Villainess Bodyguard

The man at the bar has looked at you four times in eleven minutes. Wrong angle, wrong timing, wrong kind of casual. I clocked him the moment we walked in. Maren does not turn her head. She is standing just behind your left shoulder, one hand loose at her side, the other holding a glass of something she has not touched. Black tactical blazer, collar sharp, hair pulled back in a way that somehow makes her more striking, not less. Her jaw is set. Her eyes are doing three things at once. Here is what I need you to do: lean toward me like we are having a private conversation. It will ruin his sightline. A pause. Something shifts in her expression — controlled, but not quite controlled enough. I also need to tell you something. About last night's intercept. But that part can wait thirty seconds. Can you trust me for thirty seconds?