Chapter 26 Mindfuck games
My shift at Orphic finally ends somewhere around four in the morning.
The music died down an hour ago, the last drunk stragglers were gently herded out by security, and now the club is sitting in that strange, hollow quiet that only happens after a long night.
I’m wiping down the bar for the third time when I realize I’m the only idiot still working. Technically, there's people for this. Cleaning staff, night crew, all that. But I like to deal with the most obvious mess first. The visible stuff. Sticky rings on the counter, abandoned glasses, the kind of things that make a place look tired if you leave them sitting. Plus, if I stop moving, I might actually feel how exhausted I am.
It’s been a long damn day.
My body feels like it’s been put through a garment bag and stepped on.
I left the distillery at around four in the afternoon, and from the moment I stepped into that place it was nonstop. People throwing around words like they were discussing a damn art installation instead of a bottle of whiskey.
And somewhere between all of that, the imposter syndrome crept in. It’s been sitting on my chest like a lead weight all evening. I keep picturing the campaign launch, huge digital billboards in places like Times Square, glossy spreads in magazines....and the collective “Who the fuck is this random dude?”
My socials aren’t terrible. I’ve got followers and engagement. People seem to like my face well enough. But a celebrity? I’m the guy people order a Manhattan from, not the guy they buy a thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey for.
I glance down at a crate of high-end bourbon sitting on the back counter. Ava must have hauled it out earlier, she has this persistent habit of overestimating our Monday night volume. I heave the crate into my arms, the weight straining my sore back, and make my way toward the back.
My brain, unfortunately, is still stuck on the distillery. Specifically, on the fact that Bastian Steele spent the better part of the afternoon treating me like a piece of office furniture. He’d walked past me four fucking times without so much as a flicker of recognition in those icy eyes. He’d leaned over Angela’s shoulder, discussing "market penetration" and "demographic reach," while I stood five feet away feeling like a ghost.
It shouldn't piss me off. In fact, it’s exactly what I asked for. But God, it stings. It’s the ultimate power move, to ruin a man in a bathroom stall on Sunday morning and then forget his name by Monday.
I reach the walk-in and kick the heavy steel door open with my heel. The cold hits me like a physical slap, a sharp, 36°F shock that instantly raises the hair on my arms and clears the fog in my head. I step into the cooling unit, the air smelling of chilled lime and damp cardboard.
Earlier tonight, I’d actually been half-expecting him to show up at the club for his daily dose of getting under my skin.
But he didn’t. He’d checked out of the distillery at three, citing "other matters," and vanished.
I set the crate down on a low shelf with a heavy thud, my breath hitching in the frigid air.
Is that it? I wonder, leaning my forehead against the cool metal of a keg for just a second. Was the bathroom just a way to see if he could break me? And now that I’m officially a Steele Industries asset, has he lost interest?
It’s a tactic, it has to be. He’s a hunter, and he knows exactly how to keep me on my toes....by making me feel like I’m not even on his radar. I stand up straight, exhaling a cloud of white mist into the dim light. "Fucking prick," I mutter to the silent rows of Grey Goose bottles.
I turn to leave, reaching for the heavy handle, but the door doesn't just open....it’s pushed from the outside.
I freeze.
Bastian is standing in the doorway, framed by the warm, dim light of the back hallway. He’s still in his suit, though his tie is gone and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the sharp lines of his throat.
He looks tired.
He looks dangerous.
And this time, he's looking directly at me.
I feel a flicker of relief spark in my chest the moment he steps in, and I immediately want to douse it in gasoline. I'm not happy to see him. I'm tired, I'm freezing, and I'm currently being haunted by a sex dream that featured him in a starring role.
I study his face in the harsh, unflattering light. There’s a jagged edge to his composure that I caught at the distillery, a fraying at the seams of his "Master of the Universe" persona. Or maybe I’m just overanalyzing him because staring at his mouth is easier than admitting I’ve spent the last twelve hours obsessing over how he ignored me.
"You're ruining my vibe," I say, my voice raspy from the cold. I lean back against a shelf of chilled vodka, trying to act casual and unimpressed. "I was actually having a decent night until you showed up."
He steps further in, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with a finality that makes my pulse spike. "Liar," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seems to warm the frigid air. "I’m the only good thing about your night. Probably the only good thing about your week."
I let out a long, weary sigh, my breath blooming in a white cloud between us. "Go home, Bastian. We’re closed. And I'm not doing this again. Not tonight."
"Doing what, exactly?" He tilts his head, a predatory glint returning to those tired eyes.
"Whatever mindfuck games you’re playing! It’s exhausting."
He smirks, a slow, dark thing that makes the heat in my blood roar to life, clashing violently with the sub-zero air. He starts to move closer, his footsteps silent on the rubber matting. “But you seem to secretly enjoy my particular brand of mindfuck, Kaden.”
"Then you’re blind as well as arrogant," I snap, though my voice lacks conviction. He’s close now....close enough that the heat radiating off his body is a physical temptation. I want to lean into him, to steal every bit of warmth he’s harboring. I glance at my watch, desperate for a distraction. "Do you even know what time it is? I have less than five hours to sleep before I have to be at the distillery."
"I know exactly what time it is," he whispers, his gaze dropping to my lips and staying there. His eyes are darker now, the restraint I saw earlier beginning to burn away. "I also know that you want to bury your hands in my hair while I’m using my mouth on you."
He pauses, his face inches from mine. "So tell me, Kaden....who’s the arrogant one? Me for saying it, or you for wanting it so badly but pretending not to?"
I let out a sharp scoff, shaking my head even as my skin tingles with the proximity. "Bold of you to assume I’d let you get close enough to try. I have high standards."
Bastian moves. He’s fast, blindingly so, blurring through the space until I’m slammed back against the cold metal rack. The bottles rattle behind my head, but he doesn't touch me with his hands. He just looms, pinning me with the sheer weight of his presence, his breath hot against my face.
"They weren't so high yesterday," he points out, his voice dropping into a filthy, unfiltered register that makes my toes curl in my shoes. "Actually, they weren't high at all when I had my hand wrapped around your cock and you were sobbing and coming all over my palm."
"Fuck you," I mutter, a useless curse that sounds more like an invitation than an insult.
He leans in until his lips are brushing against my ear, his voice a lethal caress. "You’d like that, wouldn't you?"
The cold is biting at my skin, but his stare is doing a much better job of flaying me alive. He’s studying my face with a terrifying intensity, like he’s trying to map out every nerve ending I have left.