Page 54 of Last Man Standing

Sebastion pulls me to a stop as a whole friggin’ army descends upon us. Soldiers stand in a kind of flying-duck formation, fronted by a beautiful, olive-skinned, raven-haired woman with enough anger in her eyes to make grown men tremble. She looks me up and down with palpable contemptuousness so even Sebastion’s hatefulness seems… gentle.

“Get. Her. Out.” The woman, so obviously Arabella Aster, points a stabbing finger straight over my shoulder. “Now.”

Sebastion’s fierce grip on my arm relaxes. He doesn’t release me completely, but he allows for blood circulation again and tugs me forward another dozen steps until we come to a stop just three feet from the woman and her sizzling eyes.

“Scarlett Castro.” Not all that enthused, he tilts his head to the side and cracks his neck with an audible pop. Then he gestures to the woman. “Arabella Jameson. Mom,” he grits out. Almost like he’s warning her to be nice. “This is Scarlett.”

Arabella’s viciousness doesn’t soften once names are exchanged. If anything, I feel like she dislikes me even more now than she did a minute ago.

“Twenty-five years old.” She settles her weight on one leg and pops her hip to the side. “House cleaner for the wealthy. Based out of Denver, Colorado. One sibling; male. Two parents, still alive.” She meets Sebastion’s eyes. “Murdered her lover in cold blood.”

Oh God. My breath comes out on a choking gasp. “H-how did you⁠—”

“My son has been neglecting his duties for more than three months, Ms. Castro. Choosing instead to dedicate his time to your brother and a woman named Nova Nichols.”

“I was protecting the family!” Sebastion snarls.

“And then Lincoln’s murderous sister comes to town, all perky and beautiful and oh-so-needy, and suddenly, protecting the family is no longer a priority.” Furious, her nostrils flare as she brings fiery eyes back to her son. “A little cliché, don’t you think, baby?”

“I think we would benefit from a private conversation, considering the delicacy of our current circumstances,” he growls. “Scarlett is staying with us until I decide otherwise. I’ll show her to her room, then I’ll be available to continue this discussion.” His eyes flash with anger. “We don’t do this with an audience, Mother.”

“You wish for privacy?” Arabella’s rising voice forces dozens of her soldiers to shrink back. Are they all her sons? All terrified of Mom? “I, too, wish for privacy, Sebastion. For three decades, we’ve maintained that privacy. But now you bring…” Disgusted, she finishes her sentence with nothing more than a look of disdain.

“She is my guest,” he snarls. “I expect her to be treated as such.”

“She is a threat to everything we’ve built! A threat to everything we are!”

“She needs protection!” he barks back, while beside her, a guard Arabella keeps close reveals stunned surprise with his widening eyes. Perhaps shouting at Arabella Aster is not a common occurrence around here. “I will reiterate: she is my guest. This means she will be treated as a guest, and not a fucking detainee. She will be spoken to with respect, and if you cannot manage that, I suggest you don’t speak to her at all.”

“Sebastion.” A man steps forward on Arabella’s left. He’s older than Sebastion. Older than basically all of the guards. “Retreat. Reassess.” He clicks his fingers and brings two other men closer. “Take Ms. Castro to the guest quarters. Put her in the end room⁠—”

“No.” I stumble back on a cry and wrench my arm from their grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

“She’s staying in the house.” Sebastion warns his men back with just a look, then he brings his furious eyes up to his equally furious matriarch. “She did not drive herself here. She does not know our location. And she was blind all the way to our gates.” He wraps his hand around the strap of my bag. “She is not a threat, she’s not a liability, and she will not become the scapegoat you’ve desperately been searching for.”

He stares down each of the guards for a long, loaded beat. Ten seconds. Twenty. Maybe even thirty. He shows no fear, despite the fact we’re outgunned, thirty to one. Then he turns from his mother with a shake of his head and leads me away. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“Thirty years, Sebastion!” Her fury makes way for vulnerability. Her hard words make way for a tremor, subtle as it may be. “This is your family, this is our safety, and you trade it for a woman?”

“You mistake this for a trade,” he bites out, his marching steps dragging us forward. “Our safety remains intact, my family is secure, and our location will forever be protected. Let’s go.” He pulls me back the way we came, through a long line of armed guards and a heavily insulated doorway, but before trudging into the darkness outside like I thought we would, he tugs me left and leads me along a different hallway.

“You can basically look anywhere now. It doesn’t matter.” His iron grip on my bag keeps us moving at a brisk pace. His jaw flexes and grinds, because his entire mission, he already told me, revolved around that woman back there.

And he’s just openly, loudly, defied her.

“I’ll show you to your room. It has an attached bathroom, so you don’t have to worry about sneaking out to pee. I’ll set a guard on the door⁠—”

“To keep me in?”

His eyes flicker down to mine. Considering. Thoughtful. Then he shakes his head. “To make you feel safe. If you wish to leave the room, you can. Any time. If you wish to walk around the property, you may. Pretty much anywhere. The places you can’t go are signposted, so as long as you obey those signs, you’ll be fine. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them to speak to me. We’ll pass through the kitchen on the way to your room, so you know where to come when you’re hungry. Meals are served at six, twelve, six, twelve. If you’re hungry outside of those hours, you’re free to forage in the pantry.”

“Sebastion!” Arabella’s voice slams us in the back, her biting tone like angry little spiders nipping at the top of my spine.

Drawing us to a stop, Sebastion brings me around so I’m treated to a view of Arabella marching forward with just two of her guards instead of dozens. She closes the distance with her hand open, her palm turned to the ceiling. Long, beautiful black hair swishes around toned shoulders, and her pants, black and form-fitting, wrap around muscular thighs.

She comes to a stop in front of us and demands, “Your phone. It’s a condition for anyone coming to this house. It’s non-negotiable.”

“Absolutely not.” I swing desperate eyes up to Sebastion. “This is how I contact my brother! It’s how I⁠—”