Page 23 of Grumpy Alien Bodyguard

As reality crashes back in, a single terrifying thought forms in my mind with perfect clarity:Oh no. He wants me. Worse, I want him!

The realization hits me like a physical blow. This wasn't just a dance. This was a declaration—one my body responded to before my mind could intervene.

I catch sight of Kallus across the room, his expression unreadable but his eyes calculating. Serenity and Dowron look stunned. And Zantress—Zantress is actually smiling, which might be the most disconcerting sight of all.

CHAPTER 10

VARNOK

Varnok offers me his arm as we leave the reception. I take it, feeling suddenly self-conscious about how small my hand looks against his massive forearm. The scales are smoother than they appear, warm to the touch.

"I should review my notes before tomorrow," I say, trying to sound casual. "The first official negotiation session starts at nine."

"Then we should get you to your quarters, Ambassador." His voice is still rough, but quieter now.

The hotel hallway stretches before us, mercifully empty. I can't handle another diplomat's knowing smirk or raised eyebrow. That dance will be the talk of Armstrong for weeks.

I pull out my compad and check the room details. "Looks like they've given us the Orion Suite. Two bedrooms, thank goodness."

Varnok makes a dismissive sound. "We'll only need one bed."

I stop walking, my face flushing hot. "I think you're counting your chickens before they hatch, Mr. Annihilator."

His ridge-lined brow furrows in genuine confusion. "Chickens? What do Earth fowl have to do with security protocols?"

"It's just an expression that means—" I stop myself. "Wait, what are you talking about?"

"As your bodyguard, I won't be sleeping." He says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll be standing guard instead. Vakutans can go days, even weeks without sleep if necessary, though we prefer six to eight hours nightly when circumstances allow."

Oh.Oh.

My cheeks burn hotter. Great. Now it looks like I'm the one with sex on the brain.

"Right. Of course. That's... very professional of you." I start walking again, faster this time.

But my mind keeps replaying the dance—his massive hands spanning my waist, the heat of his body pressed against mine, the intensity in his eyes. We practically dry-humped on the dance floor in front of half the diplomatic corps! How am I supposed to focus on negotiations when all I can think about is what those powerful hands would feel like elsewhere?

We reach the suite door, and I raise my compad to unlock it.

Varnok's hand shoots out, blocking mine. "Allow me, Ambassador."

"It's just Quinn when we're alone," I say, then immediately regret my phrasing. "I mean?—"

"Stay here." He draws his sidearm with practiced efficiency. "I'll clear the room first."

I sigh dramatically, but secretly appreciate his thoroughness. "Is that really necessary?"

"Someone already tried to kill you once." His voice is deadly serious. "I won't allow a second attempt."

He unlocks the door with his own security override and disappears inside, leaving me waiting in the hallway. I hear him moving methodically through the suite, checking closets, under furniture, behind curtains.

I lean against the wall, surprised by the warm feeling spreading through my chest. No one's taken care of me like this since... well, since my father died. I've been so focused on being self-sufficient, on proving I could handle everything alone, that I forgot how nice it feels to have someone watching out for me.

Even if that someone is a seven-foot-tall red-scaled warrior who makes my pulse race for entirely unprofessional reasons.

Varnok gives the all-clear and I enter the suite, kicking off my heels with a sigh of relief. The accommodations are spectacular—all cream and gold with high ceilings and panoramic windows showcasing Armstrong's twin moons hanging like perfect pearls in the night sky.

But my mind won't stop spinning. The day's events play on repeat—Kallus's calculated manipulation during our dance, the way he maneuvered me into admitting bias. Then Varnok swooping in, our bodies moving together with impossible synchronicity...

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