Page 2 of His

A knot grabs my throat, desperation clinging to me like a noose around my neck.

She needs time, Astor. Give her time.

I release the knob, and raise my hand and knock.

An eerie silence settles around the woods as I wait for the woman who has my heart to open the door.

To give me one more chance.

I knock again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

“Sabine,” I whisper, dropping my forehead against the door. “Please, Sabine. Please open the door.”

I wait for another five minutes before conceding. I kneel down, laying the envelope on the welcome mat, as I always do.

Then, I back away, tell her I love her, and retrace my steps back to my rental car.

Two

Sabine

Sitting with my back against the front door, I listen to Astor’s footprints fade down the driveway.

On a long exhale, I close my eyes and drop my head in my hands.

For three months this has been going on.

Like clockwork, twice a week, on Saturdays and Wednesdays, Astor shows up at my cabin. After I ignore his knocks, he lays a letter on my doorstep and disappears, leaving me with my heart in my throat and my stomach on the floor.

At first, I was shocked that Astor knew I was alive. And also that he knew I’d left my Las Vegas apartment, and moved to Louisiana. But then I remembered he’s Astor Stone and his entire life revolves around espionage.

Every time he visits, I wonder if it will be the last. If not, I wonder when he will give up.

I wonder when I will finally give up on him.

The last three months of my life have been horrific. There’s no other word for it. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

After Astor left me bleeding out on the airport hangar floor, I dragged myself across the concrete as the building burned around me, passing by the dead bodies of Prishna and Carlos. By the time I made it outside, the first responders had arrived. After strapping me onto a gurney, they rushed me to the hospital, where I was treated for a bullet wound.

I was extremely lucky, they’d said. The bullet had gone through my lower abdomen, but miraculously didn’t enter the abdominal cavity. Instead, the bullet had lodged itself behind the pelvic bone, in the buttocks, without causing any damage or fracture. According to the doctors, it was a miracle.

It didn’t feel that way.

Once released, I went back to my Las Vegas apartment, promptly packed my belongings, and using a large chunk of my savings, purchased an isolated cabin in the one place I was certain Astor Stone would never visit. The Deep South.

I was wrong.

I’d bought a burner phone (so that he couldn’t track it), rented a U-Haul and drove myself here.

At that time, my entire being focused around one thing: to never speak to Astor Stone again. The anger and betrayal I felt was all-consuming. The hurt, devastating. But the worst part was knowing that while I had been left for dead, Astor was back with his wife, tending to her physical and emotional wounds.

I could never—would never—forget that I had been offered in exchange for her, then forgotten the moment she reemerged in his life.

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