Page 65 of Her Faithful Protector

Satisfied that no one noticed my nightmare-induced sleep, I silently slip from the room.

As I head to the bathroom, Elmo trots in behind me. It’s unusual for him to follow me so closely, especially with that worried expression on his face. I wish he had been sleeping inside—he would’ve probably woken me up before my phone did—but having a dog who thinks his humans should wake up at the same time as him is not an option for everyone in the bedroom.

“I’m fine, buddy,” I say to the goofy-looking mutt, stooping to pat him.

I splash cool water on my face, feeling the remnants of Scalpel dissipate. I check the alert that woke me up, a notification I had set to alert me whenever the name Willem Botha surfaces online. I head to the kitchen, and the news that floods my screen leaves me stunned.

The bedroom door clicks open, and Elmo excitedly runs over to greet Ava. I take a break from reading the news to observe the two. Elmo has a different way of greeting her compared to me. With me, he appears polite, but with her, he dances around, leaning against her feet and begging for a pat. Ava happily obliges, giggling as she rubs Elmo’s belly, then stretches his ears up. “Are you a bunny?” The dog responds with a grin. “Actually, you look like a bat.”

Ava showers the dog with more attention, then walks over to me. “You’re up early.” She kisses me and takes a moment to appraise my appearance. “You look like you’ve already gone for your run without me.”

I pull her close. Having her against my chest, I become aware of my huffing breath and make a conscious effort to steady it. I admit softly, “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You have too many things on your mind,” Ava comments.

I smile at her, assuring her not to worry. “How’s Quinton?”

“He was up for a few minutes, but then he went back to sleep.” She gazes out the window and remarks, “It’s such a lovely morning.”

“Why don’t you go sit outside, and I’ll bring us some coffee?”

“Sounds good,” she says with a sultry smile, her hips swaying as she makes her way to the back porch. I catch her stealing glances in my direction, her eyes filled with a familiar craving.

The air carries her scent, tempting me to give in, but there’s something important I need to discuss with her.

I brew the coffee. The aroma boosts my wakefulness despite still feeling slightly groggy from the nightmare. I then make my way to the back porch. She’s curled up on the armchair, a blanket draped over her legs.

“Flat white for you.” I set a mug on the table.

“Thanks, Jack.”

I settle down in the adjacent chair, and we sit in comfortable silence. In the distance, a few jays fly across the field while a breeze rustles through the grass that has grown untouched since we arrived and neglected any gardening.

“I need to show you this.” I break the silence, showing an article on my phone.

Her eyes widen as she grabs my phone to read it. “Willem is missing?”

“It was the last night of the summit. He went out with a few attendees, but he never returned to his hotel, and no one has seen him since.”

She grumbles. “Sometimes, cow farts can smell like chamomile.”

I shake my head, perplexed yet entertained by her words. “What did you say?”

“Never mind,” she sighs.

“What about chamomile and cow farts?”

“Willem loved chamomile tea.” She exhales her disgust, then concludes, “Well, he tried to fake his death once. This is just another one of his tricks.”

Hence the cow fart.

Observing her furious expression as if her ex were present, I hold back a laugh and choose not to dwell on the smelly subject. I continue by summarizing the information from the article. “Apparently, there’s been a target on his back. A particular rival who has dealings with the dark web.”

“There’s always a target on his back, Jack. Being a successful businessman comes with that territory. But he does have a security team to handle that kind of threat. He called me just the other day, and now he’s suddenly missing?” She scoffs. “It’s too convenient if you ask me!”

I admire her logical thinking. “I agree. It does seem rather convenient because…” I interrupt myself, asking for my phone back and then quickly pulling up another article I had stumbled upon last week. “This journalist has been tracking Willem for years. He suspects Willem’s AI chip is based on stolen intellectual property—if there is such a thing on the dark web.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Ava utters, crossing her legs.

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