged a little to hear that she’d find this turd attractive.
I open my mouth to give him a stern lecture, which will include a promise of further bodily harm if he comes near her again, but before I can utter a word, the door flies open and Camille runs out with Paul hot on her tail. My eyes go to him and he explains, “She can run pretty fast in those heels.”
I try not to snicker because it’s funny he’s chasing the princess, but she’s safe and secure and it doesn’t matter.
What does matter is that she’s probably enraged that I’ve attacked a member of a royal house, and former boyfriend, and is now out here to defend him.
I buck up, prepared to defend my actions, when she whirls on The Creep and says, “I suggest you leave right now, Baxley. You’re drunk and highly inappropriate, and my security have orders from my father to put a bullet in the brain of anybody who touches me.”