Chapter 48 Every detail
Bastian scoops ice from the bucket, dropping the cubes into a spare glass before pouring a measure of the vodka. He slides the glass across the dark wood toward me. I watch the movement, struck by the reversal of roles, him serving me a drink. But the thought is fleeting as my gaze is pulled back to the stage.
A small, frantic part of me wants to reach for my phone. I want to record this, not to show off or post, but as a cold, hard piece of evidence for my future self. I want to be able to sit in my room months from now, watching a video of her sold-out stadium tour, and look at my screen to remind myself that she played for me.
But the impulse dies as quickly as it came. This is too precious to filter through a lens. I need to soak this in with my own eyes, to let the vibration of the strings settle into my bones so that when I remember it later, I can simulate the exact weight of the air in this room.
Bastian leans back into the deep leather of the lounge seat, stretching his arms out along the backrest. One arm drapes behind my head, his fingers hovering just inches from my neck without actually touching me. His posture is loose, but there’s nothing careless about it. I reach for the glass, taking a small, burning sip to try and cool the wildfire spreading through my chest.
As I lean back, the inevitable happens. Bastian’s hand finally curves around my shoulder. The grip is firm, no hesitation, no testing of the waters. He simply takes hold of me...and I don't pull away.
Tessa finishes the piece, the final note lingering in the air. I’m already tensing, ready to stand and offer the kind of frantic applause an artist like her deserves, but Bastian’s grip tightens just enough to keep me pinned.
"Not yet," he mutters, his voice a low vibration near my ear.
I turn to him, trying to read the sharp lines of his profile, but his gaze is fixed on the stage. Before I can ask why, the music begins again.
My breath hitches. I know this one, not just vaguely...I know it. The structure, the progression, the way the melody climbs and dips like it’s breathing. It’s the very first piece I mastered when I was ten, the one that made my music teacher tell my mother I had "the gift."
I turn back toward the stage, my head spinning, then slowly look back at the man beside me.
"How'd you know?" I ask, my voice barely a thread of sound. I'm not just talking about Tessa. I'm talking about the vodka, the song...the terrifying, surgical precision with which he’s mapped out the interior of my soul.
He finally turns his head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face as he takes in my bewilderment. He looks entirely too satisfied. “How curious are you?” his voice drops into a register that feels like a physical touch.
I don’t even have to think about it. “Extremely.”
He leans in, and the movement is so subtle it’s predatory. My eyes instinctively drop to his lips. It’s a reflex at this point, some conditioned response I haven’t bothered to unlearn. Bastian Steele can’t occupy my personal space without me recalling exactly how he tastes...the heat, the way he takes what he wants. It’s been four days, and the muscle memory is screaming. When I force my eyes back up to his, he’s watching the way I’m looking at him with a knowing focus.
“I’ll indulge that curiosity,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my skin. “But I’m not known for charity. Information has a price.”
The charge between us is thick enough to taste, but before I can ask what he’s demanding, he turns his attention back to the stage. I follow his lead, my heart still trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Tessa launches into a third piece....something uptempo and playful, a sharp contrast to the haunting depth of the first two. When the final, bright note rings out, she offers a graceful curtsy. I’m on my feet before the sound even fades, my hands stinging from the force of my applause. She catches my eye and offers a small, genuine smile that makes my knees feel like water.
I watch, paralyzed by a mix of awe and sheer disbelief, as she packs her violin into its case and begins walking toward us. Bastian stands as she approaches. I’m trying to remember how to form a coherent sentence that doesn't sound like a frantic fan-letter.
She reaches us and outstretches her hand. I stare at it for a heartbeat, the hand that has performed for thousands and redefined a genre, before taking it.
"That was incredible," I manage, my voice sounding breathy even to me. "I’ve followed your work since I was a kid. I’m a huge fan."
"I heard," she says, her eyes twinkling with a warmth that feels far too human for a legend. She turns her gaze toward Bastian, her smile shifting into something a bit more knowing. "So, this is the special person you mentioned? The one who justifies an unplanned private flight?"
I glance between them, my brain short-circuiting. "It is," Bastian says, his tone curt, reclaiming his usual mantle of cool authority. "Thank you for coming on such impossible notice."
She laughs, a light, melodic sound. "Honestly, I feel like I’m the one robbing you." She turns back to me, giving my hand a final, firm squeeze. "When my next tour dates are confirmed, I’ll see to it that you get the best seats in the house."
Bastian gives a professional nod. "Your ride is waiting outside."
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Kaden," she says, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink. "You have excellent taste in music."
And just like that, she’s gone. The door clicks shut and the room returns to that heavy silence. I watch the empty space where she stood until I’m sure she’s really disappeared. Then I slowly turn back to the man standing next to me, and because I genuinely need to know....
"How much did you pay for that?" My voice is slightly trembling with the sheer absurdity of it.
"A lot less than you're worth."
It’s said too easily. Like it’s a fact that doesn’t even need emphasis. Before I can decide how to respond, he steps closer and the heat from his body rolls over me. He reaches up, lightly stroking my cheek with the back of his hand, a touch so tender it feels like a bruise. Then he lowers it, tucking both hands deep into his pockets, cutting off the contact just as I was starting to lean into it.
I try not to frown, but my eyes still narrow. I want to touch him. My hands ache with it. But usually, when I reach for him, it’s under the guise of a shove or a defensive barrier. If I reach out now, there’s no cover. It would just be me, admitting I want to.
"There’s an old YouTube channel," he says, his voice pulling me out of my head. "Created in the summer of 2011. Kaden-Strings."
I freeze. My blood turns to liquid nitrogen.
"You posted exactly four clips. In every single one, you mentioned Tessa, played her pieces," he continues, his gaze fixed on mine with terrifying precision. "August 12th was the last one. Titled 'Tessa Delacroix - Practice #4 (almost perfect!!).' It was eleven minutes and twelve seconds long. You ended it by looking at the lens and promising to upload again 'next week'...You never did."