Tyler's POV
I'm not gonna lie…
This? This is the life.
The moment I walked into this ridiculously expensive mansion, it felt like I'd stumbled into a music video or one of those fantasy-rich-dude TikToks. The air literally smells like money and lavender essential oils. And the floor? So shiny I keep flinching because I think I'm gonna slip and break something—and God forbid I damage any of this polished royalty.
Azazel didn't even give me time to unpack my trauma. She just said, "You'll be staying in the east wing," and snapped her fingers. Literally snapped. And then this man—six-foot-something, dressed in a black suit that's probably tailored in Milan—walked up to me and bowed like I was some kind of prince.
"I'm Collins, your personal butler, sir."
I had to blink three times before I answered. "Oh. Okay. That's… cool."
But what he really meant was: I'm about to pamper you within an inch of your life.
And pamper me, he did.
First thing he did? Gave me a grand tour. Not just the room. The room. This place is giving luxury hotel meets Bond villain hideout. We're talking velvet robes. Warm lighting. A toilet that has buttons. Do you know how intimidating it is to sit on a toilet that makes noises and lights up? I had to Google the instructions before I peed.
Then there's the wardrobe.
I opened it, expecting a few suits or maybe some house clothes. What I got was a runway. Rows of tailored shirts, silk pajamas, leather jackets, and dress shoes arranged by color and season. I found one jacket that looked suspiciously like something from Balenciaga. I'm not saying I twirled in front of the mirror for a full three minutes—but I definitely did.
And the food. God. The food.
I sat down at the dining table—which, by the way, could seat fifteen people, and I'm just one guy—and suddenly, Collins rolls in like, "Would you prefer the seared duck breast or the roasted salmon tonight, sir?"
I choked on my own spit.
"Uh… the salmon? I guess?"
Next thing I know, I'm sipping on wine I can't pronounce and cutting into salmon that tastes like it was fished out of the sea by angels. There's dessert, there's wine pairings, there's sparkling water in glasses that probably cost more than my old apartment rent.
And now? I'm in bed.
Pajamas on. Belly full. Windows cracked open slightly to let in that expensive nighttime breeze. The sheets feel like they were spun by silk worms who graduated top of their class.
I glance around one more time before my eyes start drooping.
"Damn," I mutter, sinking deeper into the bed. "Maybe being a personal bodyguard isn't gonna be so bad."
And just like that, I doze off—wrapped in luxury, completely unaware of the absolute chaos Anne and Eric are cooking back home.
---
WHHHHHHEEEEEEEETTTTTTT!!!
I shot up like I'd been electrocuted. Heart pounding. Eyes wild. Was it an earthquake? A fire? A robbery?
Nope.
It was Azazel.
Standing at the foot of my massive, overly comfortable bed, arms folded, lips pursed, and that damn silver whistle hanging from her fingers like a weapon of mass destruction.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," she said, her voice way too chipper for 6 a.m. "Time to rise and suffer."
"…Time to what now?"
"Training." Her smile was the stuff of nightmares. "Bodyguard training, remember? You didn't think you were just going to eat salmon and roll around in 1,000-thread-count sheets for the rest of your life, did you?"
Honestly? That was exactly what I thought.
I tried to sit up, but my muscles were still soaking in all that deep sleep luxury. "Can't we do this like… later? Or tomorrow? Or never?"
Her eyes scanned the room slowly. She eyed the empty wine bottle, the dessert plates on the nightstand, my robe on the floor like I had been living my best bachelor fantasy. "I see you had quite the evening."
"Collins said it was part of the welcome package…"
Azazel cocked one eyebrow so hard it felt like a slap. "Uh-huh. And now it's time to pay for it."
I groaned and flopped back into the pillows like a drama king. "Can't I at least brush my teeth first?"
"Nope."
"Shower?"
"Nope."
"Coffee?"
Her smirk widened. "You'll earn it."
She walked to the window and yanked the blackout curtains open in one swift, violent motion. The sunlight hit me like a slap from the universe. I hissed and curled up like a vampire.
"This is abuse," I mumbled. "I'm calling HR."
"Good," she said, already strutting toward the door. "They'll tell you to get your ass in gear too."
Before she left, she turned and tossed something at me—a pair of black joggers and a plain, fitted T-shirt. "You have ten minutes to meet me in the training hall downstairs. Or I'll personally drag you there in your pajamas."
The door slammed behind her like a death sentence.
I stared at the clothes in my lap and muttered to myself, "This woman is going to kill me. And she's going to enjoy it."
Still… a part of me couldn't help but feel a weird spark of excitement under all the dread. Like something was finally shifting. This wasn't just about training anymore.
It was about becoming something more.
God help me.
But first, deodorant. I wasn't facing Azazel smelling like roasted salmon and wine. And I immediately applied it.
I followed Azazel down a ridiculously long marble hallway, still half-asleep, clutching the plain workout clothes like they were a blanket of comfort. My body was screaming go back to bed, but she was walking like she was about to serve divine punishment.
Then we reached it.
She pushed open a pair of tall black doors and revealed what looked like the training ground of the Avengers.
There was a full-sized boxing ring in the middle of the room. Around it? Dumbbells, punching bags, weighted vests, monkey bars, climbing ropes, a treadmill that looked like it would bully you, and a wall lined with weapons I'm pretty sure are illegal in at least 17 countries.
Oh—and in the middle of that boxing ring?
Two men.
Fighting.
Like they hated each other's ancestors.
Fists flying. Grunts echoing off the high ceilings. One of them flipped the other like it was WWE and slammed him onto the mat. I swear I saw a tooth fly. And no one was stopping them.
I blinked.
I blinked again.
And I swear I almost peed.
"You brought me here to die," I whispered, stepping back slowly like I could sneak away and return to my glass-of-wine-and-warm-toilet life.
Azazel just smirked and tilted her head toward the ring. "Welcome to your training ground, soldier."
"Soldier? Girl, I didn't even finish P.E. in high school."
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Those two? Bodyguards for VIPs in Korea and Dubai. You're gonna learn how to handle yourself like they do. If not better."
"Better?" I squeaked. "I'm not even sure I can do a push-up without dislocating something."
"That's why we're starting now."
The two men finally noticed us. One of them looked me up and down and snorted. The audacity. The other? He gave me a small nod like he was already planning my funeral.
Azazel turned to me and said, "Don't worry. You're not fighting them today."
Relief washed over me.
"Tomorrow, maybe," she added.
My soul left my body.
Then she clapped once, loud and commanding. "Get changed, Lockwood. Day one starts with endurance. We're building your stamina, your balance, your reflexes—and hopefully your will to live."
"Can I at least stretch first?"
"You can stretch your soul when you're done passing out."
Jesus take the wheel.
I dragged myself to the changing room like a prisoner heading to his own execution, silently praying this wasn't how my story ended.
Rich food one day. Fight club the next.
Tyler Lockwood's life?
A damn rollercoaster.