Page 43 of Mine

And besides ... what do I know about keeping a woman anyway?

Twenty-Six

Astor

“Where is she?” I bellow to the empty dining room.

It is seven o’clock on the dot, and aside from Sabine’s seat being unoccupied, everything is as I instructed.

The room is lit by a dozen candles. The shades are drawn. There are two place settings, one on each end of the dining table. In the center is a display of roses, next to it, a decanter of red wine and two crystal stemmed glasses. The salads are set, which will be followed by a five-course meal, hand-picked by me. This afternoon, I drove for over an hour to find the brand of caviar I wanted, and an extra twenty minutes for roses that didn’t look like they’d been run through a shredder.

Prishna steps into the dining room, wiping her hands on her apron. Her braids are up in a bun, her eyes tired. Normally, setting dinner would be Leo’s job. But for this, I needed a woman’s touch.

“Your guest,” she uses air quotes, “is trying to escape.”

“She’s what?” I gape.

“Trying to escape.”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard her break the window in her room.”

“Why the hell didn’t you stop her?”

“Because I don’t like her. Plus, it’s dark outside.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I don’t like the dark. Also, it’s your fault for not locking her door anymore.” She cocks a brow.

It’s true. I told Prishna and Cillian to leave Sabine’s door unlocked. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being confined to a small room day and night.

Actually, that’s not true. I’d prefer that because it would mean that she is safe. But I also understand, from experience, that this is not optimal for either party involved.

“I want her out of this house, Mr. Stone,” Prishna says firmly. “You can’t bring someone into your life. You know that. I will not tolerate this.”

“What, exactly?”

“Her. Here.”

I shake my head. I can’t deal with this right now. “Cillian!”

Cillian steps into the dining room a millisecond later.

I frown. “Where were you? Standing outside eavesdropping?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He blinks. “What’s with the romantic dinner? And why are you still in your suit?” His eyes round. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s none of your damn business—shut up,” I snap. “Where’s Sabine?”

“Astor, are you trying to impress?—”

“Cillian, I swear to God I’m going to?—”

“Okay, okay, okay.” He chuckles. “I was just coming to find you.”

He holds up a handheld video security monitor, which shows a live feed of Sabine climbing down the lattice below her bedroom. Above her, the window is shattered. She’s visibly struggling to get through the cover of thick green vines that cover the lattice. Her baggy sweatshirt and jeans keep snagging every few inches. I notice she’s barefoot, on top of it all.

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