Chapter 24
Sabine
Between the mysteriouspicture of Astor’s dead wife in my bedroom, the ravaged baby’s room, and then watching Astor sob in heartbreak, I have been jarred back to reality.
This is not a fairy tale. This isn’t the beginning of the greatest love story ever told. This is a house of pain and death.
Finding an escape—immediately—has now become my sole focus. I don’t care how attractive Astor is or how electric our kiss was, something creepy is going on here—and I want no part in it.
I hurry to my bedroom, dump the broken glass and the remains of his daughter’s photo into the trashcan, and hide it with tissues. Then I gather what few belongings I have and shove them into the canvas bag. I don’t have my purse, money, or phone, but I can’t think about that right now. I have to leave. My instincts are screaming at me.
I rush down the hallway to the side of the house opposite of where Astor is currently having an emotional breakdown in the rain. I pass the kitchen, a library, a media room, and another closed door. Behind it, a woman is crying.
I stop. Backtrack.
The door is cracked, just barely.
Frowning, I peek inside.
Prishna is pacing beside the bed, weeping, muttering angrily to no one. Her hands are clenched in fists, her shoulders hunched, her steps heavy. Her body is shaking violently, her words incoherent.
Sensing me, she stills and looks up. Instead of lunging at me, as I expect, she stares with such an intense hatred that my blood turns to ice.
Her words from earlier trickle through my head. “Don’t worry, you won’t be here for long.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, backing away and quickly closing the door.
Get out, Sabine.
I feel him before I see him.
Astor stands at the end of the hallway, a frightening, sopping-wet silhouette. Though his face is shrouded in shadows, the closed fists tell me he’s not happy.
I stand stock-still as he strides down the hallway.
My stomach drops as his face comes into the light. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes swollen and bloodshot—and completely mad. Rain drips down the side of his face. He sees the bag I have over my shoulder.
Shit.
“I want my purse. I want out of this place. Now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He grabs my bicep and drags me down the hallway. Stumbling, I pull the cheese knife from my pocket and hide it in my fist.
He pulls me into the library and slams the door behind us. The sound echoes through the quiet house. “Sit.”
I’m dropped into one of the leather chairs in the center of the library.
I watch him storm across the room, grab a decanter of Scotch, and chug half the contents in one go.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then turns to me. “You were trying to run.”
“No,” I lie.
He crosses the room, stopping at the edge of my chair. “Give it.” He extends his palm.
“Give what?”
“The knife in your hand.”
“No.”
A tense moment passes between us, the electricity between us crackling.
Astor kneels, grabs my knees, and parts them, shoving inside my personal space. His eyes aren’t as cold and callous as they were before. Right now, they are dead. Vacant. It’s haunting.
He lifts his chin and tilts his neck to expose the throbbing vein. “Then go ahead and kill me.”
I can barely hear him over the blood rushing through my ears.
“Do it,” he says, seething. “Get it over with.”
When I don’t move, he grabs my hand and presses the knife against his throat.
“Do it.”
“No.”
“Do. It.”
“No!” I jerk out of his hold and hurl the knife across the room.
It clatters to the floor, shattering the silence between us. My heart is pounding.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I drag in a shaky breath. “What is wrong with you? Just let me go. Do you really think you’re going to get away with this?”
His face inches from mine, he asks, “And who is going to come looking for you, Miss Hart?”
The words hit deep, right through my soulless little hermit heart.
“Both your mother and father are dead,” he says, his words drilling in. “You have no siblings, no friends. You have no husband or boyfriend. You have no pet inside your shoebox-size apartment to bark or scratch at the door to let the neighbors know you haven’t come home. From what I can tell, Miss Hart, absolutely no one will miss you. No one would ever care if you left.”
“Fuck you.”
His hand wraps around my throat. Squeezing, he leans in and brushes his lips over mine. My body begins to tremble.
“If you ever say that to me again,” he whispers against my lips, “I will kill you.”
I ignite from the inside out, every sexual sensor in my body surging to life.
“And if you ever try to sneak out of here again, I will find you and I will kill you.”
“No, you won’t.”
The grip tightens, squeezing the breath from me, and all I can think about is how much I want him to have sex with me.
“Try me, Miss Hart.”
His lips crash into mine, his tongue dipping inside. But this time, instead of frenzied passion, he tastes me with long, leisurely licks.
I lean into him, increasing the pressure around my throat, and kiss back, swirling my tongue around his, tasting the warm whiskey that coats it. The passion between us is unreal.
Using the hand that’s not wrapped around my neck, he cups the back of my head, fisting my air, repositioning my face so that he can dive deeper into my mouth.
My throat is on fire, my vision wavering, my chest constricting, my sex throbbing.
And just like last time, he suddenly releases me. I am quite literally seeing stars as he stands and brushes off his pants.
“Dinner is at seven o’clock in the dining room.”
With that, Astor Stone saunters out of the room, leaving me breathless.