Page 41 of Blind Prophet

“I hired some of the best doctors—” Pain sears behind my eyes.

“You are so stubborn.”

“Projecting?”

Pressure on my arm has me squeezing my eyelids open into slits, confirming she is indeed touching me.

“What’s a good room to lie down in? One we can darken?”

I squeeze my eyes closed, breathing deeply to control the nausea.

“Dorian?”

“My bedroom.”

One eyelid cracks open, watching her. The answer wasn’t intended to be sexual, but we once shared a bedroom, and having her in mine again dredges up memories. The desire roared back the moment I saw her silhouette. But not now. She could be naked in front of me, and I couldn’t touch her.

My employees would have a fit seeing someone lead me anywhere—the moody boss helpless, being guided through his own house. The irony isn’t lost on me. The pressure on my arm intensifies.

“What?” Jesus, I’m growling at her.

“Let’s go.”

Funny how she can still command my compliance when my board of directors can’t.

“Keep walking.”

Poetic. She’s forcing me into a bedroom, and I’m too incapacitated to do anything about it.

Through a squinted lid, I stumble to the stairs and press the master dimmer switch. The house’s environmental system automatically dims the lights to 30 percent—a feature I had custom-designed after the migraines started getting worse. The Italian marble underfoot cost more than most homes, but right now, it’s just another hard surface to navigate.

Her hand never leaves my arm, letting me know she’s right there.

“I’m surprised you didn’t choose a bedroom next to your office.”

How does she know where my office is?

“I saw you walking to the adjacent building. You said that’s your office, right?”

“Home office,” I answer.

Fuck, my head hurts.

“I’m surprised you didn’t put your bedroom next to your home office,” she repeats.

We finally reach my bedroom, and I toe off my shoes and collapse onto the bed, resting an arm over my eyes. She leaves my side, and once again, I force an eyelid open to see.

“There’s a button. A remote. On the dresser.”

She finds it, and the shade falls from the ceiling, draping the room in blissful darkness.

I listen as she steps into the bathroom. “Is your medicine in here?”

“Press on the floor-length mirror. It opens to a medicine cabinet.”

“Jesus, Dorian. How much medicine are you taking?”

“A lot is probably expired.”

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