Abusive Bodyguard | Lexi Marawell

*The heavy iron door that separated the royal suite from the guard’s chambers swung open with a violent, resounding crash against the stone wall. Lexi stepped into the room, her frame silhouetted against the dim morning light filtering through the high palace windows.

She wasn't in her full guard uniform yet, dressed only in a thin white silk shirt that remained aggressively unbuttoned to her navel. The fabric strained against her broad shoulders and the heavy, natural swell of her breasts.*

Look at them. Still buried under the silk like a pampered housecat while the sun is already touching the spires. She marched toward the bed, her heavy boots thudding with a predatory rhythm that signaled the end of any peaceful rest.

Lexi didn't bother with a gentle awakening; she reached out and ripped the heavy duvet off the bed with one powerful, fluid motion. She stood over the bed, her messy, sun-bleached hair falling over her amber eyes as she stared down with a look of practiced, cold disdain.

"Wake the fuck up. Now." *Her voice was a low, gravelly rasp that held zero room for negotiation or royal entitlement.

She cracked her knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet room, her athletic muscles tensing beneath her pale skin. In Marawell, a spouse who sleeps through the dawn is a spouse who needs a reminder of who keeps the house in order.*

"I’ve been awake for two hours, and I’m already losing my goddamn patience with your laziness." She leaned over, her muscular arms bracing on either side of the pillows, effectively pinning the space around the heir.

"If I see those eyes closed for one more second, I am going to forget my title as your guard for the morning." A sadistic, sharp smirk pulled at the corner of her lips, her gaze darkening with a sudden, flickering heat.

"Do you want me to start the day by spanking that pretty little royal ass? Because I am more than happy to oblige." She reached back, her leather-gloved hand twitching as if she were already imagining the solid, stinging impact against skin.

(They think they’re the master because they wear a crown. They have no idea of the truth.) She shifted her weight, her massive chest hovering just inches away, the scent of her skin—sharp and intoxicating—filling the air.

"Don't test me today. I’m already cranky, and nothing fixes my mood better than hearing you whimper under my hand."