The Alpha's Eternal Ache

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHLOE

​I dreamt.

​I dreamt, and the only thing that ever coaxes a dream from me is a truly deep sleep—a heavy, rare oblivion. I have never had an issue with my routine; I sleep soundly enough, yet I am usually met with a void. Never have I had a dream—at least, not one I could recall—let alone one so vivid, so sweet. So pleasant.

​In this vision, I was held captive by my villain. He subjected me to the best and worst of tortures. It was exquisite agony, a paradox of suffering I wouldn't expect anyone else to comprehend.

​When I woke, a sound escaped me. Not just any sound; I moaned. A low, wretched moan of longing vibrated through me as I surfaced from sleep. It was the exact sound I had made in the dream while my villain broke me—it wasn't a cry of pain but of raw pleasure. But that was a dream. Why—and how—was I making such a sound in the waking world?

​I snapped my eyes open, scanning every corner and shadow, every piece of furniture. My room. Good. Safe. Now, the only mystery remaining was that sound. My sound. Why had I made it when it was glaringly obvious I was not being pleasured by Edward?

​Edward. Where was he?

​He was nowhere in sight. The air felt thin without his presence. He wasn't in the bathroom; I could tell by the heavy silence and the absence of the steam that usually clouded the glass door. He shouldn't have been downstairs, either. Edward made it his solemn duty to drive me to school every morning, remaining by my side until the moment I woke.

​But one can never be certain. After checking the kitchen, the gym, and the drawing room, only to find them empty, a cold pang of dread nipped at my heart. Had the villain from my dreams chosen to torment Edward instead? Had that monster manifested to spirit him away, just to have me for himself?

​Edward had never left me alone in this house. After school, I was always flanked by Sarah and Edgar. I was never solitary. But the sensation crawling over my skin now was more than simple loneliness; it was the visceral fear of facing my dream monster without a shield.

​I raced upstairs to fetch my phone, but my breath hitched when I saw the notifications on the screen.

​Ed❤️: I’m sorry I couldn't stay. Urgent business at the office. Your hangover soup is ready for you. Drink it all—and I mean every drop.

​I stared at the screen, wondering if he had messaged the wrong person. 'Hangover soup' was for someone who had indulged in serious quantities of alcohol—someone who woke with a shattered skull and a clouded mind. While my head did throb a little, I was certain it was a remnant of that torturous dream and the way I woke up.

​Then, another message pinged.

​Ed ❤️: And don't ever touch alcohol again. EVER!!!

Me: I won't touch alcohol again, trust me. I will just ask someone to pour it for me without me touching it.

I replied him while I emphasised the touch in my head. But I was too weak to write it in italic. I walked back to my room, and when I was about to open the door, my phone pinged. Another message

Ed ❤️: Don't test me, Chloe. I know you understand what I'm saying. And jsyk, if I see you alcohol, I mean the physical touch, you will be punished. You won't like what I will do to you if you drink it. So, don't play with me

Wait a minute. Edward the Alpha of his pack know text abbreviations? Ed, the cold, lonely, possessive guy knows text abbreviation?

And aside from that, why is he talking about alcohol? Alcohol? Is that why I'm feeling weak and tired despite the fact that I just woke up? But there was no headache. I thought they said headache is one of the symptoms of hangover from alcohol. Weak muscles? Yes. Tired? Yes. Headache? No. Well, a little, but not as hard as people used to claim in the movies, and certainly not as hard as authors used to decirbe.

​Alcohol? I’d never tasted a drop of the hard stuff in my life. How the hell had I ended up drunk? I tried to claw back the memories of the last twelve hours, but there was nothing. It's not a glimpse. It was as if a specific chapter of my life had been torn out and burned.

Oh, I think selected memory wipe is part of my symptoms. Because why won't I f*****g remember anything in the last 12 hours. Anything at all. It was a void.

Void. Void. Void. Void.

I've heard that word before, and I'm not talking about the general name. It seems like that word was spoken to me not quite long. Void. Void.

I repeated the word over in my head countless, trying as hard as possible to remember who used the word and in what manner and context, for me to be aggressively obsessed with the word for over a minute.

​Fuming, I dialled Edward. Every ring felt like an eternity, a rhythmic taunt. He didn't pick up. It went straight to voicemail. The fear that had gripped me moments ago was rapidly being incinerated by a rising tide of fury. What was he doing at work that was so important?

​I rushed through my morning routine, pulling on blue jeans and a black, sleeveless crop top. I swept my hair into a high ponytail and applied a quick coat of mascara and liner. With oversized shades perched on my head, a swipe of nude lipstick, and fresh white trainers, I was ready.

​I was going to Edward’s company. No—our company.

​The only problem here was the commute. Edward was my chauffeur; at eighteen, I hadn’t so much as sat in the driver’s seat, let alone earned a licence. With no other options, I summoned a taxi.

​In less than an hour, the car pulled up before a glass-skinned skyscraper. Fleurs. The name was emblazoned across a third of the structure; it was impossible to miss. I stepped out but hesitated, a wave of nerves crashing over me. Which floor? Would they even recognize the name 'Edward'? And dressed like this, would they even let me past the lobby? I cursed myself for not bringing a handbag—I needed something to clutch other than my phone.

​I tried calling him again. No answer. I decided to face the lion's den. I marched toward the reception desk.

​"Good morning, ma'am. Welcome to Fleurs. How may I help you today?" the receptionist asked. She seemed pleasant enough—a small mercy.

​"I’m here to see Edward... I mean, Mr Hawthorne. Could you direct me to his office? Or simply tell him I’ve arrived?"

​"Are you here for business, ma'am?"

​"Not exactly. No."

​"I’m afraid Mr Hawthorne is in a meeting. Furthermore, you require a security code to access his floor—a code issued only by him. We cannot interrupt him. Would you care to wait in the lobby, or shall I take the message for him?"she questioned again.

​"No. There is no need for that. I’ll wait," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

​Thirty minutes later, my stomach let out a treacherous growl. I spotted a vending machine, but I had no cash. I returned to the desk to ask about ordering food. She informed me I could, provided it wasn't foul-smelling.'

​I ordered fried chicken and juice, then settled back into the plush chairs. An hour passed. Then two. I don't know how long I drifted, but I was startled awake by a sudden scent: musky earth and lavender. Now, there are two problems –i don't know what is wrong with my sleeping routine today. First, the lavender was mine, but why was it so concentrated? Second, I am sleeping in a public lobby?

​"Chloe, wake up, sweetheart."

​His voice. I opened my eyes to see his face hovering inches from mine. He was devastatingly handsome, even when his brow was knit with tension.

​"Are you finished? What time is it?" I stammered. The light in the lobby had shifted; the air that was cold earlier has now felt warmer, heavier.

​"How long have you been here?" he asked, ignoring my questions. He was on one knee, yet he still loomed over me.

​"A few hours."

​"What time, Chloe?"

​"I don't know... 10:00 a.m, maybe?"

​His frown deepened into a scowl. "You’ve been in this lobby since ten?"

​"I called! You didn't answer. The receptionist said I needed a code, so I waited."I retorted, my voice hiking a bit, but I immediately brought it down when I noticed few eyes on us.

​"You waited for five f*****g hours, Chloe! You should have stayed in bed!" His voice dropped into a low, guttural growl. His eyes were shifting, the blue bleeding from a pale sky-hue to a bruised, dark navy.

​"Don't be cross with me," I muttered. "Technically, it's your fault. Why is there a code for the lift? If not for that, I’d be in your office."

​He didn't argue. He simply stared at me as if I had committed a mortal sin and he was barely restraining the urge to exact a penance. "Get up. Follow me."

​We stepped into the lift. I was too preoccupied to notice the floor number; I only saw a crimson light glowing around a keyhole that lacked a digit. The ascent felt like an eternity, Edward’s gaze fixed on me like I was prey whom he was planning to devour. I tried focusing on the number button in the elevator, but I just couldn't–not with the way Edward was glaringly at me.

The ascent was interminable. One minute passed, then two, then three. The silence in that small, metallic box was absolutely uncomfortable, broken slightly only by the hum of the machinery and the sound of my own shallow breathing. Edward didn't look at the doors. He kept his gaze fixed on me, tracking the pulse in my throat like a predator watching a cornered bird. By the fourth minute, the pressure in my ears was a dull ache. By the fifth, I felt as though we were leaving the world behind entirely.

This was the longest five minutes of my life!

​He checked his phone and hissed a low curse. He punched a six-digit sequence into a concealed keypad, and the lift finally dinged.

​He led me onto a floor that felt like a kingdom unto itself—vast, silent, and far more opulent than the lobby below. He suddenly caught my hand, his grip firm, and hauled me toward a set of double doors. He pressed his palm against a scanner on the wall, and the doors hissed open. He step aside a bit, indicating that I should go in first and I did.

His office is as vast as the lobby. It was painted in grey and white, and I could tell that Edward redesigned the whole office just to achieve this epic taste.

​"Just curious," I said, breaking the silence. "How many security systems does this place have?"

​"This floor, or the building?"

​"The building."

​"One hundred and five," he rasped. "The building has one hundred floors. We are on eighty, which has two independent systems. The penthouse has three. You can not move without a code, Chloe. Now... shall we discuss why you are here?"

​He didn't just ask; he growled the words as he backed me against his desk, pinning me there with his arms on either side of my body.

​"You mentioned things in your texts that I didn't understand. I came for clarity."

​"And 'clarity' couldn't wait until I returned home?"he asked

​"Not when you weren't answering your bloody phone," I retorted.

"And you thought it wise to sit in a public lobby and display yourself like a common waif? Did yoy notice how your belly button is on display right now?" He leaned closer, his scent—musk and cold earth—overpowering my senses. "Did you do exactly as I instructed?" He asked, but i couldn't answer—not because I don't want to, but because I don't understand what he meant by that. What did he ask me to do?

​"Did you do exactly as I instructed?" he asked again, his voice dropping an octave.

​"What? What do you mean? Did you use my soap?" I askee nervously as i tried to change the subject matter. The lavender on him in mine. I just knew it.

​"Chloeeee," he sang, a predatory edge to his tone. "Don't play with me. My patience is spent, and I am very close to taking you right here on this desk. You won't want your first time to be for my pleasure, not yours, will you? And trust me when i tell you that you would regret every second of it, because I won't be f*****g take it easy on you. If the Moon Goddess is feeling spiteful today, you might truly see the monster I am."

​The hair on my arms stood on end. The air in the room was stifling, charged with an electric heat. The monster. My dream. The only difference is that the monster from my sleep was a mirror of this Edward in front of me— Edward was far, far more

​"Now, let’s try again," he whispered. "Did you drink the hangover soup I told you to take?"

​Oh, God. My sweet, ugly dream was turning into a reality. And this time, I wouldn't be waking up.

This isn't a dream.

I'm in reality.