A.N.

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Matt

I was bundled into a sleek black car, duffle bag tossed in behind me as I clutched the aluminium can in my hand, brown sticky liquid spilling from the top and spilling over my hand. Mello climbed in behind me, wrinkling his nose at the stain on the car carpet. He pushed one of the unoccupied seat up, pulling out a small first aid kit from inside the compartment. I finally looked at him, slotting the squished can into the cup holder. His hand was bleeding and he was cradling it to his chest while trying to pry the kit open.

"Let me." I said, opening the kit and pulling out the tweezers and disinfectant. I looked around the cut for glass, but finding none, I disinfected the wound and bandaged it up for him.

"I could've done that." He said, putting his hand on his lap.

"Yeah you probably could've. But it would've been sloppy Mr Keehl."

He scowled under his breath at my use of his name. I was familiar with it. I became obsessed with the military at a young age thanks to games like medal of honour and my skill with computers had allowed me to unearth far more than a normal person would've been able too. His father was a commander of The SAS and had become recognised when they assaulted the Iranian embassy in London and rescued hostages. Shortly after he was assassinated. It wasn't surprising. That's why that regiment of the army was kept sort of under wraps. The public was aware it existed but not who was in it.

I had traced the name, unearthing more. His whole family was enlisted in the army and most went into the Special air service or the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. I watched him as the car drove. "…So why are you a body guard and no longer in the army?"

"I never enlisted." He replied bluntly. "Didn't stop my father from training me before he died. Worked pretty well. Got me this job didn't it?" A small smile turned up at the corner of his lips. "Get to watch a Prince strip off and change." His grin grew wider.

"Oh shut up." I grumbled, crossing my arms across my chest.

"You thought about it though haven't you Mail?"

"No. Because I can't. I'm marrying the Princess of Denmark when she turn eighteen like me in a year." I replied. My parents had arranged the marriage from when I was young. I grew up around Anna, we would occasionally spend summers together. It was my parents way of ensuring a marriage that would last if we could co-exist. Besides I had to produce heirs. That was my job.

A funny look crossed Mello's face. "Arranged marriage? How could you even want to go through with that? Marrying a stranger?"

"She's not a stranger." I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "You don't get it. It's fine for me to be lazy. It's fine for me to game my brains out or smoke as much as I want. But I have to have a kid. Have to keep the bloodline going. What I want doesn't matter."

Mello leaned back in the seat, slipping a tatty bar of chocolate from his pocket, biting into it. "That's fucked up." He remarked.

I ignored him, staring out the window, watching the countryside pass by. The car eventually stopped outside a small cottage, barely two floors and covered in honeysuckle. I eyed the thatched roof wearily. "This place better have electric."

"Sorry your maj." Mello replied scathingly. "Of course it does."

I climbed out the car, walking up the stone path to the black painted door. A brass knocker hunger in the centre and bees whizzed past my head from flower to flower. I opened the door quickly, the idea of bugs making me shudder. It was dark inside, small window panes letting a hint of sunshine peek through. I flicked the light switch, a small bulb above my head flickered into life. The ceiling beams loomed down and I ducked to avoid smacking my head on the ceiling. It was nothing like home, but remarkably cosy. "How long are we here?"

Mello walked in behind me, carrying the duffle bag. "Until we get the all clear. Four other identical cars left the same time as us so suck it up." He threw the bag at me. "And unpack. Drives me nuts when people leave their crap in bags."

I sighed, putting the bag on my shoulder walking up the small flight of stairs. Damn him.