Page 71 of Mine

I wake up with a start, my skin hot, my breath short.

A bad dream?

No.

Him.

I lift my head off the pillow and see Astor sitting in the armchair, hidden by shadows. Both arms rest on the armrests, both feet flat on the floor. He’s still wearing the same suit from dinner.

I look at the clock—3:11 a.m.

“What are you doing,” I whisper, unsure if I am dreaming.

“Watching you sleep.”

We stare at each other for a long moment.

Am I dreaming?

“Come here,” I say, a throb beginning to pulse between my legs.

“No.”

“I’m safe, Astor. You won’t lose me like the others. Come here.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Go back to sleep, Sabine.”

I lay my head down, close my eyes, and fall back into a dreamless sleep.

Forty-Four

Sabine

I’m nervous—but for the first time, it makes me smile. It’s because I care so much. Because there’s passion and pride behind the dinner I’m preparing for Astor.

I spend the morning meticulously planning the menu. This is difficult as I don’t have access to the Internet to confirm ingredients. Around noon, Cillian appears at my doorway, demanding the grocery list, which, I assume, he passes to Astor.

I fix myself up the best I can with what I have, using every cosmetic in my possession. I even line my eyes and gloss my lips.

When I woke this morning, a stack of size large sweatshirts sat outside my door, each a different color. At first, I was confused, but when I smelled him embedded in the fabric, I realized they were Astor’s clothing—not his late wife’s—and that he’d delivered them personally.

I assume Prishna has been relieved of this duty. Thank God.

I choose the black sweatshirt, and instead of letting it hang limply around my hips, I knot the side, allowing for a sliver of exposed skin. Very ’90s grunge.

I haven’t seen Prishna all day—whoever the hell she really is. I’ve decided to push her out of my head because at the end of the day, what business is it of mine? Astor is my sole focus. He is what I want.

As usual, the lord of the manor has been locked in his office all day. Clearly, he’s a workaholic. This doesn’t surprise me. In fact, now that I know about his humble roots, his tireless dedication makes me proud.

I prep and prepare our dinner while dancing to old-school hip-hop, something with a fast beat to dispel the nerves. Also, wine helps.

I spend no less than an hour experimenting with place settings, wanting to choose the perfect set. I decide to go with black-and-gold plates and beveled drinking glasses. And instead of using the same long-stemmed candles from the evening before, I light an assorted dozen, placing them all around the room.

Dare I say, I’ve had a blast doing it all. The most fun I’ve had in a very long time.

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