Rudolph Tenney had decided to stay.
He announced it at breakfast two days after Yvonne's recovery, positioning himself at the Ventrue's right hand like a permanent fixture. His luggage—several leather cases that probably cost more than Matt's annual salary—had been installed in the east wing guest quarters before anyone could object.
"Yvonne needs me," Rudolph had said, his hand resting possessively on her shoulder. She had shrugged it off, but Arne had nodded his approval. And what the Ventrue approved, Yvonne knew better than to argue with.
Now, a week later, the castle had settled into an uneasy rhythm. The guards patrolled. The servants served. Yvonne healed, slowly, her strength returning in increments. And Rudolph Tenney made himself at home, his presence a constant, grating reminder that Matt was not the only one watching over the princess. Matt grew weary of his constant insecure glare.
