Chapter 37 Are you okay?
I reach the door and don’t let myself think about it. My hand closes around the handle, I turn it, and the door opens with a quiet click. Cold night air rushes in immediately, slicing through the heat and noise clinging to my skin. The space directly in front of me is a narrow concrete landing, empty and shadowed. But to the right, around a sharp brick corner, I can hear the heavy sound of footsteps.
I keep a hand on the door as I step out, easing it open behind me so it doesn’t slam. Not that subtlety really matters at this point. Still, I find myself slowing, leaning just slightly to peek around the corner like I’m trying not to be seen.
I don’t know why, but the second I look, everything in me just stills.
Bastian is there.
He’s pacing the length of the small alley like a caged wolf. There’s something restless about it. He’s down to just his shirt, the first couple of buttons undone like he couldn’t stand the pressure of it. His sleeves are slightly pushed up, his hair not as perfectly in place as it usually is.
He looks off. Agitated. On edge in a way that doesn’t fit the version of him I’ve seen so far.
I stay where I am, half-hidden by the corner, watching as he drags a hand through his hair. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, and pops a pill dry before tucking the bottle away again like it’s second nature.
Suddenly, being here feels like crossing a line I didn’t even realize existed until now. I shift back instinctively, already deciding to leave. This isn’t my business. This isn’t something I should be standing here watching like some creep lurking in the shadows.
I take a careful step back, then another, keeping my movements quiet....
“I can feel you.”
His voice is terrifyingly clear, cutting through the muffled music bleeding faintly through the walls.
I freeze, my heart stopping mid-beat.
I blink, my eyes darting around the shadows, wondering if he's talking to a ghost or just the air. I take another step back, desperate to reach the door.
And then...
“Kaden.”
The sound of my name hits harder than it should. Not loud or aggressive, just precise. Certain. Like he’s been aware of me the entire time.
“Fuck,” I mouth under my breath.
There’s no point pretending now. I push the door shut behind me and round the corner properly, stepping into the open. He’s already turned to face me. And for a second, I almost wish he hadn’t.
Because he looks dangerous.
Not in the polished, intimidating way he normally carries himself. This is something rougher. Stripped down. His expression is tight, eyes sharper, darker. There’s something unsettled there, something I don’t have a name for but definitely don’t like.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. His knuckles are raw. Split in places, the skin broken just enough to confirm what I already suspected.
I drag my eyes back up, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat.
“Hey,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I intended. Almost like I’m testing the space between us. I hate that. His gaze doesn’t soften. He stares at me, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.
"Need something?!"
The harshness in his tone is like a whip. It’s cold, dismissive, and sharp enough to draw blood. I blink, caught completely off guard. The man who was unraveling in my hands a few hours ago is gone, replaced by this shivering, violent stranger.
I slowly shake my head, my pride finally kicking in. “No,” I say, lifting a hand slightly, gesturing back toward the door like this was all just some harmless detour. “I was just... I’m gonna head back.”
I turn before I can make it worse, already taking a step toward the door, ready to get the hell out of here and pretend this didn’t happen.
“Sorry.”
I stop. The word lands strangely. Too quiet and way too out of place. I turn back, brows pulling together slightly as I look at him again, trying to figure out if I actually heard that right.
I hesitate for a second, then push past it.
“Are you okay?” My voice sounds thin against the brick. It feels like a stupid question the second it leaves my mouth.
Bastian scoffs, sharp and humorless, like I’ve just said something deeply offensive.
“No,” he says flatly. “This place is a fucking mess. No structure, no control. Anyone walks in and does whatever the hell they want!”
He exhales through his nose, gaze cutting briefly toward the door behind me before snapping back. “I don’t tolerate that.”
There’s something about the way he says it that lands heavier than it should. Not just irritation. Not just anger. Something more absolute.
I just stand there, watching him. Taking in the volatile blue of his eyes, the way they seem almost too bright in the dim light, like there’s something burning behind them.
And all I manage is, “Oh.”
Brilliant, truly.
He reaches out, his hand instinctively seeking a surface to steady himself, and he presses his palm against the side of an old, rusted dumpster. He jerks it back instantly, a hissed curse escaping his teeth as if the metal had burned him. He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and dousing his raw, bloody knuckles in a way that has to sting like hell. He doesn't flinch, just rubs his hands together with a frantic intensity.
Then he catches me staring.
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and defensive, and I immediately swallow, shifting my weight and looking away, turning slightly to the side like the concrete wall beside me has suddenly become fascinating.
He’s in a state of high-functioning fury that is, quite honestly, terrifying.
I clear my throat lightly. “I mean, not defending Tony or anything,” I say, keeping my tone careful and neutral, “but he does what he can. There’s creeps everywhere. It’s not like you can just pick them out on sight.”
Something flashes across his face. A flicker of something dark and eerie that settles deep in his expression. The darkness casting long, skeletal shadows across his features.
I jerk my thumb back toward the door, latching onto the first normal thing I can think of. “Ava’s probably drowning out there,” I say. “I should...yeah. I’ll head back.”
I turn before this can get any weirder.
“When do you sleep?”
I pause mid-step and blink.
“What?”
Bastian’s voice comes from behind me, steadier now, like he’s dragged himself back under control, even if there’s still a rough edge to it. “You’re here until dawn,” he says. “Then you’re at the distillery. And apparently, every other free moment you have is spent bouncing around retirement homes. So, when exactly does the clock stop for you?"
It’s a bizarrely human question coming from a man who, five minutes ago, looked ready to dismantle the world with his bare hands.
“I make it work,” I say, with a shrug that feels a lot more casual than I actually feel. Then I turn back to face him.
His gaze stays on me.
“Sleep in tomorrow,” he says after a beat. “I’ll speak to Angela. Have the call times moved to noon going forward. Let them be the ones to make it work,” he adds, tone clipped but quieter now.
I should say something. Tell him he doesn’t have to do that. That I’ve handled worse schedules. That I’m fine. But the words die in my throat. Instead, I look at his knuckles and the way he’s still standing there in the cold.
"You want a drink?" I ask. The offer feels heavy, almost like an olive branch. "It might help take the edge off. I could make you something."
His eyes pin on me instantly with an intensity that’s seriously unnerving. It’s like he’s trying to read the fine print on my soul. He lets the silence stretch until it’s uncomfortable. Almost like he’s trying to figure something out. I hold his gaze anyway, even if something in my chest tightens under it.
A second passes. Then another.
“Thank you,” he says finally, voice even. “But I’m good.”
I nod once. “Right.”
Silence stretches between us again, thinner this time but somehow heavier. “Okay,” I mutter, more to myself than him. Then, a little louder, “Bye.”
I don't wait for a response. I pull the steel door open and slip back into the hallway. The second the door clicks shut, I lean my back against it and let out a long, shuddering breath. I try to steady myself, but my skin is still prickling.