"Yes, Logan--have a seat."
I'd distinguished myself in the military pretty quickly. And Winston--the head of Palace Security--had taken notice. They were looking for very particular qualities in Prince Nicholas's personal team, he'd said. Young lads who were quick on their feet, loyal and ferocious when required. The type who'd be just fine bringing a knife to a gunfight--'cause he wouldn't be needing a fucking knife or gun to win.
After only a few weeks, I had a different take on the position. It came to feel like a calling, a duty. Important men make things happen, get things done--they have the power to make life easier for the not-so-important people.
I protect them, so they can do that.
And the young prince sitting across from me, behind the desk in the library of this luxurious penthouse suite--he's an important man.
"How old are you, Logan?"
"My file says I'm twenty-five."
If Saint Peter was a fisher of men, I'm a reader of them. It's a skill that's essential to this occupation--possessing a gut feeling for what someone else's intentions are. The ability to read a man's eyes, the shifting of his feet--to know what he's capable of and just what kind of man he is.
Nicholas Pembrook is a good man. To his core.
And that's a rare thing.
More often than not, important men are prime scumbags.
His mouth twitches. "I know what your file says. That's not what I asked." He's also not a fool--and he's been lied to enough in his life that he's got an ear for things that don't ring true.
"How old are you really?"
I look him in the eye, wondering where he's going with this.
"Twenty-two."
He nods slowly, massaging his thumb into the palm of his other hand, thinking. "So you signed up for the military at . . . fifteen? Lied about your age? That's young."
I shrug. "They weren't real discerning at the recruitment office. I was tall, solid and good with my fists."
"You were still a child."
"I was never a child, Your Highness. Any more than you were."
Childhood is when you're supposed to muck up, figure out who you are, what you want to be. You're given permission to be a jackarse. I didn't have that privilege; neither did Nicholas. Our paths were set before we were born. Opposite paths, sure--but whether you grow up in a shack or a palace, the expectations and demands of those around you tend to snuff out innocence pretty damn fast.
"Why'd you leave home so young?"
Now it's my turn to smirk. Because I'm not a fool either. "You know why. That's in the file too."
I'm good at identifying scumbags because I come from a long line of them. Criminals--not especially successful ones. Petty, scrounging, desperate enough to be dangerous--the kind who'll smile to your face, pat you on the back, then stab you as soon as you're not looking.
My grandfather died in prison--he was in for murder committed during an armed robbery. My dad will die there too, hopefully sooner rather than later--he's in for manslaughter. I've got uncles who've done stints for a whole range of criminal activities, cousins who've been killed in broad daylight in the middle of the street and aunts who've pimped out their daughters without a second thought.
By the time I was fifteen I knew if I stayed in that shit-hole, I'd start to stink. And then I'd have only two options: prison or the cemetery.
Neither one of those worked for me.
"What's this really about? All the questions?"
It's always better to cut to the chase, deep and quick.
His gray-green eyes focus on me, his face probing, his shoulders slightly hunched, like an elephant's sitting on them.
"Now that I have Henry in hand, the Queen wants us back in Wessco, in two days. You know this."