Chapter 46 A lost cause
"Such a vivid imagination you have," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous thrum that makes the air in the car feel ten degrees hotter.
His lips twitch, not quite a smile. "Maybe it's a ruse," he says, his voice barely audible over the rush of the wind. "Or maybe it’s just the only excuse I could find to be within three feet of you without a camera crew in the way."
The honesty of it is like a physical blow. It’s not the smug, calculated Bastian I’m used to. It’s that raw version from the office, the one that makes my pulse do things I can't justify. Thick silence follows. Not awkward, just unfamiliar. He turns his head, gaze drifting out the open window, the city lights streaking past in soft blurs against his profile. And for one stupid, traitorous second, I miss the tension. The sharp biting edge of it. The kind I understand. The kind I can push against, play with, control.
This quieter, heavier thing sitting between us?
I don’t know what to do with it.
Don’t trust it either.
Because for all I know, this is just another angle. Another calculated move. Him switching tactics, deciding to ease off the pressure just enough to get me to drop my guard. A change in route to see if subtle hints of sincerity is the key that finally gets me into his bed.
"Take a left at the next light," he says, his voice sounding distant, almost hollow. "There’s a split just after, keep to the right.”
I glance at the clock on the dash. It’s well past midnight, and we’re heading in the complete opposite direction of my place. I’m driving deeper into the hills, into the kind of zip codes where the streetlights are spaced out to preserve the "ambience." I tighten my grip on the wheel, wondering for the tenth time why the hell I didn't just call him an expensive cab and go home to my cold bed.
"Are you even sure you’re drunk?" I ask, cutting a skeptical look toward his profile. “Because you don’t exactly seem like it.”
"I said I was over the legal limit. I didn't say I was incapacitated," he replies, still not looking at me. "It’s called being responsible."
“Fuel prices are insane,” I mutter under my breath as I merge into the lane he pointed out. “Some of us don’t own a billion-dollar company to sponsor every unnecessary detour.”
He actually lets out a short, dry laugh at that. It’s not a mocking sound, it’s just... tired.
"I'll buy you a gas station," he says, "...just keep driving."
We hit the outskirts of one of those modern, meticulously planned towns. The kind where the silence feels expensive and even the trees look like they’ve been briefed on the zoning laws. Bastian points toward a non-descript brown brick building nestled between two high-end boutiques.
"Park in front of that one," he says, his voice losing some of its earlier gravel.
I frown, my foot hovering over the brake as I scan the street. This definitely isn't his home. My eyes flick over the brown brick structure...plain, no signage, no obvious purpose beyond existing...and then back to him. "Where the hell are we?"
He doesn't look at me, just keeps his gaze fixed on the brick. "Just park the car, Kaden."
I let out an exasperated breath, the kind that makes my lungs ache. Fine. I don't even care anymore. I’m tired, my head is a mess, and if he wants to be dropped off at a random building in the middle of nowhere, that’s his business. I’ll be back on the highway and halfway to my own bed before he even finds the damn door handle.
I pull into a small, empty lot adjacent to the building. I keep the engine idling, the soft vibration of the car the only thing filling the silence. I don’t look at him, I just stare straight ahead, waiting for the sound of the passenger door opening so I can finally, finally be done with this night.
Instead of the door opening, I feel a movement in my peripheral vision...a sudden, sharp intrusion into my space.
Before I can react, his hand is at the steering column. With a swift, practiced flick of his wrist, he snatches my keys right out of the ignition. The engine cuts out instantly, the sudden silence ringing in my ears.
I whip my head around, my mouth open to demand what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn't look back, doesn't offer an explanation. He just steps out into the cool night air.
"Bastian!" I bark, unbuckling my seatbelt so fast I nearly choke myself. He ignores me, walking toward the heavy wooden door of the brick building with that same infuriatingly calm stride. He knows I’m going to follow him.
He knows I don't have a choice.
I scramble out of the car, slamming my door so hard the frame rattles. My first instinct is retaliation. Petty, immediate and effective.
I'm already running through options, what I could do that would piss him off, prove I’m not just going to fall in line every time he snaps his fingers. I could just stand here. I could call a ride and leave my car. But then I think about the pricing for a forty-minute trip from the middle of nowhere, and the fact that my car is currently sitting ten feet away from me, and the plan dies a quick, pathetic death.
But beneath the logic, there’s that persistent, embarrassing itch in my gut. I want to follow him. Even as I’m cursing his name, my eyes are glued to the door he just vanished behind.
"You’re a lost cause," I mutter to myself in the empty parking lot.
I huff a sigh, mentally berating myself as I head for the building. It’s quiet out here. I pull open the heavy door and step inside, blinking as my eyes struggle to adjust.
It’s a bar.
Not the loud, chaotic kind I’m used to. No bodies pressed together, no bass vibrating through the floor. This is something else entirely. The place has that heavy, masculine energy. Dark wood, dim amber lighting that barely reaches the corners, and a silence that feels intentional.
I spot Bastian immediately. He’s already made himself at home in a deep lounge seat, his silhouette sharp against the backlighting of the bar. I watch, a frown deepening on my face as he reaches for a bottle and pours himself a drink.
I stride toward him, my gaze drops to the bottle on the low table between the seats. It’s not Umbra. It’s not even one of his flagship labels. It’s a specific, peaty vodka from a small distillery in the Highlands...my favorite brand.
The one I drink when I actually have something to celebrate. That alone is enough to throw me off for half a second, but sitting right next to the bottle, glinting under the low light, are my car keys. He’s just left them there, completely unbothered, as if he’s a hundred percent certain I won't just snatch them and bolt for the exit.