Page 47 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)

Johan

For a brief moment, I manage to drift off, only to be jolted awake by the sudden, harsh sound of Astrid rushing to the ensuite bathroom. My heart pounds as I sit up, listening to her retching.

Springing up from the bed, I follow her, forcing a look of concern onto my face. “Astrid, are you okay?” I ask, my voice heavy with fake worry.

She’s on her knees, clutching the toilet bowl, her body convulsing with each bout of nausea. The smell is horrible, a pungent mix of alcohol and bile, making my stomach churn. I hover near the bathroom door, keeping my expression neutral. “Did you drink that much?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“No,” she manages to reply between heaves, her voice weak and strained.

“Maybe you’re still sensitive from yesterday’s alcohol,” I suggest, hoping she accepts the explanation without suspicion.

Astrid finishes retching and sits back on her heels, looking pale and drained. She leans against the cool tile wall, trying to catch her breath. “I need to wash up,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible.

I quickly grab a washcloth and wet it with cold water, handing it to her. “Here, use this,” I say softly, trying to sound soothing.

She takes the washcloth with trembling hands and wipes her face, the coolness seeming to revive her a little.

She then gets up slowly and moves to the sink to splash water on her face and brush her teeth.

The smell of mint toothpaste fills the bathroom, slightly masking the unpleasant odor.

I watch her, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—anger at being coerced into this, hope that the castor oil will take full effect and anxiety about what comes next.

After rinsing her mouth, Astrid looks at herself in the mirror, her eyes reflecting exhaustion.

I stand behind her, meeting her gaze in the reflection.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” I say gently, helping her to her feet.

Her body feels fragile under my grip, and I guide her back to the bedroom, her steps unsteady.

I pull the covers over her as she collapses onto the bed.

She looks up at me with tired eyes, and I force a reassuring smile.

Then, I reach for a bottle of sleeping pills I keep in the nightstand drawer, shaking one out into my palm.

“Here, take this. It’ll help you sleep,” I say, handing her the pill and the glass of water.

Astrid swallows the pill without protest, her eyelids already drooping with exhaustion. She lies back down, and within minutes, her breathing evens out as she slips into a deep sleep.

I return to my side of the bed, but sleep continues to elude me. I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. Every time I close my eyes, I see Hannah’s face and feel the weight of what I just endured. I toss and turn, the sheets tangling around my legs, my mind unable to find peace.

The room is dark and quiet, save for the soft sound of Astrid’s breathing. I turn to look at her, her face peaceful in sleep, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me. I close my eyes again, praying for a few hours of rest, but knowing that the real storm is far from over.

My eyes snap wide open to the sound of Astrid vomiting, this time on her side of the floor before she had time to leave the bed.

The pungent of bile and alcohol assaults my senses, jolting me fully awake.

I reach for my phone and check the time: 8 a.m..

I hope the staff is awake by now as I carefully get out of bed, trying not to disturb Astrid further, and head downstairs to find a housekeeper who could help clean the room.

In the kitchen, I find the housekeeper and the butler taking their breakfast, enjoying a moment of peace before the day's duties begin. I approach them with urgency, feeling slightly guilty for interrupting their quiet time. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Astrid isn’t feeling well.

She just threw up on the floor in the bedroom. ”

The housekeeper and the butler exchange a concerned glance before quickly gathering their cleaning supplies.

They nod at me, signaling that they’ll take care of it.

As they head upstairs, I can’t help but wonder if the effects of the castor oil are being accentuated by the sleeping pill I gave Astrid.

The combination of chemicals worries me, but I shove the thought aside, focusing on the immediate task of managing the situation.

I go back upstairs, deliberately taking my time as I ascend the stairs.

Each step feels heavy, my mind racing with the potential consequences of my actions.

I dread the smell that awaits me, but now I must face it.

As I approach the bedroom, the odor intensifies, nearly making me gag.

I steel myself and march on, pushing open the door.

Inside, the room is in disarray. The sight of the vomit on the floor is jarring, a stark contrast to the otherwise pristine place.

Astrid is locked inside the bathroom, and the sound of her retching can be heard faintly through the door.

The staff members are already hard at work, cleaning the vomit from the floor with practiced efficiency.

I stand at the doorway, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety.

“Thank you for handling this,” I say to the housekeeper, trying to maintain a calm demeanor.

The housekeeper nods, her face a mask of professionalism. “It’s no trouble at all, sir. We’ll have this cleaned up quickly.”

The smell is overpowering, but the staff works diligently, scrubbing and sanitizing the area.

I move to the window, opening it to let in some fresh air.

The cool morning breeze is a small relief, helping to dissipate the nauseating odor.

I glance toward the bathroom door, where Astrid is still confined, her misery evident from the sounds she’s making.

As the cleaning progresses, I reflect on the previous night, the tension and coercion, and the lengths I’ve gone to regain some semblance of control.

The consequences are playing out in front of me, and I’m left to deal with the aftermath, one uncertain step at a time.

Each sound from the bathroom sends a pang of guilt through me, mixed with a twisted sense of vindication.

The housekeeper and butler work quickly and efficiently, their presence a comforting routine in the midst of the chaos. I step aside to give them space, leaning against the wall and rubbing my temples, trying to alleviate the growing headache.

Once the mess is cleaned, they begin spraying the whole bedroom with home perfume and other odor-masking products. The fresh scent of lavender and citrus starts to permeate the room, gradually overpowering the nauseating smell of vomit.

“Is there anything else we can do for you, sir?” the butler asks as they finish cleaning, his voice gentle.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’ll handle the rest.”

They nod and quietly leave the room, taking the cleaning supplies with them.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

The morning sunlight filters through the window, casting a pale glow over the room, and I can hear Astrid’s movements slowing in the bathroom.

Then, the door opens, and she finally leaves and goes straight to bed, too tired to do or say anything.

She collapses onto the mattress, instantly falling into a deep sleep.

I watch her for a moment, relieved that she’s resting, then quietly grab my iPhone and slip out of the room.

I head to a guest bedroom where I can be alone to sleep a few more hours.

Inside the guest room, I lock the door softly behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I exhale deeply.

The room is dimly lit by the early morning light filtering through the curtains.

I walk over to the bed and sit down, feeling the weight of the night's events pressing down on me.

I check my phone and see a few messages from Hannah.

One of them is a picture of Arthur holding a drawing between his two small hands.

The drawing shows a dragon and two knights, one short and one tall, with yellow hair and blue eyes.

I chuckle, realizing the taller knight is me.

The accompanying text reads, Arthur has a gift for you.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I text back, Tell him it's really well done. Don't forget to bring it back with you .

Almost immediately, she responds, Hey! I texted this yesterday. Can I call you?

I reply, Yes .

Moments later, my phone rings. I take a deep breath, trying to put on a brave front. “Good morning, beautiful,” I say, attempting to sound upbeat.

“How are you doing?” The tone in her voice makes it clear she knows the hell I went through last night.

“I’m…” I stop mid-sentence, unable to lie. “Not well, Hannah. But the castor oil I placed in her cocktail is doing its job. Astrid’s been throwing up the whole night. A small consolation prize.”

“Do you know for how long she's going to be sick?” she asks, her voice filled with concern but also relief.

“For as long as she stays here, let me tell you that.”

Hannah chuckles despite the gravity of the situation. “Soon enough, and we'll be in St. Moritz, just the two of us,” I add.

“It's going to be a wonderful week,” she tells me. “But how did you manage to make it happen?”

“Well, technically, it's a boys’ trip. Conrad and two of his mates are coming. That's the only way I managed to keep Astrid at bay.”

“Your determination impresses me,” she says, her tone playful. “I'll make it worth it.”

I start to picture the red lace set on Hannah and how good she'd look in it. Picturing it, I begin to touch myself, feeling a mix of relief and excitement. “Speaking of which, do you have a red lace set?”

"Eh, I don't think so, but I can get one."

"Will you do it for me?"

"Of course," she replies.