Page 40 of Mine

I hurt more than a million swords.

I love you, dear butterfly.

My butterfly.

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

Yours forever,

Astor

Twenty-Four

Sabine

Between the mysterious picture 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?”

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