Bastian wasn’t someone to keep his thoughts to himself. If he thought you were being shady, he called you out. To your face. He told you exactly what he thought. It was something you had to respect about him. Even if no one liked being called out.

“I dunno,” Bass said, following me as I made a beeline for the bar, needing something to calm my nerves.

“Then how can you say I’m different?” I asked, going for a double pour of whiskey.

“You’re… quieter,” he settled on, watching me take a long sip of my drink. “Reserved, even. And I know I don’t know you as well as the rest of these fucks,” he said, waving out at the party. “But I know you enough to know you’re being weird.”

I shrugged, finishing my drink, and reaching for the bottle again.

Bastian’s hand shot out, closing over mine on the bottle, keeping it against the bar.

“What are you drinking about?”

“I’m not drinking about anything. It’s a party. Everyone is drinking.”

“Saff…” he started, his voice actually sounding concerned.

I wasn’t accustomed to that—having anyone worry about me, want to know what was going on with me.

I felt the absurd sting of tears in my eyes and blinked them frantically away.

“What?” I snapped, leaning into annoyance. It was easier. Uncomplicated. More comfortable than actually opening up, letting anyone in.

I mean, even if I were capable of doing that—with anyone—I definitely couldn’t talk to Bastian about this.

Because despite trying like hell to stop thinking about it—about him—I couldn’t get Soren out of my mind.

It had been almost two weeks since the little incident in the empty club. And while I shot off one or two-word answers to his occasional text updates, I tried not to engage when he clearly wanted me to. When I wanted to.

Because that want was dangerous.

It could undo the deal.

It could undo Renzo’s respect for me.

It could undo me.

And that was the scariest of all.

Bastian watched me for a moment, his eyes thoughtful.

“Look, I know a thing or two about needing to keep all your shit to yourself,” Bass said. “You can’t exactly be in your feelings in prison. And, after a while of tamping all that shit down, it becomes the default. Even when you are finally free to talk to someone and let all that pent-up shit out, it’s hard.”

“And, what, I’m supposed to open up to you? I hardly know you.”

“Sometimes it’s easier that way. Look,” Bass said, exhaling hard, “I’m not gonna try to make you tell me. This is just me saying I’m here. And reminding you that creating a new problem,” he went on, waving the liquor bottle, “ain’t gonna solve the old one.”