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“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.

Twenty-Five

Astor

The woman makes me crazy.

I can’t think straight, I can’t form a sentence, I can’t sit, I can’t stand. So, I’m pacing my office, trying to dispel the energy that is vibrating my bones, to keep myself from punching a hole in the wall, which is what I really want to do.

I’m sick at the thought that Sabine might have seen me outside. That she might have seen my weakness. My daughter.

I’m embarrassed and confused, mad at her, mad at myself.

What the hell was I thinking? Kissing her in the first place? Then telling her to “go ahead and kill me”—which, in that moment, I meant. Because if she killed me, I’d finally be out of the misery I live in day and night.

And as if that wasn’t psychotic enough, I then proceeded to demand that she join me for dinner, because I can’t leave her without knowing I’m going to see her again.

Since that kiss, Sabine has dominated my thoughts, then jumbled them up and thrown them into a blender.

I haven’t slept. I’ve barely eaten, barely drank.

I should be thinking of my wife. Grieving my wife.

But I’m not.

Instead, I think of Sabine while I’m brushing my teeth, while I’m showering, while I’m pressing my nail into my forearm. I think of her while brewing coffee, answering emails, on my Zoom calls, on the phone.

This morning, instead of paying attention to the meeting I was in, I doodled her name in a notebook, surrounded by a dozen tornadoes. (I’m sure a therapist would have a field day with that one.) Then I imagined that name tattooed on my chest.

Yes, I am losing my damn mind.

Eyes closed, I take a deep inhale. Like always, Sabine’s face materializes, those eyes, those lips. Her expression when I told her to kill me.

On a pained groan, I jab my fingers through my hair. She must think I am a complete psychopath, and she’s probably right. I feel like I’m cracking. Something about Sabine makes me question every word out of my mouth, every move I make, every move I don’t make. Makes me fantasize to the point of pain. Makes me dream. Hope.

Makes me fucking crazy because I know that it can never be between us. Because it never has been before. Because my life is too dangerous to allow a woman into my dark, sick orbit.

I know this because history has proven it to be true. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever truly cared about.

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