Page 57 of Ivory Obsession
“I didn’t,” I said. “We’ll make you come more next time.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Jade
Pain hammered inside my skull, a relentless drumbeat that dragged me from the depths of sleep. The darkness of the room offered no comfort, the faint glow of moonlight barely revealing the contours of the unfamiliar space around me. I reached out, my hand fumbling for the solid warmth of the man beside me.
“Dante,” I murmured, my voice raspy with the remnants of dreams and discomfort. “Can you hand me some Aleve? This headache’s killing me. It should be on the side of the bed.”
A soft groan answered me, the bed shifting as Dante turned his body toward mine. His movements were sluggish, weighed down by sleep, but he managed to find the bottle and placed it in my outstretched palm. His fingers brushed against mine, sending a current of concern through the touch.
“Do you need water?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m okay.”
“Is this happening a lot?” His words were thick with drowsiness, yet edged with something sharper.
“More often than I’d like.” I popped the cap off the bottle, the sound echoing too loudly in the stillness.
Dante propped himself up on one elbow, the sheets slipping to reveal the muscular expanse of his chest, the ink of the crucifix on his pecs catching in the moonlight streaming in from outside.
His gaze was heavy upon me, searching. “You should get that checked out,” he said, and I could hear the worry threading through the gravel of his voice.
“Yeah, once there’s time,” I replied, trying to brush off his concern with a half-hearted smile that felt more like a wince. The room seemed to close in on me, the air too thick to breathe, and yet the nearness of Dante provided an anchor in the storm of pain that refused to abate.
“Jade,” he started, but I shook my head slightly, not wanting to delve into the possibilities of what these headaches might mean—not now, not when I had his arms around me, grounding me in the present. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself the illusion of safety, the belief that nothing could touch me here, in the quiet embrace of night. But the ache in my head persisted, a cruel reminder that even in the darkness, you can’t outrun your fears.
“Come on. Let’s get back to sleep. I’m tired.”
He nodded, pressing a soft kiss against my forehead and wrapping his arms around me, holding me close. “Okay. Hopefully you’ll feel better soon.”
It took a little while, but I did end up falling asleep again.
But my sleep was short, and it didn’t feel restorative.
The first light of dawn was already bleeding into the night sky as I pulled up to BioHQ, the sprawling complex where science and ambition converged in a dance of innovation. My head was still pounding, each throb a cruel metronome counting down the seconds until I had to mask my pain and be the brilliant Dr. Jade Bentley once more.
I stepped through the sliding doors, greeted by the sterile familiarity of white halls and the distant hum of machinery. The scent of antiseptics was undercut by the unmistakable aroma of coffee—a lifeline for many of my sleep-deprived colleagues. I made a mental note to grab a cup but doubted it would do much for the ache that seemed to have taken permanent residence behind my eyes.
“Security audit again, Jade,” Dr. Stuart White called out, his voice slicing through my fragmented focus as he strode towards me, clipboard clutched like a shield.
“Morning to you too, Stuart,” I murmured, fighting back a wince as I forced my gaze to meet his. “Didn’t we just do this?”
His expression was unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow told me this wasn’t a courtesy visit.
“Someone logged in last night,” he continued, his words clipped and efficient. “It’s in the IT logs, but the details are gone—erased. That’s what Edward told me.”
“Where is he?”
“Working,” Stuart replied.
I shook my head. “Erased?” I echoed, the word sitting heavy on my tongue. It hinted at something deliberate, calculated. I didn’t have time to chase shadows—not with my project deadlines looming and this relentless headache.
“Completely.” Stuart’s eyes were sharp, analytical, as if he could unravel this mystery with sheer willpower. “I’ll need your access logs, just to check.”
“Of course,” I replied automatically. “Everyone’s logs, right?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We’re just going alphabetically. From the As to the Ds first.”
“Got it,” I told him.