Her half human bodyguard

The agency was called “Elite Shield Security” but it operated out of a strip mall between a nail salon and a boba shop that smelled like burnt sugar. Justin Pan adjusted his tie — borrowed, too tight — and tried not to scratch at the glamour on his wrist. Glamours itched. That was the problem with illegal magic. Itchy, and if you wore it too long, it started to burn. His was 4 hours old. Job interview couldn’t run long or the barista at the boba shop was going to see his skin throw sparks. “Justin Pan?” The receptionist didn’t look up. Her nails were long, red, clicked on the keyboard like gunshots. “Yeah. That’s me.” “Mr. Hale will see you now. Second door, no snacks beyond this point.” Justin walked. Door was cheap wood, plaque read _Marcus Hale – Director_. Inside, Marcus Hale looked like he bench-pressed refrigerators. Bald, suit, scar through his left eyebrow. He didn’t stand up. “Sit.” Justin sat. The chair was plastic. It creaked. “Resume says Army. Four years. Dishonorable discharge.” Hale didn’t ask. He stated. Justin’s jaw ticked. “Medical.” “Sure.” Hale flipped a page. “Then MMA. Three fights. Two wins, one DQ for ‘excessive force.’ Opponent’s arm bent backwards on TV. You remember that?” “He tapped late.” “He didn’t tap. Ref pulled you off.” Hale looked up. Eyes were cop-eyes. Used to be a cop, Justin would bet. “You’ve been bounced from six security jobs in eight months. Fired for fighting clients, fighting coworkers, fighting air. You want to tell me why I shouldn’t throw you out right now?” Because I need $4,000 by Friday or my mom loses the house. Because my dad’s fae blood means I heal fast but break faster. Because if I don’t work, I get angry, and when I get angry, my eyes go silver and my knuckles throw sparks. Justin said none of that. He said, “Because I’m the only one in your waiting room, and the client’s desperate.” Hale barked a laugh. One syllable. “Heiress is desperate. Client’s her father. He’s pissed.” Hale slid a folder across the desk. Photo paper-clipped to the top. Lyra Kaine, 21. Art student. Black of hair, green of eyes, mouth set like she’d been chewing glass. The photo was a candid — her flipping off the camera at some gala. Under it, her name and one note: _Difficult. Armed with sarcasm. Do not engage._ “Third kidnapping attempt last month,” Hale said. “First two were ‘random muggings.’ Third guy had a taser and her class schedule. Cops say no pattern. Dad says bullshit.” Justin kept his face blank. “Why me?” “Because you’re cheap, you’re lethal, and you don’t show up on background checks.” Hale leaned forward. “You know why that is, Pan?” Justin’s glamour itched harder. His mom had bribed a witch to scrub his records when he was 16. Half-fae didn’t get birth certificates. They got “complications.” “Bad paperwork,” Justin said. “Right.” Hale didn’t believe him. Didn’t care either. “Job pays 10k a week. You’re her shadow. Class, gym, dates, bathroom if she lets you. You sleep outside her door. You eat what she eats after you test it. You take a bullet, a blade, a bad ex-boyfriend. Clear?” “Clear.” “One rule.” Hale’s voice went flat. Flat meant important. “No friends. No phone numbers. No feelings. You’re not her boyfriend, her therapist, or her late-night snack. You’re the dog that bites. Got it?” Justin nodded. He’d been a dog before. Army loved dogs. MMA loved dogs. Dogs didn’t get to be people. “Last guy broke the rule,” Hale said. “He thought she liked him. She did. Then she found his bug in her purse. He’s not a guy anymore. He’s a case study. She cried for a week. Then she sent his mom flowers. Anonymous.” Rude, kind, romantic. All in one story. Justin filed it away. “Good.” Hale stood up. Interview over. “You start tonight. Kaine Penthouse. 7 p.m. She has a gallery show. Black tie. You’ll wear this.” He tossed a bag at Justin. Inside: suit, earpiece, gun. Justin caught it. The gun was heavy. Real. Iron burned fae. His dad had scars from it. Justin could touch it, but it made his teeth ache. “She know I’m coming?” Justin asked. “No. Dad’s idea. She thinks bodyguards are ‘classist.’ You’re her new ‘intern’ from Kaine Tech. Art department. Try not to draw anything. You’ll give it away.” Justin stood. “What’s the actual threat? You said not random.” Hale’s face did something. Not a smile. A crack. “Third guy? The one with the taser? When we pulled his mask off, his eyes were black. All black. No white. No iris. And he laughed when we broke his fingers. Said ‘the cold prince is coming.’” Cold. The word sat in Justin’s chest like ice. Fae courts had seasons. Summer, Spring, Autumn, Winter. Winter was Cold. Cold Court didn’t hunt humans. Cold Court hunted traitors. Half-breeds. Mongrels. Like him. “Anything else?” Justin asked. Mouth dry. “Yeah.” Hale opened the door. “Don’t die. Paperwork’s a b***h. And don’t fall for her. She bites. Then she bleeds. Then she writes poems about it and pretends she doesn’t.” Justin walked out. The boba shop smell hit him. Burnt sugar. His glamour chose that second to flare. Just for a half-breath. His wrist sparked, gold and green, under the sleeve. The barista looked up. Then looked down. Didn’t see. Or pretended. Justin shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the bus. 7 p.m. Penthouse. Heiress with a target on her back. Cold Court maybe hunting him. No feelings. No friends. No phone numbers. He’d lasted 23 years without breaking rules. He had a feeling Lyra Kaine was about to ruin that records.