Protection

Chapter 7

TRIS POV

"Four!" I call, running down the stairs. I'm going to be late to my friend Al's party, since it starts in five minutes. I took too long getting ready, so now I hurry to search the house for my bodyguard. I swear to God, if he isn't ready... "Four, we have to g—"

Tripping on the third to last stair, I gasp, throwing my arms out but knowing that I won't be able to prevent myself from hitting the marble floor. Fortunately, it never happens.

I fall into a pair of steady arms and crash into a rock hard chest. Before I can even look up, Four's low, smooth voice rumbles against my cheek as he says, "Careful, Tris."

I get a whiff of his Abercrombie cologne that makes my knees weak, yet I somehow manage to steady myself on both feet on the flat ground. He lets go of me and asks, "Don't you have a party that starts in a couple minutes?"

"Yeah," I confirm, but I can't stop scanning his body long enough to look at his face. He is dressed in a black v-neck that isn't too tight yet clings to his muscles in all the right places, and his dark jeans look skinnier than the ones he usually wears. Please turn around...

When I look back up to meet his eyes, my gaze instead moves to his hair, that always beckons my hands with its soft-looking texture and slight, natural curls. And that stubble, and that raised eyebrow, and those adorable puppy eyes.

Damn. I mean, he always looks sexy, but tonight he is tantalizing.

Why was I ever embarrassed to be seen with him in public again?

"You ready to go then, princess?" he inquires slowly, a small smirk playing on his lips. The nickname doesn't bother me much anymore now that he doesn't use it in the "spoiled brat" context.

"I—Yeah, let's go," I reply hurriedly and push past him to get to the garage, shaking my head all the way. I have to stop.

As usual for the past two months, Four slides into the driver's seat of my Ferrari, while I begrudgingly sit in the passenger seat. This arrangement is technically the best, considering he is a much more careful driver than I am, but I still tend to get possessive. It is my Ferrari, after all.

It doesn't take too long to get to the party, and in between our constant bickering over music and whether or not Nine Inch Nails is good—he is supposedly going to send me YouTube links to songs—I give him directions to Al's house. When we park along the road of mansions, I watch all the wealthy partiers head inside, surprised when I see how many girls are wearing dresses.

I suddenly feel really underdressed in my light jean jacket, white shirt, leggings, and Converse. I feel plain.

Blowing out a heavy breath, I glance over at Four, only to find him staring at me curiously.

"What's wrong?" he asks. How could he tell?

"I just..." I sigh and turn my phone over and over in my hands in my lap. "All these other girls look great in their dresses, and I didn't even know it was that type of party..."

Great. I probably sound like an insecure brat who worries about her appearance 24/7.

But he doesn't look annoyed, or as if he thinks that. If anything, he looks amused with me.

"Who cares what you're wearing?" I open my mouth to prove him wrong, only to shut it when I realize that I don't have anything to say. He's right. I doubt anybody will notice. "Besides, I think you look good, Tris. Beautiful, even."

Here comes the blush. My face turns bright red at the compliment, and I double check to make sure he isn't lying; according to his stern eyes, he isn't.