Page 33 of Mine

Astor’s angry footsteps fade down the hall.

There’s a pause, and when the knob turns, I stumble backward.

Cillian peeks inside. He frowns as he looks me up and down, and I get the sense he’s checking to make sure Astor didn’t kill me.

Then he shakes his head and disappears, shutting—and locking—the door behind him.

An hour later, there’s a knock at my door. I open it just as the manor’s sentinel, Leo, disappears down the hallway.

In front of my room sits a rolling cart with a five-course meal.

The appetizer? A family-size bag of potato chips.

The main dish? A sixteen-ounce filet cooked medium-rare.

The drink? Exactly one gallon of water.

The dessert? A bag of cinnamon gummies (the little bear kind) and two painkillers.

Eighteen

Sabine

Belly full, properly hydrated, and headache relieved, I find myself sitting lethargically on the floor, leaning against the bedroom door, doing what all lovestruck girls do—analyzing and dissecting every second of interaction between me and my new crush.

Yes, I said crush. Because in this crazy alternate universe I’m now living in, I have found myself undeniably infatuated with the man who just kissed me. Yes, the same one who kidnapped me.

Isn’t it too early for Stockholm Syndrome? Forget love at first sight, is Stockholm Syndrome at first sight a thing?

And aren’t I too smart for that, anyway?

The logical side of my brain is telling me to calm down and be rational about this. That the feelings I’m having are normal and are only because this is the most excitement I’ve had in years, doled out by a man who is insanely sexy and endlessly rich.

Of course I’m attracted to him. Any woman would be.

And by the way, why does sex have to be so complicated in the first place? So many rules, opinions, proper stages of advancement. Who says it has to be that way? Seriously, who? Why can’t a man and a woman just have sex?

As for the illogical side of my brain, well, let’s just say it involves a white picket fence.

Yep. I’ve totally lost it.

I pick at my cuticle (a nasty habit I’ve had since college) while my mind races.

Astor Stone is a cold, callous, powerful man, but so passionate. It’s a heady juxtaposition. He threatened me, kidnapped me, and treated me like garbage. But the way he looks at me, kisses me, the desire, the need, the fire, the electricity between us, is undeniable.

And for the cherry on top, the man had a five-course meal delivered to my room, each dish exactly what I’d whined for during our argument.

So, despite the rough exterior, Astor is—dare I say—thoughtful. But also regretful, based on the pained expression after he kissed me. I’m guessing Astor is the type of personality who feels guilt from their inappropriate actions, and then obsesses over it until they do something to ease said guilt. (Hence the five-course meal.)

I have a feeling the term “rage and regret” has nothing on this man. What an exhausting cycle to live in.

As I sit here, replaying the last hour, I keep looping back to Astor’s words: “Because I need a reason to tie you to the bed and fuck you until you come so many times you forget your own name.”

He needs a reason. He wants to have sex with me but needs a reason. Because he’s promised himself he wouldn’t?

I get it. There are plenty of reasons why he shouldn’t have sex with me. One being that I’m half his age and could be his daughter. But perhaps the biggest being that he just tragically lost his wife.

Or maybe it’s not that he needs a reason, but that he needs to justify it, so that in the end, he won’t feel guilty.

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