Page 25 of His Stolen Queen
Out of all the things to remember about my dreams, it washisname I had to recall. Of course, that didn't mean he was actually the mystery man in my dreams—absolutely not. My recurring dreams had been a constant dark presence since my late teens, way before I had even heard of Acheron Angelou.
No, it had to be because of those damning eyes of his. Those bright blues were eerily similar to whoever tormented me in my slumber. It would also likely be because I was possibly seeingMr. Angelou again today for the first time in a week, so it made sense that my mind was tied up with current thoughts of him.
And what of all the other times your mind drifted to him?
My stomach clenched, and I rubbed my eyes wearily. I had to get a grip on myself. It was hardly professional to think of a client this much, to dream of his name…and possibly more.
The distant sound of pots banging had my eyes closing in guilt.
David. My husband.
More than professionalism, it was a deep betrayal of my marriage to think such salacious thoughts about another man—whether awake or otherwise. His feelings should have been at the forefront of my mind, and I was ashamed they weren't.
My loving, gentle husband was never up this early. Even if he woke before his alarm, he would spend the extra time lying in bed, scrolling through his phone, or pulling me close for a morning cuddle. Something must have bothered him enough to deviate from his normal routine.
I scrubbed my hands down my face before muffling a silent scream. How could one fateful meeting bring about so much upheaval?
I hadn't even seen Acheron Angelou since our brief exchange, and all my correspondence continued to be directed through Von.
I wasgenerouslyallowed the week to sort out my schedule, and I spent it frantically pep-talking myself into seeing him again.
You will not drool over him. You will not try and sniff him. You will not stare deeply into his blue eyes until you forget your name. He's a rich, arrogant, demanding asshole who's completely messed up your schedule.
My time of reprieve was up though. Projects had been shuffled around, and clients and staff were, fortunately, understanding of the sudden change—pity a certain indulgent billionaire couldn'tbe as accommodating. Today, I would be swinging by to oversee the installation of a chandelier and meet the dutiful Von again. Would Acheron be there? I didn't dare ask. I was determined to remain professional and aloof.
So why did the thought of seeing him again rouse such a gut-twisting response? A mix of nervousness, annoyance, eagerness, and anticipation burned in me.
But what was worse—those same conflicting emotions seared me deeper at the thought ofnotseeing him today.
David had noticed my moods, and I hated that my scattered feelings were placing a new strain on our marriage. The swirling emotions I felt whenever my mind drifted tohimcrept into the perfect bubble I'd created with David. Christ, it had only been a week, and this giant chasm between us had already formed. I needed to get back on track. Getusback on track.
This last dream—whatever it had been—was the wake-up call I needed. There was nothing like calling out another man's name in bed to give you some perspective.
After a quick shower, I cautiously strolled into our kitchen. David was standing at the counter with his back to me, sipping his coffee. He was dressed in his gym gear: basketball shorts and a tank. The muscles in his shoulders tensed when he heard my approach.
I gently caressed his back, wincing when he subtly dislodged my touch. "Morning."
"Hey," was all he said in response.
My shoulders slumped, and the fear I held that my dreams had bled into real life climbed.
"You're up early." I moved around him, careful not to touch him, and grabbed the fresh coffee he'd brewed. I filled a mug with the still-hot liquid and took a cautious sip while I eyed him warily. The tension was heavy.
"Couldn't sleep." He kept his gaze averted.
I paused mid-sip, my heartbeat climbing to my throat. "Sorry. Was I-was I tossing again?" I broached the subject delicately, knowing it was a sore point in our relationship.
David finally turned to face me; his expression troubled as he regarded me carefully. His tired eyes searched my features in an almost lost way. "Yeah."
I placed my mug onto the counter. "I'm so sorry, hun. This Empire Gates project has me all out of whack. The stress is kinda getting to me."
David's lips thinned. "Your…night terrorsare starting up again, Alice. I really wish you would start taking your pills."
I bit back a frustrated sigh at the same old, tired argument. "You know what those pills do to me," I quietly reminded him.
No matter how many times I explained to David that those pills left me disoriented, weak, and exhausted, he still insisted I take them. To him, as long as I was no longer tossing and turning—mumbling god knows what in my sleep—then the pills were working. I could understand his logic and appreciated his worry, but the end result did not make it worth it. At least to me. David had witnessed what a walking zombie I became on those pills, so I hated that he kept pushing me.
"So what," he snapped bitterly, "I'm just supposed to lie there and watch you thrash about all night?"
