When Ghost enters through the door you are the first thing he notices. The bar is dimly lit and crowded. The buzz of many loud conversations filling the air. The heat having smacked in to him the second he entered. His eyes fell on you through a gap between heads. You, at the bar. A shaker in hand, messy hair tucked behind your ears. A smile on your face as you chat with a customer. You're in a well worn tee, the way it fits you makes it clear why.
Johnny leads the way to the bar and he is the first one of them you see. His mohawk sticking out from the rest of the crowd. The smile on his face could be seen from a mile away.
"I'll be with you in a sec", you say to him before serving the previous customer. Pouring their drink before sliding the card reader their way.
"Now, what can I get you fellas?" You turn to them. Eyes scanning over their faces. Lingering on Ghost's masked one for just a second longer. That extra second is what did it in for him. What captured him if he hadn't been before. His eyes didn't leave you for a second. Even as you talked to the others. As you poured the four pints they'd ordered. Nor after they had sat down at a table. You were oblivious to it and that might have been for the best. Having a tall, masked man staring at you might have been reason enough to call security.
The rest of his task force, on the other hand, were not as oblivious. Price noticed first. Though he didn't mention it. It was rare for his lieutenant to be so entranced by someone. It was an amusing sight he would undoubtedly talk to him about at a later time. Gaz noticed second, but he was still too sober to say it out loud. Soap did not need any alcohol in his system to tease him. Ghost, the stoic lieutenant who had turned down women time after time, suddenly infatuated with a bartender of all people.
Ghost managed to dodge Soaps teasing by ordering the next round. Not without a few smiles and quiet comments for his teammates. But they fell on deaf ears. Simon was to busy thinking. What should he say to you? How should he say it? Should he lean on the bar? Nah, that just screams dickhead.
You see him approach. You recognise the mask from earlier. You smile at him, he just stares.
"Another", you ask him. He nods. You made it easy for him. His eyes trace your every move. From you hand on the glass to the one of the lever. Your focused eyes as you pour it.
"Add it to the tab", you ask as you slide the four glasses over too him. He nods as he picks them up. Your "enjoy" follows him as he walks back to the table. You combined with beer on tap, he might need to become one of your new regulars.
Authors note:
Just trying something new. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know your thoughts! /Polt🌻
Ghost has had a rough few weeks. The task force had been on deployment in a place with way too warm weather and way too many less than friendly encounters. So scratched up, bruised and exhuasted he sits in the rec-room staring at his own two hands, thoughts anywhere but the present. Thinking thoughts he had not had time to think during deployment. Thoughts of you.
Ever since that Friday night at the bar, you had been a relentless presence in his mind whenever he had a moment of relative peace and quiet. Images of you flashing through his mind. The view of you at the bar through passing bodies. Talking, smiling, laughing at something a colleague said while passing behind you. Your eyes as you looked up at him when he approached you. A smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. So when Soap walks over and asks if he wants to tag along to the bar, he can't help but say yes.
So down to the bar they go. It is impossibly more crowded than last time. This time with a younger crowd. Less beer and football, more drinks and volume. He looks for you the second he steps through the door. Searching between and above heads in the direction of the bar, heart racing and the sound filling his ears. Then, he spots you. You are behind the bar to the far right. Your hair is tied up out of your face, not neatly by any means. Undoubtedly evidence of a busy night. This time you are wearing a tank top with the bar's logo printed on the front. The cut of it is high, ending just before your neck. Fitting you like a dream just like the t-shirt.
This time the team spilts up. Johnny and Kyle go over to the bar, much to Ghosts dismay, while him and John look for a table. Waving between moving bodies. The air is warm and clammy and smells of sweat and booze. They find a table near the back, surprisingly tucked away and private despite the large crowd. Ghost sits down so that he faces the bar with Price across from him. His eyes are unstoppably drawn towrds the bar. Desperete to catch a glimpse of you, and he does. In a gap between two people he sees you talking to Soap and Gaz. He is too far away and there is too much noise for him to hear you. You take their order, talking and laughing as you pour their pints. Tucking a lose strand of hair behind your ear. Soap leaning on the bar while talking, grining ear to ear. Saying something that makes you laugh. You set the four glasses infront of them before getting to another customer.
The boys finds their table after a bit off struggling through the crowd, and a bit of beer spilling, sliding into the chairs and placing the glasses down on the table with a slight bang.
"Cheers lads!" Soap clings the glasses together almost knocking them over. Both Ghost and Price catching theirs before they topple over. They drink their beers in silence. Listening to the rucus of people talking, drinking and dancing.
• • •
People start to clear out about three pints in. Enough that Ghost has a clear visual of the bar, and with a visual of you. You are straining a cocktail while chatting with a group of girls. You slide the drink towards one of the girls. She seems to talk to you about something, gesturing over her shoulder. Your eyes meet his, a smile working its way over your face. You nod in response and take four glasses out from under the counter.
"She's a nice lass, that one", Soap says drawing Simon back to the table. He's looking right at him. Kyle looks confused, mind clearly having been somewhere else.
"S'pose so," Ghost replies taking a swig of his pint. He just manages to get it down before
"Here you go fellas," you interrupt, setting down four glasses at the table.
"Four whiskey on the rocks, curtsy of the ladies over there," you continue and point towards the bar. You flash a small smile before going as fast as you came. Ghost's eyes follow you all the way back to the bar.
"Well aren't they tidy", Soap says taking a swig of his drink. Ghost looks down at the remaining glass and pushes it away.
"You ain't 'avin yours?" Soap nods towards the glass.
"Fancy bourbon anyway." Simon shurgs.
"More for me!" Johnny says grabbing the glass and drinking it in one swig and walking over to the group. After a bit of thought Kyle stands up to join him.
"A bit to young for us, aye?" Price's question making Ghost's eyes dart to him.
"Do you have to keep bending the rules", he asks from the doorway to your room. You scoff at the question.
"This is hardly bending the rules. The skirt is just above knee length", you answer, glaring at the balaclava clad man stood before you.
"Not sure I agree with that, your highness", his cold eyes scanning your figure. You groan and shove him out the door. What's the matter with him anyway, you think to yourself.
You walk over to your wardrobe and stare at the skirts. Apparently the light blue one you had on was "inappropriate". You pick out a white, patterned one instead and hope that it is acceptable. You roll your eyes. The bodyguard you had before him, before Ghost, wouldn't have batted an eye at that skirt. But at the same time he was off fucking a maid in some linen closet, while Marshall ambushed you in that corridor that night and kissed you. The memory makes goosebumps spread over your body, and not the good kind.
Marshall seems to think that he is entitled to you. Just because your parents didn't say an outright no when his parents talked to them about marriage. He is disgusting, at least in your opinion.
You tried to tell your father that you didn't want the kiss and that Marshall kissed you without your consent but he wouldn't have it. "Think about how this could reflect on your mothers reputation. Sneaking off, kissing boys." That's what he had to say about the matter. Speaking about you as if you were a young, rebellious teenager. You are, in fact, an adult. You have been for a good while now, half a year at least. You went through your teen years without any major scandals. The same can't be said for your cousins.
You open the door and are faced with arms crossed over a broad chest clad by a black t-shirt, tight enough to reveal strong shoulders and muscular arms, and cold eyes staring down at you from the gap in his balaclava.
"Better", you ask, glaring up at Ghost.
"Much", he replies and steps aside.
Ghost opens the door to the dining hall for you and you nod a thank you to him. Your father is sat near the end of the table, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. He looks up at you as you enter.
"Good morning, Dad. Good morning, Gaz", you say to the dark-skinned man stood behind him.
"Important day today", your father replies, not bothering with pleasantries.
"I'm aware", you sit down at the chair opposite his and scoop a spoonful of scrambled eggs and another of bacon down on to your plate.
"Make sure to behave. We don't need the President or the American press to get the wrong impression", he reminds you for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
"I know", you acknowledge, eyes fixed on your plate. Fork moving the eggs around aimlessly.
"Good. We can't afford a scandal", your father adds and rises from his chair. Hand nudging your shoulder as he walks past you and out of the door. Gaz a few steps behind him. The door shuts with a dull thud. You drop your fork on to your plate with a clink and put your head in your hands. Why does he always always talk about me like I'm an accident waiting to happen? You feel Ghosts eyes burning in to your back.
"You don't have to just stand there, you know. You can sit down", you turn your head to look at him. His brown eyes meeting yours before walking over slowly towards the chair next to yours. Pulling it out and turning it so that he faces you. He sits down. Arms crossed over his chest and one of his legs resting on his knee. You pour some water in to your glass and do the same to his. Ghosts eyes still boring in to yours. You sigh.
"Whats the matter", you ask him. Something clearly occupying his mind.
"Do you have a drinking problem or something, your highness", he questions you.
"What? No", you shriek. How could he think such a thing? Well, your cousins are not exactly angels.
"A guy just kissed me at the last event and my dad thinks that I'm going to go into a late teenage rebellion. Besides, you would have noticed if I had a drinking problem by now", you continue rambling, shaking your head.
"Guess you're right", he replies. His voice having an unreadable tone. Your eyes move towards the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. It reads half past ten. Shit. You stand up and the chair almost tips behind you. Ghost rises, eyes darting around the room to find the source of your sudden movement.
"I'm gonna be late", you clarify and hurry out the door. Ghost a few steps behind you.
You make it to the front door with less than a minute to spare. Your parents are stood talking and turn around when you approach with quick steps. You come to a halt behind them. Smiling at your mother. She smiles back and turns towards the men beside the door. Gaz and Price are on either side of the door. Ready to follow their queens order. Your mother nods to them and the doors open. You face the light erupting from the gap and put on a smile that you hope looks natural. The forgotten breakfast on your plate makes itself reminded as your stomach churns. You feel Ghosts eyes burn into the back of your head and you step outside into the light
Next chapter
Authors note:
Hey, I'm back! It's been a while since I posted fanfiction here. But after have read a bunch my inspiration has come back. I am thinking of posting more than just this, like one-shots e.c.t. If there is interest in this I'd love to hear it! I am more than up for taking requests! There may be errors in this and you are more than welcome to correct me. Hope you have enjoyed this! //Polt 🌻
The door shuts behind you with a quiet click. Your footsteps are quiet against the stone floor. A man stands beside your door. But it's not the balaclava clad man you expected. Instead it is a pale man with a dark stubble coating his jaw and a mohawk on top of his head. He is wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans. His arms are covered in tattoos. Amongst the vines and plants that wreathe over his muscles are a unicorn. Its mane draped across its glimmering body. Its eyes looking at you innocently. Like it has never seen the evil that this world has to offer. That is a good tattoo if I have ever seen one.
"Good morning, your highness." your eyes dart back up to his face, meeting his light blue eyes.
"Good morning. I don't believe that we have met," you reply. To be polite. You know who he is. John Mactavish. His callsign is Soap and he is friends with Ghost. But by judging by his use of "your highness", said man hasn't gotten to him yet. Or he doesn't want to admit to spending more than half his night in your room.
"John Mactavish. At your service, your highness," he replies. A polite smile lighting up his face. you smile back at him, offering a half nod, and turn back towards the corridor. You resume walking. Soap's boots thudding behind you, a stark difference to the soft soles of your flats. You walk in silence. Your feet bringing you towards the small dining hall, hoping that this morning's breakfast hasn't been cleared from the table yet. Judging by the smell of bacon as you open the door it has not been cleared away yet. The table is draped with a white tablecloth with plates of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, beans, toast and sausages. You sit down in your usual seat. Two chairs from the head off the table with your back to the door. Soap stands by the door. You put two fried eggs on your plate with a piece of buttered toast. Some may say that it's plain. But what can you say, you're British. Just as you cut in to the yolk of your second egg, the door opens. You don't turn around. Judging by the heavy footsteps it is another guard. But he is not here for you. The two guards behind you speak with hushed voices. Clearly they do not want to include you in their conversation. So you stay out of it. The conversation comes to a halt and one of them leaves, shutting the door behind himself.
"Glad to see that your diet doesn't only consist of late night sandwiches." A familiar voice with a British accent says behind you. Ghost. You snort. Your lips curling into a smile.
"It usually doesn't," you reply and take a bite of toast.
"I'm not convinced." Your smile widens and you shake your head. You'd be willing to bet your whole family's fortune that there's a smirk beneath that balaclava of his. But you don't turn around to confirm it. Especially not since the door opens a second later.
Heels click against the stone floor of the dining hall. It's an unexpected sound, a stark difference to the quietness of the palace. When there's no events and no press to be seen, heels are a rarity. Those of us who spend a big part of our life here knows that. Those who sleep here every night, eat all their meals here, knows that. Which means that the only person it could be is...
"Duchess Grace." Ghost greets from behind you. The half eaten breakfast in front of you no longer seems appetising. The last thing that you want to do is sit here with her. The girl who has made your life a living hell. Who continues to be immature despite her status as the first grandchild. The oldest out of all of you. The person who is supposed to be a role model to girls in Britain. Not be on the cover of every gossip magazine in the country.
She walks in to your field of view. Once again wearing a flowy pink dress, trying to conceal her growing baby bump. Her blonde hair is tied up in to a bun at the back of her neck. Not a stand of hair out of place. That is Grace alright. Always trying to look perfect. If only her actions were the same as her looks. She sits down in front of you. Avoiding your eyes. She scans the table. You look back at your plate, but all of your appetite was lost when she walked in to the room. You put your fork and knife down on your plate and stand up.
"Wait," Grace calls out to you. You lift your eyes to hers. Her eyes are wide. You don't know if it is in panic or fear. She chews on her bottom lip.
"Could you sit down, please? I'd like to talk to you." Grace continues. You sit back down in your chair. As much as you have hated her, as much as you do. She will always be your older cousin. Some part of you still loves her after everything that she has done. You keep looking at her. She adverts her eyes from you and judging by the way that her arms move, she is twisting her hands in her lap. She lets out a breath.
"The rumors aren't true. Johnny had nothing to do with it." Grace starts. Her voice weak and shaky.
"I was seeing someone. A guy from the town we live in. He was nice and treated me alright, but we were reckless. When I told him," She pauses, swallowing."When I told him he freaked out. He got angry and violent and Johnny heard it from outside my room. He kicked him out and comforted me. I'm thankful that he did. The guy I saw left that night. He didn't want any responsibility. Johnny helped me talk to my parents. I'll owe him forever for that. It wasn't exactly pretty. Both mum and dad were pretty mad. My siblings aren't exactly saints and this was the last straw. I understand that it hasn't been easy for them. They took it out on me and kicked me out. Johnny let me stay with him for the night and paparazzi caught us," Grace finishes. Glancing up at you. All the anger that you have felt towards her runs off you like water. You shouldn't forgive her this easily, but deep down you already have. She keeps looking at you, expecting a reply. But how do you respond to this. I'm sorry that you became pregnant and caught up in a whirlwind of gossip? It's karma for what you did to me? Well, obviously not the latter. You can feel Ghost's eyes burning in to the back of your head. You let out a sigh.
"I'm sorry," you say. Thinking about how to continue. But Grace interrupts you.
"No, I'm sorry. I should never have done what I did those years ago. It was childish and a decision based on jealousy. I didn't know how bad the consequences would be. I realised the mistake I made as soon as the news started writing about it. But I was too proud to apologise. It was a mistake and I regret it," she finishes. You are, for the second time today, at a loss for words. The royal family isn't exactly known for admitting their mistakes. Nor genuinely apologising for their actions. And yet, here you are. Grace is still looking at you, holding her breath.
"I forgive you."
The words come out of your mouth and it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. One less problem. One less distraction. One less person occupying your mind with their foul actions and words. One more person in this palace that is on your side. Grace lets out a breath. A sigh of relief, perhaps. I guess I'm on her side too.
Silence falls over the room. Grace reaches out toward a dish of baked beans, taking a spoonful and putting it on her plate. Paring it with a piece of toast. You look back down at your own plate. The half eaten egg staring back at you. You don't feel like finishing it. You give the table another once-over. Nothing peaks your interest. You stand up, giving Grace a smile as you do.
"If you'll excuse me," you say and turn towards the door. Ghost opens the door for you and follows you out. Closing the door behind you with a quiet thud. You come to a halt after a few paces. You sigh, running a hand over your face. There has been one too many energy draining conversations these last few days. You're exhausted and you have only been awake for an hour.
You feel him before you hear him. The heat radiating from his body onto the side of yours. You have an urge to lean in to it. To let it envelop you completely, shielding you from the coldness of the world. From the coldness that these stone walls have to offer. But you don't. Of course you don't. You can't seek comfort from a stranger. Ghost is, after all, practically a stranger to you. You know nothing about him except his name and his job. You don't know what his face looks like beneath his balaclava. You know nothing of his face but his eyes and his lips and the scars that litter every visible part if his body, and yet you are drawn to him. You don't know if it is because he is a mystery that you are aching to solve, or if it is because he has expressed the comfort that you have been longing for all these years. Perhaps a bit of both.
"Are you alright," he asks you.
"Yes," you answer automatically. Even though it might not be entirely truthful. You shouldn't be anyway so you're sure that he sees right through you. If he does, he doesn't comment on it. You keep standing in the hallway. The castle in the city, where you are now, is not where you live. Half of the time you live in your actual home out on the countryside. But lately you have been spending more and more time here. Since you do not live here, most of your things are back home. Which means that the activities one can do here is quite limited. So if you're being honest, you have no idea what to do. If you were at home you'd read or workout, or perhaps waste away hours scrolling on Tiktok. But right now you do not even want to look at your phone other than your texts. You don't want to see the headlines that yesterdays events must have caused. You don't want to see all of the rumors and gossip about Grace and John being here, or about Ghost catching you. Journalists and paparazzi have some strange ability to find out everything that goes on in the palace. You bet that someone is feeding them that information, basking in the drama that arises. You would put your money on it being your cousins or Marshall. You pray that it isn't one of our bodyguards.
"Can I suggest a walk in the garden?" Ghost's voice pulls you out of your thoughts. I swear that man can read minds.
"What is the weather like," you ask him in return.
"Sunny, but it rained in the early morning," he replies from behind you. You turn around to face him. He is closer to you than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushing against his chest as you turn. His eyes are on yours instantly. Revealing nothing as usual. You hold his gaze for one heartbeat, for two heartbeats, for three...
"Perhaps I should change my shoes then," you question, tilting your head to the side. His eyes leaves yours, travelling downwards to your feet and up to meet yours again.
"Perhaps you should, we wouldn't want you to slip," he replies in a flat voice, but his eyes betray him. Unable to hide his amusement.
"That's not funny," you exclaim and shove at his chest. But your face too betrays you, your lips cracking open into a smile. He laughs, his shoulders shaking. You can't help but to laugh with him. Shaking your head as you do. Before turning and walking towards your room. A smile still on your lips.
You leave the door to your room open as you enter. Kicking your flats off and placing them in the shoe rack by the door. A dark shadow moves ghostly in the corner of your eye, and that is precisely who it is. Who else would it be? You pick up a pair of black boots. They are more suited for wet terrain than flats. You sit down on your bed. The mattress sinking underneath your weight. You undo the lace on the boots then putting them on before lacing them up again. Neither you nor Ghost has uttered a word since you stepped in here. It's like breaking the silence would mean that he is standing in your room again. This time without the excuse of your protection. You can feel him watching you. You can feel his eyes tracing the movement of your fingers as you drag the shoelace between the hooks. Studying every twist and turn, every tug, every small movement that you make. You fumble with the laces, dropping one end. You pick it up again. You try to make it look like it was just an accident. You don't want him to know how nervous he makes you. But anyone would be, right? Anyone would fumble if they had a tall, silent man studying their every move, right?
You finish with your shoes and just as you do a chime breaks the silence. You hand moves instinctually to your pocket. The screen of your phone is lit up. The pink flower on your wallpaper staring back at you. A notification from Eddie resting above the flower. The message reads; "OMG! I jinxed you sooo bad! At least that bodyguard of yours saved the day." You groan. Like you predicted the press must have had a field-day. Another message from her pops up. An image, a headline no doubt. You unlock your phone and your gut was right. Well, almost right. Since after the screenshot of the first headline, three more follows. "Knight in shining armor, bodyguard saves princess.", "Englands Cinderella, princess in glass slippers." accompanied by "Jelly legs, princess takes a tumble." and the worst one of them all, "Head over heels, princess falling for her bodyguard". Great, just great.
Something dark moves in the corner of your eye and you jump. Your eyes darting to the movement. It is a pair of legs clad in black jeans. The belt plain black with a silver buckle with a holster and a gun on the right side. It is level with your head. Your eyes travel upwards. Over the t-shirt tightly fitted over shoulders and chest. Up over the balaclava clad face. His brown eyes fixed on your phone. They seem to skim over the images, ignoring your prior movement. They stop at the bottom of the screen. On the last image, no doubt. You keep looking at him and you swear something changes. Is he embarrassed? You wouldn't blame him. You have had gossip headlines written about every encounter you've had with a boy your age since you were twelve. You are used to it. At least I pretend that I am.
"Edith," his voice breaks the silence.
"What," you ask.
"It is Edith Reed you're texting, right," he clarifies and look away from the screen and in to your eyes.
"Yeah," you answer. He stays silent. You do to. Your heart beats one, two, three times. He blinks, pale eyelids and blonde lashes covering his dark brown irises for a moment. The bourbon center of his eyes clearer than ever in the light from the window. It is if that one blink, that one disturbance of the eye contact, breaks it. It broke the walls of whatever state you were in and reality crashes over you like a wave in a stormy sea. The clarity washes over you in the same way that cold water does. Waking you up with a start. You don't speak. Even if you opened your mouth you don't think that any words would escape your throat. You pocket your phone and stand up. The distance between your faces closing. A miscalculation on your part. Ghost doesn't move an inch. You swallow, your throat dry. You let yourself stand there, just for a moment. For two heartbeats. Then you turn away.
• • •
The wet gravel path sloshes and crunches underneath your boots. The puddles that formed from the rain this morning glittering in the sunlight. That same light stinging your eyes. I should have brought sunglasses. There are rosebushes on either side of the path. The dark red petals adorned with droplets. You stop and smell one. The smell of roses always remind you of your grandmother and of the time before your mother became queen. It reminds you of your visits to the palace, before they turned in to torture by the paparazzi. When the paparazzi were faceless cameras and flashes. A fun part of an otherwise boring visit, at least when you're six.
A snap breaks your thoughts. Your eyes dart to the sound. To the pale hand holding the green stem of a red rose. The rose separated from its companions on the bush. Ghost's other hand, his left, picks of the thorns one by one. His hand moves clumsily. Well clumsily for being Ghost. You soon find the cause as his eyes are locked on you. Not on your face or your eyes but on your hand. Your hand that is clasped around the rose. The finger on your hand that is bleeding. You hadn't noticed the pain before. You were probably too swept up in your thoughts to notice. You let go of the rose and suck on the wound, the iron taste enveloping your tongue. You meet his gaze again, well you expected to meet his gaze. But once again his eyes are locked elsewhere. This time on your lips. It only takes a second for his gaze to meet yours again. His eyes unreadable as always. He stretches out his hand, and with it the rose, towards you. The color of the petals perfectly matching the dark red scabs scattered across his knuckles. You take it, your fingers brushing his. Your cold fingertips welcoming the brief warmth.
"I thought your room could use some red." You glance up at Ghost's eyes again. This time the corners are crinkled in a smile.
"Working as an interior designer now are we," you question, a smile creeping across your lips.
"Maybe." He leans in closer."Or maybe I want the paparazzi to spot them from your window."
"Haha, very funny." You roll your eyes and turn around back to the gravel path. Ghost's laughter following you. The gravel crunches beneath our boots once again. The water in the fountain which marks the middle of the garden sparkles in the light. Pigeons are sat on its edge. There are never pigeons in the garden.
"I believe Gaz has been feeding them on his lunch break," Ghost says from behind you. Perhaps you said that last part out loud.
"He's eating out here," you question. Englands weather does not have a sunny reputation.
"I think that he is enjoying some peace and quiet while he can," he replies.
"Is it stressful," you ask. "Being a bodyguard I mean."
Your back hits the cold stone wall in the corridor. A body is pressed against yours. All too familiar. Hands slide over your hips to your lower back and you try to squirm away from them.
"Come on. Don't be like that, baby," Marshalls voice commands from above you.
"Marshall, no. I don't want you to touch me," you reply shoving at his chest. He doesn't move an inch.
"You're mine anyway, so what does it matter," he says, his hands moving up you back. Following the zipper of your dress. You can't breathe. It is like all the oxygen in the corridor has been consumed and you can't take a breath, your lungs won't expand. Fucking breathe.
It feels like someone tipped a bucket of ice over your head as his hands find it's target and begins pulling your zipper down. You try to wrestle out of his grips but it's no use. Marshall just laughs, hands sliding over the exposed skin of your back. His head closing in towards yours. He smells like he has bathed in aftershave and expensive cologne and it makes bile rise in your throat. This is it, you think. This is when he does the unthinkable. What you have been fearing ever since that first kiss.
Just as fast as he was on you he is gone. You clamp a hand over the front of your dress to stop it sliding down and you can breathe. The thump of mass against stone makes you look up. Marshall is laying on the floor, nose bleeding, eyes wide and fear struck. A large figure towers over him. Hands balled up in to fists.
"If you ever as much as touch a hair on her head." The figure picks Marshall up by the front of his button up shirt. "I'll personally make sure that it's the last thing you do." Marshall lands back on the floor with a groan. The figure takes a gentle hold of your arm and pulls you out of the corridor in to the light. His face comes in to the light. Balaclava clad with concerned brown eyes.
"Are you alright," Ghost asks moving his hands up to your shoulders, warm callused fingers rough against your skin. His eyes falling on the straps of your dress, having slid off your shoulders.
"I think so," you reply, tasting salt on your tongue as you open your mouth to speak. Tears having spilled from your eyes without you noticing. Ghost nods and moves his hands towards your back. You flinch at the movement. Shit.
"Just zippi'n you up," he says softly. Fingers fumbling with the zipper on your back. As it closes his hands fall back to his sides and you readjust your dress and take a shuddering breath. You begin to walk back towards the dining hall unsteady on your heels, dreading everything. How can I explain this to my parents? I should have been more careful, more observant, fought back more. Ghosts sudden hand on your shoulder stops you in your path. You turn around to look at him.
"We're not going back, Darling." he says and guides you in the opposite direction with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades. He steers you in the direction of the living quarters, of your room. You do not have any energy left to argue. With each step you loose more and more sense of what is happening. Replaying the event in your head. Ghost says something. Not to you, you don't think. You keep moving.
"Hey." Ghosts voice breaks you out of your thoughts. You are outside of your bedroom door. "Go and change into something more comfortable. I need to go, but I won't be long. Alright," he asks standing with his arms crossed over his chest. looking at you. You nod feeing his eyes burn in to the back of your head as you walk through your bedroom door.
You head straight for the wardrobe. You avoid your mirror like the plague. You know how disheveled you must look. You don't want to face it yet. You grab a pair of shorts and a plain, white, t-shirt. The shorts are pink and have bows at the bottom of the legs. You try not to look at your body as you change. Some of your hair having fallen out of your bun in to your face. I am so disgusted. You are disgusted as much by Marshalls actions as by your own. Why didn't you scream, or fight, or anything? Ghost comes to your mind. He was furious. He must be angry with you. Just like dad was last time. Oh god no, dad. He will be so angry with you. Tears run down your face before you can stop them. You sink down to the floor against your wardrobe door. I am so exhausted. You barley ate any dinner. And no breakfast nor lunch. It's stupid of you and you know it. But it's hard to eat when it feels like it might come back up again any second.
"Your Highness," Ghosts voice questions from above you. You look up and meet his eyes. His eyes, usually so empty, are filled with concern. His blond lashes and eyebrows blend in with his skin. He is clad in a black button up shirt, fitting him tightly. It must have been tailored. It wouldn't fit him like that if it wasn't. You swallow. How hard did I hit my head? He holds a tray in his hands, filled with.
"Sandwiches." The word coming out of your mouth before you could think. He chuckles.
"Figured you might be hungry," he replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"You're correct." you stand up and walk over towards the sofas in the middle of your room. No one needs a room this big. Your bedroom is oversized to say the least. You have room for a king sized bed, white sofas, a large wardrobe, a small kitchen with a mini fridge and a kettle, as well as a vanity and a connecting bathroom. It's ridiculous. You know that you should appreciate it all, not complain. You do appreciate it. But it is unnecessary. The royal life is extravagant. There's no doubt about it. Believe it or not, you are aware of the struggles in the world. You are somewhat educated after all. The fortune that has been passed down your family for generations does no good sitting about, or being spent on dresses and jewelry. It could make some real change in the world. Well, at least contribute to it. You may not be allowed to speak your mind on politics, but that does not mean that you do not have opinions on the subject.
You sit down on the sofa. On opposite sides, of course. Apparently it's not appropriate for a woman and a man to sit close together on a sofa before marriage. He puts the plate on the spare cushion between you. Ignoring the table in front of you. Choosing to, you're guessing. It's not much that slips past that man. There are six sandwiches on the plate. Well, technically three since they are split in half to form two triangles.
"Took some for yourself did you." Your lips twitch as you look up at Ghost. Meeting his amused gaze. "Can't say I blame you. Don't think I've ever seen you eat." You continue. He chuckles.
"I could say the same for you, your Highness," he replies.
"I hate when people call me that," you groan and lay your head backwards on to the cushion.
"Why," he asks. A reasonable question you guess. You bet that almost everyone has at one point in their life dreamed of being royalty. You don't blame them. You believe that you would want to, if the roles were reversed.
"It's so formal and insanely overused. I get called it thirty times a day. If not more. I wouldn't mind as much if it was only used at formal occasions. It makes me feel like it is all I am." You raise your head and look at him. Ghost is looking back at you. One elbow propped up on the sofa cushion next to him. The white of the cushion a stark contrast against his black clothes. He has one foot on the floor, his other ankle resting on his knee.
"What would you want people to call you," he asks you. The fabric of his balaclava moving as he speaks.
"I don't know." you lay your head backwards against the cushions again. "My name, maybe."
"Don't think that's possible."
"Why not?"
"Your dad would kill me if he heard me call you that." You snort.
"No he wouldn't."
"Then Price would."
"Can't argue with that." you sit up straight and grab a sandwich from the tray and bite in to it. Ham and cheese. An oldie but a goodie. Ghost grabs one as well, pulling the neck of his balaclava up over his mouth. He's got a scar beginning from somewhere you can't see and ending right above his upper lip and another one across his chin. They have a pink hue and are slightly darker than the rest of his pale skin. His lips are almost the same color. Slightly redder. They are dry and slightly chapped. I guess you don't care for lip balm when your lips are constantly covered with fabric.
You constantly wonder how this man has time to live. To eat, to sleep, to talk to his friends and family, to cook, to workout, to shower. Get your mind out of the gutter. He always seems to be at the palace, except from when another guard takes over at the night shift. So you guess that he's got sleep sorted out. However, he is always there when you wake up, no matter how early. It's absurd. It's not that you don't enjoy his company. You do, most of the time. It's just strange to you. He should practically have a room at the palace at this point. Does he have a room at the palace? You should ask him sometime. The truth is that you have no idea how our guards live. Or our maids, or cooks. Jeez, I am spoiled. You guess that comes with growing up in a castle. You are a bit sheltered and ignorant. Not going to a public school. Having almost no friends. You don't even know what it's like to live like a normal person. What do regular people struggle with? Well money, obviously, you're not that ignorant. But what else? Love? Or is that just in the movies?
Ghost takes a bite of his sandwich. You look away. You should find this strange. Him, in your room, on your sofa, eating a sandwich. You haven't known each other that long. You don't know if it is because he is your bodyguard. Or that he just saved you from Marshall, and didn't question you. I'd be so easy to kidnap. Just do the bare minimum of listening to me, and boom, I trust you. I am utterly pathetic. Hey, at least I'm self-aware.
You finish your sandwich and lean back against the armrest of the sofa. Ghost twists to face you. But not completely, half of him still facing the door. A habit, no doubt about it. He must have served. Right? The scars, the posture, the habits, the muscles, his sneaking, his violent behavior, his calmness. He is too precise to just have gone in to the bodyguard business. They all are. Ghost, Price and Gaz. You understand why they are here. If you have a rowdy teenager you need the best of the best. Oh how you wish that you could convince yourself that you are the reason.
"Did you serve," you ask before you can stop yourself. "In the military." He chuckles, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Yes, your Highness," he replies. You glare at him. He grins. The smile lopsided because of the scar. It reaches his eyes this time.
"I thought I told you to stop calling me that."
"I apologize, it's a habit," the grin on his face widening. You roll your eyes and sink lower in to the sofa. You feet sliding to the middle cushion and the back of your head resting against the armrest.
• • •
Cold hands are grasping your waist. Hard enough for the fingers to make indents in your bare skin. You feel the sting of the nails digging in to your skin. The thumbs grazing the bottom of your rib cage. You feel the hands against your bones. It feels like they want to break them. The hands are on the arms, that are on the shoulders of a faceless man. His face is a blur. But yet he must have lips because a cold voice streams from his face. There are no words just a bussing of a voice in a language that you can't understand and his hands gliding lower and lower, freezing your skin so that it burns in their wake. His hands travel lower and grasp your inner thighs and you try to scream but no sound escapes you.
You jolt awake. Warm rough hands gripping your arms and holding you upright. But these warm hands do not burn you. They belong to muscular arms and shoulders covered with a black button up shirt and on his shoulders sit a masked head. With brown eyes and blonde eyelashes.
"Good morning, Princess," Ghost says and lays you back against the armrest of your white sofa, in your room, at the palace. You exhale. Your throat burns.
"You were screaming." Ghost sits back against the cushions, propping one of his legs up on the other like before. Huh, I guess I could scream after all. Wait.
"Princess," you ask him and sit up straight.
"Since you despise "Your highness" so much, and "Princess" is your title. I deemed it fitting." He shrugs. You groan.
"At least Price won't kill you," you mutter. If Ghost heard you he doesn't give it away. He just looks at you, unmoving. He is a bit unsettling isn't he? Well he's supposed to be, right? Being a bodyguard and all? But still. They way he analyses you. Like he is predicting your thoughts and movements. Maybe he is. You wouldn't put it past him. In another universe he's definitely a stalker. Is it disturbing that I find that kind of attractive? Probably. A blurred face flashes through your mind.
"How long was I out?"
"About twenty minutes."
You nod and pull your knees up towards your chest. It had felt like hours. You can still feel the cold hands grasping your skin. Bruising, polluting, staining your body, your soul, your very being. His touch burning you, branding you like cattle. It is like the whole world can see the frostbitten pattern his hands left on your skin. A marking of filth and disgrace. You can no longer distinguish the man in your dream from Marshall. Perhaps they never were two separate people. Your arms wrap tighter around your body, squeezing your ribs.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ghosts voice shatters your thoughts.
"What," you ask, glancing up at him.
"Do you want to talk about what happened tonight," he clarifies. You look in to his eyes. Those brown eyes who always seem so calm and collected. Would he understand this? This feeling of filth, of being dirty. Of being tarnished like a silver ring touched by sulfur. Like rusted iron, becoming discoloured and fragile. Would he understand how much you blame yourself? Or how much you blame your father?
"I don't know," you reply, your voice weak.
"I'm here if you decide that you do." He picks up a book without a cover from the cushion behind him and opens it. His eyes still on yours. You nod and sit in silence. Looking at the coverless book in Ghosts hands. His hands are scarred across the knuckles. Small, white, jagged circles scattered upon his fingers. Evidently he has been in more than a few fistfights. On his left hand there is a long, thin and straight scar. Reaching from the knuckle on his pinky to just below his thumb. Something sharp having dented him forever. His knuckles on his left hand, although littered by scars, are flushed pink. The knuckles on his right hand however, are bright red. The skin on the ones in the middle scraped with specks of dark red blood.
"Don't you have better things to do," you ask him. Breaking the silence.
"There's a dinner party downstairs with a man who bruised your hand, a boy who assaulted you and several young adults that are high as kites. And you are trying to tell me that I have better things to do than to make sure that none of them gets in here and harms you more than you already have been tonight," he replies, tearing his eyes from the book and raising an eyebrow at you.
"And you are trying to tell me that guarding a princess is more important than making sure that the queen is safe and well, downstairs," you retaliate. Raising an eyebrow to mimic him.
"Price, Gaz and Soap are more than capable. They can handle it," he replies. The fabric around his mouth twitching. Betraying a smile.
"Soap's the mohawk then," you question him. Tilting your head to the side.
"John Mactavish is his actual name," Ghost explains.
"Scottish?"
"Unfortunately."
You snort. He chuckles. You lean against the sofa. Your side digging in to the soft cushions, arms resting on your lap. Your eyelids are heavy. Falling shut and you don't have the energy to reopen them.
"I'll be here when you wake up." Ghosts voice seeping through the darkness that eventually consumes you.
Your heels click against the polished stone floor with every step that you take. Heavy thuds from boots coming closer behind you.
"I was just wondering when you'd join me", you say to the man behind you.
"Had to have a laugh at your poor time management skills", Ghost replies, falling in to step with you.
"Hilarious." you roll your eyes.
"Always am, your highness."
Ghost opens the door to the grand dining hall with his head bowed to you. You walk in, a polite smile with teeth. To make it seen genuine. Or something. The wall opposite you has portraits of previous rulers. Ranging from the one before your mother to one from as early as the 18 hundreds. All in neat but extravagant golden frames. In front of the wall there is a long wooden table. Decorated cleanly with a white table cloth, flowers in pink and lilac and lit candles. Your mother sits at the table. A crown decorates her head. You bow your head to her and make your way towards the table around the edge of the room. If you'd look out the windows you'd see the flowerbeds in the garden. Full of red, white and pink roses. The afternoon sunlight casting the room in a warm yellow glow.
On your mum's left side sits The president, and on her right your father. There is an empty seat next to him. Your seat. You hurry towards the chair. Shooting your mother a quick apology as you pass behind her. You sit down and smooth out your dress. Your father gives you a stern look. Honestly, I deserved that.
"Sorry", you mouth to him. He nods back. Apology accepted. You exhale. You look around at the other two tables. One to your left and the other to your right. The table to your right is designated to the families that are close to the crown. There's the Callahans, the Riveras and Marshall and his parents, the Bakers, ew. At the table to your right is, oh god no. Your cousins are sat smirking in your direction. Well, four out of five. Your eldest cousin, Grace, keeps her head down. Eyes on the plate in front of her. She's in a light pink dress that she thinks hides her already growing baby bump, it does nothing of the sort. A shadow passes behind her. No, not a shadow. A balaclava clad man who somehow blends in like a chameleon against the dim light of the dining hall. He's a Ghost alright.
"How kind of you to join us, your highness", The president addresses you. Earning him amused chuckles from various people in the room. Your eyes dart to him.
"I do sincerely apologize. I'm afraid that my poor time management skills have struck again", you answer in an overly dramatic manor. Causing many people in the room to laugh. Including a snicker from behind you. The corners of your mouth twitch upward. The president chuckles. The tension in the room eases. The conversations start flowing and you let out a breath. Your mother and father are swept in to a conversation with the president. Theres a joke about tea. Something about a wall. You don't pay attention.
Your eyes wander around the room again. They sweep past your cousins towards the door. Next to the door stands Gaz, or Kyle, which is his real name. His dark skin and neatly trimmed hair fits in like a piece of a puzzle with the rest of the room. Elegant but with the touch of "don't mess with me I'm a bodyguard". Next to him, on the other hand, is a man who does the exact opposite. The mohawk on his head, an eyesore. His slightly rugged look may be appealing to some women. But in this context it stands out like a drop of blood on cotton. Even though that's the case he is far from ugly. Wait a minute. Isn't that? Yes it is. It's the bodyguard that Grace is rumored to have a relationship with. Why on earth is he here? We don't need the scandal to take fire once again. It has barley burned out.
You pry your eyes away from the man. Looking towards the table on your right instead. The Callahans are talking with the Riveras about something you can't hear. Marshalls parents are listening in to the conversation. But Marshall himself is staring at you. Shooting you a cocky grin as your eyes meet his. You look away in disgust. Suppressing a shiver.
The first course is served. It is some kind of soup with tiny vegetable squares floating around below the drizzle of oil. It tastes alright. It's nothing special. Apparently it's supposed to warm up the stomach before the main course. What nonsense. There are so many better options to serve as an appetizer. Especially when The President is visiting.
The main course plays out the same way. Some kind of meat, grayish and dry. The royal family can't eat red meat in case of food poisoning. You do it anyway. The chef's rules are much looser when the palace is empty of guests. The president keeps talking with your family. He goes on and on about something that you can't be bothered to listen to. Until your name is mentioned that is.
"What", you ask. Suddenly interested in the conversation.
"Would you consider yourself a republican or a liberal", the president asks you. The strained smile on his face tells you that it was the second time he asked.
"I'm not allowed to vote, nor am I allowed to take a stand in politics", you answer. The answer had been drilled in to your very bones. You can't express myself politically. Especially not right now.
"Come on. This is just a friendly conversation between two acquaintances. Theres no need to follow such formalities." He pushes. You clench my fists under the table. Why can't he just drop it. Your father tenses beside you as you open your mouth to speak.
"Like I said, I will not speak on the matter", you reply. A polite but stern answer. Your father relaxes again. The president laughs and says something about rule following and you stop listening again.
Desert is served and you would like to be anywhere in the palace but the dining hall. Your cousins have had too much to drink. Probably something stronger than alcohol as well by the way they constantly disappear in to the bathroom and talk so loudly that you can hear almost every word that they are saying from across the room. When you have finished your dessert you politely excuse yourself to get some fresh air and hurry out of the dining hall.
When you get into the corridor outside of the big door you take a deep breath. It finally feels like you can get enough oxygen. You walk towards the garden. Fresh evening air can't hurt. The roses should be blooming. A hand grips your wrist and tugs.
Previous chapter - Next chapter
Authors note:
These first few chapters are re-uplodes with minor changes. So these fast paced uploads will be temporary. Just thought I'd let you know! //Polt 🌻
The forest floor of moss, grass and twigs are damp under your feet. So are the tree trunks beneath your fingers. The bark rough against your fingertips as you drag them across the wood as you're running. The wind cold against your body. White fabric is draped across your body. Flowing behind you as you propel forwards. The forest an endless wall of greens and browns and dewdrops falling against your skin from the leaves above. The leaves soaring from above, falling in an uneven descent towards the ground. Towards decomposition. Towards death. The wind turns colder. Stinging your skin as you pass through its endless journey forward. Like yours, endless and untiring. Except your journey is slowing down. Time itself seems to be slowing down. You can follow every sway of the leaves in the wind. Follow how the strands of moss and grass bend beneath your feet. How the twigs break, splinter and crack under your weight. How the fabric moves in the wind. How your hair follows suit. Hitting the back of your shoulders as your feet hit the ground just to take of again. Time seems to slow further. You can follow the dewdrops pattern in the air. See how they collide with the ground and shatter just to combine once more. Breathing seems impossibly slow. Your chest barley rises.
Soft fabric envelops your limbs. Moving with you as you sit up. Sliding of your torso to pool at your hips. You open your eyes. Your room is dark with the exception of a standing light by your sofa where Ghost sits. The book without a cover in his hands. Its pages yellowed and the text faded. His eyes open and resting on the pages between his fingers.
"What time is it," you ask him tucking stray hairs behind your ears. Voice horse from sleep. He glances at the clock on the wall.
"One in the morning."
"Shouldn't you be somewhere else," you ask him. Surely he should be home and sleeping. Not keeping a princess company.
"Can't walk out on my job, can I?" Ghost looks up at you. The corners of his eyes crinkling.
"It is one in the morning." you repeat.
"Your cousins are still running amok." As if on cue there's a crash in the hallway outside, followed by a curse and a groan. You let out an amused huff.
"Like I said," a smile audible in his voice, "running amok."
"Oh lord." You laugh and shake your head. You shuffle to the side of the bed, get up and walk over towards the sofa to join him. Another faint crash ricochets through the walls from the corridor. Which is a worthy achievement since the walls are made of solid stone. You stifle a laugh and sit down opposite Ghost, tucking your legs underneath you and turning to face him. Your t-shirt and shorts are wrinkled and sit crocked across your body beneath them. The pink bows on your shorts severely off center.
"Old and loved or for mysteries sake," you ask him. Nodding towards the book in his hands.
"Both," he replies. His eyes crinkle again. I bet that there's a smug grin underneath that balaclava. Bastard.
"Is it any good?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
You scoff. He chuckles. You sit in silence again. His eyes never leave you. You can feel them burning you. Tearing in to your skin. No doubt trying to dig in to your brain. To crack you open and take a look inside your thoughts. To look at your secrets and fears.
"What's your name?" The question slips out through your lips before you can stop them. Ghost eyes widen ever so slightly. Did I catch him off guard?
"Wouldn't you like to know", he repeats.
"Repetitive, are we? Cat got your tongue?" You tease. A grin spreading over your lips. He keeps his mouth shut. Just looking at you. Eyes slightly narrowed. Undoubtedly trying to get you to look away. You won't let him succeed. You keep staring into those brown eyes of his. The color of earth, chocolate and coffee with a dash of bourbon near his pupil. Surrounded by strokes of cream, snow and bone. Those eyes could consume you and all you'd smell and taste would be smokey sweetness. I bet he smells like smoke.
"Simon." He breaks the silence. You jump.
"What?" You ask.
"My name is Simon," he clarifies. The corners of his eyes crinkling once again.
"Simon." The name rolls smoothly over your tongue. He chuckles.
"Why Ghost," you ask him.
"It wasn't my choice. It was given to me by Soap after I scared him shitless."
"Do tell!"
"It was about a week after we met. The task force we were in just got put together. It was me, Soap, Gaz and Price. I walked in to the kitchen late one night to get a glass of water and Soap was already there. I asked him if he had trouble sleeping and he jumped out of his skin. Shattering his glass of water. He said many, not so appropriate, words and then called me, and I quote, "A Fucking Ghost". I suppose he wanted to insult me. Didn't succeed." He laughs. His eyes are in a faraway place. No doubt reliving the memories.
They seem to be good friends. Ghost and Soap. Simon and John. They seem like polar opposites. One quiet and proper. The other loud and rough. Well, what do you know. Perhaps Ghost has a mohawk under that balaclava of his. I highly doubt that. You may not know who he is outside of work. But his personality shines through non the less. He is too quiet for a mohawk. You wouldn't put one or two piercings past him though. Everyone has made stupid decisions in their teens right? A drunk tattoo. A bad haircut. An impulsive piercing. Not that you'd know. Your teenage years were guarded by palace walls and watched like hawks by paparazzi. Technically you are still a teenager. But being 18, being an adult, comes with responsibilities, expectations and graver consequences. Something that your cousins do their best to ignore. But they never had as many eyes on them as you have. As you have every hour of every day. You guess that is how they get away with everything. The drugs. The drinking. The sex. It's sickening. The things that they have done make you nauseous. Grace was never as bad as the rest of them. Irresponsible, yes. But cruel like her siblings? Never. There was a reason behind why you always hung out with her at family gatherings. Behind why you could talk to her. She was a year older than you, and kind. Grace was the closest thing you had to a sister. Until she sold your secrets to the press for five minutes of fame. Now it's her turn to be shamed by the press. Her turn to not be able to step outside her house without a new article about her being written. It serves her right. As much as you are ashamed to think it.
"Do you know if they, Grace and him. Is John the," you begin. Running a hand down your face. I can't believe that I am asking him this.
"No," Ghost replies sternly. "Soap may be reckless. He is not exactly known for turning women down. But he would never mix work and pleasure, especially not these days. He knows what's at stake. He may be an irresponsible dick, but not that much of a dick," he continues. You let out a breath of relief. Then she just screwed up. Having sex with her own bodyguard is worse than screwing any other man. It still make's you look bad. But at least she didn't have sex with her own employee.
"Is he getting transferred here," you ask. Usually your cousins do not bring their own bodyguard. Our security is good enough. You think that tonight was a test, or a first day at work. It has happened before. But him having worked with the rest of our crew. You highly doubt that he'd screw it up.
"Yes, he is."
"Why wasn't he assigned here in the first place? It's not like we couldn't use him. We still have many bodyguards that lack the expertise that you all seem to have."
"I have no idea, your highness." you glare at him. He laughs. His shoulders shaking and his eyes closing, head slumping slightly forward. The top buttons at the collar of his black dress shirt having been unbuttoned while you were asleep. Ghost looks less put together, more normal. Except the balaclava of course. No normal person wears fabric tightly over their face all day every day. I don't understand how he does it. I think that I would go crazy after ten minuets. The heat and moisture from your breath getting trapped by the fabric. Suffocating you more and more with every inhale and exhale . A slow form of torture. Only a sadist would stand that. Perhaps he is a sadist.
"What are you thinking about?"
You look up. Ghost is looking at you intently.
"I was asking myself if you are a sadist," you answer truthfully. You are sure that he would know if you were lying. He cackles.
"So that is what's going on in that head of yours," he says. The corners of his eyes crinkled in what you believe is a smile.
"Partly." You shrug and your lips crack open in to a smile. Ghost just laughs and shakes his head.
"You are a strange woman, princess."
"You've got some balls, Ghost."
"Wouldn't be here if I hadn't got any."
"I guess you're right."
The clock on your wall chimes twice. Two in the morning.
"That's the end of my shift. Your usual night guard will be taking over." Ghost stands up from the couch. You nod.
"Unless you want me to stay, of course." He adds, looking at you with that look in his eyes that you are sure means that he is trying to pick you apart.
"It's okay. Go get some sleep," you reply and smile at him.
"You too, princess."
• • •
You open your eyes to sunlight. The sun streaming in through the window whose pink curtains you forgot to close in the turmoil that was last night. You roll over in bed. The sheets tangling with your legs. Capturing them with their softness. You sigh and pull your legs out of the comfort. Reluctantly placing them down against the cold stone floor. You stretch your arms out above your head, groaning at the tension in your muscles. You run your hands through your hair as you bring your arms back down again. The bun you had put your hair in last night having been dissolved by the roughness of an uneasy sleep. You stand up and walk towards your wardrobe. Trying to remember if the festivities of yesterday will continue on today, as well. Which you, of course, do not remember. You open the doors to your wardrobe. You would very much prefer to wear trousers today. But if you have to show your face out to the public, a skirt or a dress is a must. These ridiculous rules will be the death of me. You put on a white pleated skirt with black stockings underneath. You pair it with a lose fitted knitted sweater, beige. Next is hair. It's slight greasy. Too greasy to be worn down. You put it up into a ponytail and spray some dry shampoo at the front of your hair. Good enough. You roll up your sleeves and clip some of your hair out of the way. As you step in to the bathroom and look in the mirror last night is reflected on your face. The smudged makeup and the bags under your eyes evidence of the hell you went through. You wash it off. Trying to forget the cold hands on your waist and back. A chill running through your body despite the warmth of your sweatshirt.
There's a knock on your door. You flinch right as you put the wand of your mascara up to your eyelashes. Resulting in a black smudge across your eyelid. You sigh and pick up a q-tip.
"Come in," you yell towards the door before licking the q-tip and raising it up to your eye, looking at your door through your mirror. It opens and in steps a tall figure clad in black trousers and t-shirt. A balaclava over his head. It is none other than Ghost, of course.
"Good morning, your highness," Ghost says.
"I thought I asked you to." Ghost interrupts you by giving you a look and taking a step backwards. In walks your father. Looking uncomfortable. An unusual look for him. He is undoubtedly here to talk to you about last night. You stomach twists at the thought.
"Good morning," he says with an awkward smile that does not reach his eyes. You turn around to look at him. Not saying a word. Waiting for the lecture of how it's your fault, what you should have done better, what you shouldn't have done at all. How you're childish and irresponsible. Of how you're the next in line to the throne and you should know better than to behave like this. You brace yourself as he opens his mouth. Diverting your eyes to the floor.
"I'm sorry." Your eyes dart back up to him. Did he just apologise?
"What," you reply. Your voice weaker than you would have wished it to be.
"I'm sorry for blaming the Baker's son's actions on you. It was wrong of me." He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. "I should have made the decision to exclude them from future event's back then. For all of our safety. So I'm sorry for putting you in danger," your father finishes. You sit in stunned silence. This is not what you were expecting. Him admitting that he was wrong is something you never thought that you would ever experience and yet here he is, in your room, admitting that he made a choice that put your in danger. Who wen't off on him? You glance at Ghost over your father's shoulder. He is already looking at you. Brown eyes piercing yours betraying nothing, as usual.
"Thank you." You finally will the words out of your mouth and look back at your father. He nods and glances towards the door. You nod and he exits. Ghost moves towards the door to follow him.
"Wait," you call after him. He stops in his tracks. He glances at the door and raises his eyebrows. A silent question if he should close the door. You nod. The door shuts with a quiet click beneath his hands. The silence stretches on. Ghost's eyes on you and your eyes on him.
"Did you have something to do with that?" You break the silence and cross your arms over your chest.
"Did I have something to do with what," he asks and crosses his arms over his chest. Mimicking you.
"With what my father said," you clarify.
"What about it?" He looks clueless. But something tells you that he's not. You glare at him. He sighs.
"I briefed Price on what happened. But that is as far as my influence goes," he replies and raises his hands up into the air. Palms facing you. Surrender.
"Well someone gave him an earful." you shrug and turn back towards the mirror. Rubbing the q-tip over your eyelid. Removing the black smudges. Ghost watches me through the mirror. His gaze trying to burn a hole through your head.
"Is today anything special," you ask him, breaking the silence.
"Aren't you supposed to know that," he counters.
"I'm afraid that I lost track of that last night," you reply. Looking him in the eyes through the mirror.
"Not that I know of, no. Your cousins are still here," he says. You groan. "But other than that, nothing." He finishes. Thank god. You don't think that you would have managed another day with the paparazzi and The president.
"And the other families," you ask, the muscles in my back tensing.
"The Baker family left last night and the Callahans and the Riveras left early this morning."
You let out a sigh of relief. No Marshall. Hopefully no press. A break. A well deserved one, you might add.
"Then, if you don't mind, I'll switch my skirt out for trousers," you say and stand up. Ghost nods and walks out the door, closing it behind him. You walk towards your wardrobe for the second time in the span of fifteen minutes. This is getting repetitive. You pick out a pair of black dress trousers. You take off your skirt and stockings, rolling them in to a mess in the process. You sigh and put on the trousers. You grab a pair of socks without looking and sit down on your bed. You are in the middle of sliding the second sock over your foot when a buzz breaks the silence. Your head snaps toward your bedside table. On it your phone lays discarded. The screen lit up from the notification. You pick it up and turn it on. Three new texts greets you. All from the same person. The one and only Edith Reed or as you call her, Eddie, your best friend. The texts read:
"Good luck today! Don't trip! :)"
"How did it go? Was the president as disgusting as he seems?"
"Hello? You alright?"
You sigh and shake your head, the corners of your mouth twitching upwards. You unlock your phone and reply.
"Hey Eddie! Yesterday was a nightmare. Can't talk rn. I have to damage check. <3"
You press send and slide your phone into your pocket. You slide a pair of black flats onto your feet and open your door carefully, stepping out into the corridor.
You recently learned that roses are England's national flower, but what you did know is that different colours of roses have different meanings. White roses, for instance, represent innocence and spirituality. No wonder why you haven't gotten those in years. The red rose Ghost handed you yesterday sits in a glass filled with water on your windowsill. You doubt that he knows that red roses stand for love and passion. If he were to find out you're sure that he would hurl it out of the window, glass and all. You don't know if you should find that amusing or depressing. Perhaps you should tell him, just to see his reaction. Despite his best efforts to send the paparazzi wild with gossip for the next week about the rose in your window. No one has seemed to notice. Not that you are complaining. The paparazzi have moved on from Grace and have instead fixed their eyes on another one of your cousins. They are speculating whether or not he is suffering from a drug addiction. You can confidently say that he most certainly is. You would like to believe that he is smart enough to not get caught. But unfortunately for all of you, James is not. You once saw him snorting a line of, what you can only assume was cocaine, off the top of a bench in a public park. If anything you are surprised that the paparazzi haven't caught on sooner.
However, if there is something that you should know about your aunt and her husband it is that they are freakishly good at covering up mishaps. And when you say "freakishly good", you mean it. They have managed to keep the addictions and scandals produced by their three out of four children under wraps for many years now. You only know about them because, well, their mother is your mother's sister after all. Like every relationship between siblings, you assume anyway since you wouldn't know, has it's ups and downs. A couple of years ago it was quite strained. It was around the time when Grace outed your secrets to the press. Your mum was furious with her which is understandable but Grace's mother defended her. You really can't blame her. Even at that age Grace was more, well, graceful than her siblings. They got into trouble even at that age. So obviously Mary, your aunt, could not believe that her sweet child Grace had done such a thing. Eventually the conflict settled and they forgot about it, more or less. Because if you are anything like your mother that conflict will never fully leave her head. It will always gnaw at the back of her mind any time her sister annoys her. But in all honesty, what do you know?
Rain hammers against the windows in the living room, creating dull taps against the glass. The room is cold despite the fact that it is summer. The stone walls do little to keep out the cold. It seeps in through every minuscule crack it can find. Whether it is in the stone itself or in between them does not matter, it is all the same to the cold air. It strives to chill anyone or anything in its path, which in this case is you. Goosebumps spread over your skin despite the sweater you're wearing. You desperately miss the warmth of your bed. But alas you must remain here. Queen's orders.
Everything in here is yellow. From the sofas and armchairs to the paintings on the walls. Everything except the carpet that is red with patterns stretching across it in all sorts of colours. From the roof hangs a massive chandler. It shouldn't be surprising. You are in the palace after all. Royalty are not exactly known for minimalism. The crystals in the chandler would refract the sunlight passing in through the window. Casting rainbows all over the room. If it was sunny, that is. But now in the rain the crystals, having no light to refract, they are simply dull shards. Clinking every once in a while when a small gust of wind sends them flying in to one another.
You brought a book, intending to read it. But never the less it lays discarded next to you on the sofa. You look to the golden rimmed clock on the wall. You have been staring of into space for the last thirty minutes. It is not surprising. Your best guess is that Gaz who is standing against the wall behind you have done the same. Ghost would not have done the same. No, he would have been watching you like a hawk. Trying to see if he could sense what you were thinking. Trying to decipher your way of thinking, your being and your mind. You wouldn't even try to stop him. You don't think you would be able to even if you wanted to. He has a way of getting under your skin. Not just in the sense of being irritating. He slithers in under your skin like a parasite. You have no idea he's in there. Not until it's too late. Not until he is so deeply lodged that it is impossible to get him out. Wrapped around your vital organs so tightly that any attempt to get him out would result in fatal injuries. So he stays put. Making your skin tight, suffocating you from the inside, and the only thing you can do is let it happen. Completely and utterly powerless. It seems like you are the only one who feels it. The only one who feels unsettled by his gaze. But you have seen the other side of it too. The side with warmth in his eyes and a smile on his face. You don't know which side is his real one. If there even is a real side. Perhaps both of them fit somewhere within him. You'll probably never know. You're not sure you want to know.
As if your thoughts summoned him the door behind you opens. You are sure it is him. The footsteps against the wooden floor and then the carpet to silent to be anyone else. You remain seated. If it were your mother her flats, despite the rather soft sole, would make sharp thuds against the floor. She always walks with determination and it shines through in the sound of her footsteps. So the only person it could be, is Ghost. Price stomps to much, despite being a soldier. Or perhaps having been a soldier. They are bodyguards nowadays.
"The Queen wishes to speak to you," Ghost announces from behind you. You stand from the sofa and turn towards him. Your eyes are immediately drawn to his balaclava clad face. One would think that you would be used to it by now. He has been your bodyguard for at least a month now. But alas, you are not. His brown eyes pierce your instantly. He stands there, unmoving. Legs shoulder width apart. Arms by his sides, but not relaxed. As tense as ever. You nod and move towards the open door. His eyes follow you all the way to the door, up until you turn around and shut the door behind you.
Your mothers office is a mix of dark browns and reds. The mahogany desk fitting perfectly in with the rest of the puzzle. So does your mother. Her dark brown hair almost identical to the wood panels on the walls. Her burgundy dress tying everything together. She looks up at you as you pull the door shut. Smiling in the way that is reserved for you and your father. The smile when she is your, and not The Queen of England. You take a seat on one of the two chairs in front of her desk. The left one, to be precise. Price stands towards the right corner of the room. Ever alert and observant. His hands crossed in front of him. His blue eyes focused on you. His beard curved in a smile. You smile back.
"About Saturday..." Your mother begins, her voice calm and steady.
"I don't want to talk about it," You interrupt. You can feel Price itching to but in with something along the lines of "It's good to talk about it, you need and outlet, yada, yada". But your mother doesn't push it. Saturday would be an uncomfortable conversation to have. For more than one reason. You would not like to admit to spending half of your night feet to feet with your bodyguard. Being carried to bed by him. You'd prefer to be spared from the lecture that would follow that conversation. You have heard enough about romantic involvement with ones bodyguard to last a lifetime. Not that whatever you are doing is romantic, of course. You and Ghost's relationship might not be strictly professional, but it is not romantic. Besides, wouldn't it aid his job? Knowing things about you. Not everything can be read in a file. You assume that is the case anyway.
"We still need to go over some things," your mother replies. You nod.
"I want to make it absolutely clear that the Baker family won't be invited here again under any circumstances," she continues. Her eyes on yours. You nod again. That's apparently all you can do today.
"The President on the other hand." She begins."Will have to be back. Our countries are in an agreement which is vital for the safety of both of us. The current unstable state of the world requires both strong connections and strong allies. I hope you understand."
"I do," You reply. You may not be queen, but you don't have to be a genius to understand that this was not a large sacrifice to make. Come on, it's a bruised hand, not nuclear weapons. In the end you are only the faces of the country, not the actual decision-makers. And honestly, thank god for that. Imagine your cousins having to make life and death decisions affecting millions of people. That would be the reason for World War 3 breaking out.
"Is there anything else you wish to speak to me about," your mother asks. You don't know if that is because she knows something about Saturday evening you haven't told her, or if she is just being polite. You shake your head none the less. She smiles again and you stand up to leave.
"Hey, Sweetheart!" You turn around halfway to the door.
"I love you," your mum continues.
"I love you too," You reply and walk out the door.
Gaz disappeared from his spot against the wall sometime during your short conversation. No doubt temporarily released from his duties by Ghost whom, rather surprisingly, sits on the sofa. He sits opposite to where you sat. His head angled downwards in front of him. He doesn't rise when you enter. Apparently today is a day of surprises.
"You're getting sloppy," you say as you sit down on the sofa, crossing your legs and arms. Ghost glances up at you. Shifting his focus from your book, 1984 by George Orwell to be precise, which he holds in his hands.
"An interesting read," he replies. Ignoring your comment, not that you're surprised.
"I'd argue that it's a well suited read, given the circumstances." He nods and puts it aside. His eyes lingering just a second longer on the cover.
• • •
Your arms shake beneath you. Elbows digging in to the yoga mat, and in turn the rock-hard floor, making them ache. The timer on your phone chimes and you flop on to the floor. It feels like ages since you last worked out. It was ages since you last worked out. You prefer to train undisturbed in your backyard. Going on runs through the woods, and going for a swim in the cold lake. Your private security just securing the perimeter, occasionally walking through the house but most likely just walking around it. Keeping their eyes and ears out for any intruders. What they do not do is watch and follow your every move. Constantly shadowing you. Your own personal stalkers.
Your phone buzzes next to you. Eddies name flashing on the screen. You sit up and open her message.
"Want to add some fire to your late teenage rebellion?" Her message reads.
"What do you have in mind?" You text back.
"Seeing as I'm in town and you seem to be in desperate need of some time away from the palace...A girls night at the pub! Does 9:00 sound good?" She replies. You stare at it. Sneaking out is not the safest move. If your mother were to find out she would be furious. But you could really use a break from the palace. Well, not the palace itself. More so its prying eyes and constant surveillance. The constant presence of another person who watches and judges and reports every word, every motion, every step you take and where you take it.
"Okay. I'll be there." you hit send.
Two knocks raps against your door. You switch your phone off before you have time to think and call out:
"Come in!"
The door creaks open behind you. You turn around to the thuds of boots against the hard floor. It is none other than your personal stalker, Ghost. You don't know who else you would be expecting. His brown eyes quickly moves over everything in your room. From your bed on the left to the sofas on the right. Always searching and securing everything. No matter how many times he steps foot in a room. Then they settle on you. Your light blue leggings and t-shirt suddenly feels a lot tighter.
"Dinner will be served in 30 minutes. Your presence is expected," he states looking down at you on the floor.
"Okay." You pause for a second."Will my mum be there," you ask. You have had one too many awkwardly silent dinners with just you and your father, and your bodyguards of course. You're not sure you can stand another one.
"Unless World War 3 breaks out in the next thirty minutes, yes," he replies. His awful attempt at a joke still manages to get a snort out of you.
