The Bodyguard

Consequences

(Thank you so much for reading! It feels great to get back into the flow of writing and even better to know you guys enjoy it! As always, please vote, add, and comment! It really helps me know that I'm not the only one enjoying this book so far)

Emilia has no idea what time it is as very bright light hits her eyes and she feels a dull ache behind her eyes as it seeps through her eyelids and needles straight into her sensitive brain. The bed is far too comfortable to want to move even a single inch, and the light is just begging her to coverup more but she doesn't have the energy to do so. 

Despite getting home at the surprisingly decent hour of almost midnight, her brain had been racing so much that she had lain awake till nearly 4 in the morning thinking of any possibility, insane possibilities, that could answer all the questions she has. Which would also account for the headache she can already feel building up behind her eyes.

"Emilia! It's nearly noon, please get up, I don't want your step-father thinking that you are lazy already." Her mother calls from the door way before it practically slams shut behind her, her tone one full of exasperation and annoyance with maybe a twinge of anger buried into it.

Emilia's reaction is only a groan and to turn her head away from the surgically bright bulb overhead, and opening only one eye to try and find that alarm clock and see if her personal space invading mother speaks the truth.

11:27am.

Just great, she lets out another unintelligible whine and reaches for the phone that sits atop it charging and pressing the power button to see if there are any notifications worth paying attention to, specifically from an infuriating best friend that had driven her to pure madness the night before and needed a good talking to about dragging her ass around so only she can have fun.

Unfortunately, Emilia had neglected the night before to notice that her bags, only tossed on the floor because she had been too hungry and apprehensive to bother unpacking at the time, still held her charger, and despite the fact that the cord is plugged into her phone, there is nothing connecting it to power and it is completely dead.

She can't help the louder groan that escapes her cracked lips from not bothering with proper facial treatments the night before and only taking off makeup as a routine. She wants to chuck the dead device against the wall as hard as she can in her early morning annoyance, but she knows she can't, it will solve nothing. Instead, she resigns herself to the biggest struggle of the day, getting out of bed.

It doesn't take her longer than a good fifteen minutes to finally get the courage to escape the very soft blanket she never sleeps without and set her bare feet on the huge area rug beneath the large four-poster bead. Burying her small toes into the very soft white carpet, she sighs, and comes to a standing position, gripping tightly to the edge as her head spins from moving too fast. Groaning and knowing that she needs to get moving before noon officially hits, she sets out for the bathroom to attempt and look decent for the day.

Emilia does not escape her room until about a quarter past noon, still shuffling her feet in a pair of black joggers and a white tank top with her favorite rust colored cardigan to complete the lazy day look. Her long blonde hair is shoved half-heartedly into a messy bun after being brushed out silky smooth from the straightening it had received the night before. She knew it would be falling out within the hour but she didn't care quite yet as she has yet to intake caffeine.

She is very grateful however, for remembering where in the world the dining room is, and from there escaping into her personal refuge of the kitchen which is only inhabited by a singular personal chef at the moment who stares at her as if she were an alien.

"Uhm, hi, I'm just going to cook some breakfast?" She says, rather questioningly as the man still stares at her. He is short, about only 5'6", with grey touched black hair and beard and a very dirty chef's jacket which is how you know he can actually cook and isn't faking it like in the movies with their pristinely white shirts. His face is pockmarked from aged acne scars, and a white line slashes his mouth, gaping it open slightly at the corner and giving him a permanent scowl. Her eyes wander to his hands as they just stand there staring at each other and she feels a very unpleasant jolt in her lower stomach at the sight of his missing fingers on the right hand, his pinky and ring finger are gone, cut off at the base and his middle finger is mangled with a large scar at the base like someone had tried to cut it off too but hadn't quite gotten all the way through.