Chapter Thirty-Four
Sebastian
I open the heavy oak door of the limestone cellar.
Cool air and the rich, caramel aroma of American oak barrels greet me.
Following the sounds of footsteps and conversation, I find Thorne standing a little too close to our event marketing coordinator, Heather.
There’s also a half-empty glass already in my brother’s hand, though it’s barely past twelve.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackstone,” Heather says to me, taking a step away from my brother. “I have the notes on all the tasting profiles for the Director’s Cut marketing materials, just as Thorne requested.”
“That’s Mr. Blackstone,” my brother corrects her sharply, shooting her a warning look. The momentary flash of hurt in her eyes suggests that my brother has been doing more than tasting bourbon with her.
Heather’s cheeks flush as she avoids my gaze. “Of course. I apologize, Mr. Blackstone.”
Thorne sets down his glass with a little more force than necessary and taps a barrel with a proprietary smile.
“This one’s perfect. Rich mahogany notes with just the right amount of vanilla and spice.
” He turns to me with barely concealed challenge in his eyes. “Don’t you think so, master distiller?”
The words are on the tip of my tongue to remind him that barrel selection is my domain, not his. But I swallow them back. I came here to ask him to drop the bet, and starting with a territorial pissing match won’t help my cause. I force my features into something resembling neutrality.
“I’d need to taste it myself before weighing in,” I say diplomatically, though the effort costs me. Thorne’s eyebrow lifts slightly, clearly surprised by my restraint. He knows me too well.
“This barrel’s perfect for the Blackstone’s Rose,” he continues, pressing his advantage. The name hits me like a sucker punch.
I shove my hands in the pockets of my slacks. “Interesting name choice.” Of course he’d choose a name that evokes my Rosalia.
My brother smirks. “It’s a play on Run for the Roses. Clever, huh?” I can see he’s lying, but I only nod.
“Should fetch a pretty price at the derby party auction,” he continues, turning to Heather. “Make sure the label emphasizes the limited quantity. Only two hundred bottles from this barrel.”
“Yes, sir,” Heather nods, making notes on her tablet.
“If you’re finished,” I say, “I’d like to speak with my brother. Alone. ”
“Okay,” she says, a little too cheerfully as she backs toward the door. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything else.”
“You should have asked me if I was done with her,” he seethes.
Christ, I’ve bruised his fragile ego. That’s not the best way to start a conversation where I want something from him. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I swallow the distaste of apologizing to my brother.
It seems to work. His stiff posture loosens and he bends, retrieving a Whiskey Thief and placing the sampling tube inside the barrel in question.
I backtrack to a shelf holding Glencairn glasses, grabbing one.
He fills his and then mine. After sealing the barrel, we look at each other over our glasses.
Thorne performs a proper tasting. He holds the glass up to the light, examining the amber color and how it clings to the sides.
Then he inhales the fragrance, takes a small sip, and lets the flavor sit on his tongue before swallowing.
He seems to consider the lingering notes that remain after the bourbon is gone.
“Let me guess, you want out of the bet,” he says.
He always could read me too well.
I take a sip from my glass. The liquid slides across my palate, velvety and complex. There’s a subtle smokiness that leaves me wanting another taste. Thorne may be a bastard, but he knows his bourbon.
“This isn’t fair to Rosalia,” I tell him.
“What are you talking about? Unless she magically finds someone willing to give her a massive loan, I’m her only option. I’m practically her fucking fairy godfather.”
I grunt and almost smile. “Aren’t fairies supposed to be benevolent?”
“Not this one,” Thorne says with a dry chuckle, swirling his drink. “Don’t you remember, I always preferred the darker magical beings in my stories?”
A spark of what we used to have stabs my heart. Those nights as kids, we’d fight over shows. One of us wanted action, the other horror. We’d usually end up watching both, along with another that our sister had picked .
The memories hurt but I don’t push them away, hoping the connection will help with my case. As if sensing my ploy, his features harden. “And you can’t back out. You’ve read the fine print, right?”
“Yeah, you automatically win. Or we could end the bet.” I sip my bourbon. It warms my throat but does little to calm me. “No winner, no loser. Neither of us leaves the distillery.”
“No winner or loser, huh?” he scoffs. “Says the man who’ll still be master distiller.”
“I don’t get it. You’re great at acquisitions. Why do you want my job?” None of what I’ve said is bullshit. I can’t understand my brother’s motivation.
Thorne’s chin juts in that stubborn way of his, which means he’s digging in his heels. “This is the main family distillery. The largest. I am the oldest son. I should be running it, not you.”
“That was Dad’s choice, not mine.” I hate giving our father any credit. He might not know us as his children, but he understands our business value. “And I’ve come here appealing to you as my brother. I like Rosalia, but your machinations are a noose around our relationship.”
His brows raise. “Oh, you two are in a relationship?”
I swirl the bourbon in my glass, staring at it. “Hell, I don’t know. But I like her. A lot,” I tell him honestly.
He finishes his drink and sets the glass on the nearby rick. “You’re looking at this from the wrong angle. This bet is a gift for you.” He sounds like he believes what he’s saying.
I eye my older brother. He’s always had a way of finding loopholes, of turning any situation to his advantage. “In what twisted way is this a good thing?”
“This is the ultimate litmus test, a perfect opportunity to see if she’s with you, for you,” he remarks. The words hang in the air between many rows of barrels.
I fall silent. A test of Rosalia’s devotion. Is that what this is? I can’t deny I’d love ironclad reassurance of her feelings, but the knot in my stomach tells me this is wrong. “No,” I say, at last, meeting Thorne’s gaze. “Forcing her hand like this...backing her into a corner, is cruel. ”
“But if she doesn’t take your precious portfolio, you know she really cares about you.”
“Giving up the store she loves is too steep a price.” That store isn’t merely a business to her. It’s her legacy, something she built from nothing. The way her face lights up when she walks customers through the shelves, sharing stories old and new. Taking that away would crush her.
Thorne rolls his eyes. “If I lose, we both know that’s not happening. With your white-knight complex, you’ll renew her lease or give her the damn building.”
I would, and she deserves more for the hell they’re forcing onto her. I try again. “She doesn’t know anything about this wager between us.”
“Again, good ,” he shoots back. “You say she’s better than your ex-wife. Better than me. Let her prove it.”
All remnants of my goodwill vanish, replaced by bitter hostility. “Don’t bring Tiffany into this,” I warn.
Thorne slams his palm on top of the barrel. “She’s the reason for the bet. The reason you hate me.”
“No. You’re the reason I hate you. You knew my marriage was struggling, and how did you choose to have your brother’s back? By trying to get my wife on hers!”
“We were drunk,” he shrugs. “She came on to me. And it’s not like we slept together.”
My blood boils. He always has an excuse at the ready. “That’s only because I walked in the fucking living room of our parents’ house before it happened.”
“That proves none of it was planned. And that we weren’t sober.” He jerks his head to the side. “Seriously, it was a fucking New Year’s party…”
I crash into his personal space, the tension damn near suffocating as if the room can barely contain the weight of my anger. “You knew we’d fought before the party. You used it to your advantage.”
“No, I didn’t. But it does explain why she was so drunk, begging for attention. I know first-hand how you cut off people you supposedly love when upset. ”
“Well, it’s a good thing she had you to comfort her,” I snarl. How dare the fucker claim it’s my fault. Classic Thorne, twisting everything around.
The muscles in my brother’s jaw twitch. “Why do you place all the blame on me?” he grits out.
“Why can’t you take any of it?” And that’s what bothers me. Tiffany probably holds more fault. I don’t doubt that she came on to Thorne. Like our dad, she seemed to like watching us fight. However, the way my brother refuses to acknowledge his part makes forgiveness impossible.
“I’m sorry for what it’s done to us.”
I jerk my head back. “That’s not the same as being sorry.”
“Nothing will ever be enough for you,” he sighs, his voice heavy with resignation. “If I drop the bet, will you forgive me?”
“I could pretend.”
He shakes his head. “So fucking stubborn. And too damn honest.”
I already know the answer, but ask one final time. “Will you drop the bet?”
His shoulders hunch slightly, his posture reverting to that teenage slouch I haven’t seen in years. For a fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Thorne, the brother who once confided in me. But just as quickly, the moment passes, replaced by a remote stranger.
“No,” he answers.
Even though his reply isn’t a surprise, my chest squeezes as if caught in a vice. There has to be another way. My gaze darts, desperately seeking an honest way out. But the harsh reality settles in. There isn’t one.
Screw this. I’ll cheat. Risk the consequences and tell her. She’ll have to pretend not to know, and then when Thorne’s long gone, she can have the fucking building.
“Fine. Fuck you very much.” I drain my drink. The amber liquid burns down my throat. I slam the glass onto the worn wooden ledge. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll win. And like how you think this shit show is good for me, I believe you leaving is good for you.”
“Oh, how so?” A faint sneer curls Thorne’s lips.
“A fresh start, away from Dad’s poison will free you.”
“And what, you don’t need the same? To escape Dad?”
“He doesn’t get to me like he does to you. You’ve taken his ‘life lessons’ to heart, warping them even further.”
“You always were the golden boy,” my brother sneers. “The perfect son, the one who could do no wrong.”
“It’s not like that, and you know it,” I say softly, holding his gaze. “I never wanted to be perfect. I just wanted to be your brother.”
“Oh, that’s rich. Saint Sebastian, you think you’re superior to me.
But you know what? I’m done living in your shadow.
This bet, this distillery, is my chance to prove to everyone, including you, that I’m just as good as you are.
And I’m not going to let you take that away from me.
” He glances at his empty glass, and I can see it in his eyes—he wants a refill.
But he turns, leaving me alone in the cellar.
I stare at the empty glasses on the ledge, my reflection distorted in the curved surface.
The silence presses against me, a stark contrast to my inner chaos.
Pacing the room, my footfalls echo on the hardwood floor.
The thought of losing Rosalia is a knife twisting in my gut.
She’s shown me a world beyond the cold, empty existence I’d resigned myself to after my disastrous marriage to Tiffany.
But the price of keeping her is steep.
Cheating, manipulating the situation, is a line I’d sworn I wouldn’t cross. After witnessing my father’s lies and our mother’s bitterness tear our family apart, I vowed to be different.
“What choice do I have?” I mutter to the empty cellar.