Chapter 32: My Human Crush Caught Me With My Demon Mistress

Her golden eyes followed the movement of the wine.

"Terroir changes everything. The soil, humidity, temperature, sun exposure, even the mineral composition of the ground. Two vineyards can use the exact same grape variety and produce completely different wines just because there’s a hill between them."

Adrián took a sip.

Rhea looked at him.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"What did I just say?"

"That grapes have territorial issues."

Rhea closed her eyes.

"My God."

"Technically, I’m not wrong."

"You are horribly wrong."

Adrián smiled.

"But I understood the idea."

"No, you didn’t."

Rhea set down her glass and leaned slightly toward him.

"Look. Then there’s fermentation. French oak and American oak are not interchangeable."

"They’re trees."

"Adrián."

"Continue."

She pointed a finger at him.

"French oak usually gives you subtler flavors. Spice, structure, more elegant tannins. American oak is much more expressive. Vanilla, coconut, sweeter notes..."

"So American oak is less sophisticated."

"I did not say that."

"But you thought it."

"Do not project your prejudices onto my barrels."

Adrián laughed.

Rhea tried to maintain a serious expression.

It lasted approximately two seconds.

"Besides," she continued, "everything changes once you start talking about real aging."

"How long counts as ’real’?"

"Two centuries."

Adrián lowered his glass.

"Sure. Two centuries. A perfectly normal amount of time to store a beverage."

"For my family, yes."

"Of course."

Rhea ignored the comment.

She was already too invested in the subject.

"A wine over two hundred years old starts losing much of its fruit character. Tertiary notes begin to develop."

"That sounds like a disease."

"It isn’t."

"What kind of notes?"

"Leather. Tobacco. Wet earth. Mushrooms. Spices. Dried fruit."

Adrián looked at her.

"You’re selling me a drink that tastes like a basement."

"It does not taste like a basement!"

"You literally just said wet dirt and mushrooms."

"They’re aromas."

"Ah. Sorry. It smells like a basement."

Rhea lightly kicked him under the table.

"You’re unbearable."

"And yet you keep explaining it to me."

"Because someday you’re going to learn."

"I admire your optimism."

She picked up her glass again.

"But once you get past five centuries..."

Adrián raised an eyebrow.

"There are five-hundred-year-old wines?"

Rhea smiled.

And something in her expression changed.

It was a different kind of smile.

Smaller.

Prouder.

"Yes."

"No way."

"We have some in our cellar."

"Of course the Alastors have wines older than several countries."

"Technically, some are older than the modern versions of those countries."

"That makes it worse."

Rhea laughed.

"After five centuries, it becomes difficult to call it wine in the conventional sense. The chemistry has changed too much. You can’t judge it by the same standards anymore."

She moved one hand as she spoke.

"Acidity, fruit, tannins, structure... all of that still matters, but you’re tasting something that has practically become something else."

"Something else?"

She thought for a moment.

"An elixir, maybe."

"That sounds much more expensive."

"It is."

"I knew we’d eventually get to the important part."

Rhea kicked him again.

This time Adrián dodged.

"Actually..."

She leaned a little closer.

"There are still three bottles left from the 1292 vintage."

Adrián blinked.

"Twelve ninety...?"

"Two."

"And they’re still drinkable?"

"In theory."

"That phrase does not inspire confidence."

"We’ve never opened any of them."

"Then you don’t know if they’re drinkable."

"Adrián, they’re historical artifacts."

"They’re bottles."

"They’re both."

"And where are they?"

Rhea looked at him as though the answer should have been obvious.

"In the Alastor cellar."

"Naturally."

"All three."

"Your family owns every surviving bottle in the world?"

"Yes."

"That feels unnecessarily evil."

"We’re demons."

"Good point."

Rhea smiled in satisfaction.

"Besides, they have a beautiful history. They were bottled on the same day that..."

She said the name of a French king.

Adrián nodded with complete seriousness.

"Of course."

Rhea narrowed her eyes.

"You have absolutely no idea who that was."

"Not a clue."

"I literally just told you."

"And I forgot immediately."

"You’re unbelievable."

"Was he important?"

"He was a king!"

"There have been a lot of those."

Rhea opened her mouth.

Closed it.

"Sometimes I don’t know why I talk to you."

"Because nobody else would sit through a forty-minute lecture about wood."

"It’s been seventeen minutes."

"Were you counting?"

"No."

"That answer was way too fast to be true."

"Shut up."

Adrián took another sip.

Rhea watched him.

Her expression changed immediately.

"No."

"What?"

"Not like that."

"Not like what?"

"You can’t just drink it."

"I just did."

"I saw."

She took the glass out of his hand.

"Hey."

"Watch."

Rhea held the glass by the stem.

"First, you swirl it."

She moved her wrist gently.

The wine rolled along the inside of the glass.

"Like this."

"I’m watching."

"You’re not learning."

"It’s hard to do both."

"Then..."

Rhea brought the glass closer to her face.

"You smell it."

"I know how to smell."

"Clearly, you don’t."

She leaned toward him.

"Come here."

"Rhea..."

"Adrián."

He obeyed.

She practically shoved the glass under his nose.

"This is how you smell it, darling."

Adrián went still.

Rhea didn’t even seem to notice what she had called him.

She was too focused.

"Swirl the glass first. Slowly. You’re not brewing a potion."

"Got it."

"Then put your nose in a little."

"Inside it?"

"Not literally inside."

"Your instructions need more precision."

"Shut up and smell."

Adrián inhaled.

Rhea watched him expectantly.

"Well?"

"It smells like wine."

Rhea’s expression died.

"Adrián."

He smiled.

"I’m kidding."

"I hate you."

"You don’t hate me."

"I’m still considering it."

Adrián leaned toward the glass again.

This time he breathed in more slowly.

"There’s something sweet."

Rhea’s eyes lit up.

"Yes."

"And wood."

"Yes."

"Vanilla?"

Rhea immediately smiled.

"See?"

She moved even closer.

Her hair slipped over one shoulder as she took the glass between Adrián’s hands.

"Now do it again. But pay attention to what comes afterward. The vanilla hits you first, but underneath there’s spice and a little tobacco. And if you let it breathe..."

She kept talking.

About barrels.

About vintages.

About cellars that had disappeared centuries ago.

About particularly cold winters that had happened before any historical date Adrián could remember off the top of his head.

She got one technical detail wrong.

Went back.

Explained it differently.

Then explained it another way.

Her hands moved when she spoke.

Her hair followed the gestures.

Her golden eyes seemed brighter than usual every time she mentioned some especially rare bottle.

And Adrián stopped interrupting her.

Not because he had finally understood the difference between two types of oak.

Not because he suddenly cared about Loire terroir.

He just watched her.

Rhea Alastor.

Not the frustrated CEO.

Not the demon mistress capable of making an entire room tremble with one look.

Not the woman who threw vases at her younger sister whenever Ishtar managed to push her too far.

Just Rhea.

A woman who had lived for centuries and who, in that moment, looked like nothing more than a girl talking too fast about something she loved.

"And that’s exactly why one of those bottles can’t simply be opened out of curiosity," she continued. "Every sip would literally be drinking a piece of a world that no longer exists."

Adrián was still watching her.

It took Rhea a few seconds to notice.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You’re looking at me weird."

"I’m not looking at you weird."

"Yes, you are."

"Keep going."

Rhea frowned slightly.

"You actually want me to continue?"

"Yes."

She studied him for a moment.

Then smiled.

And immediately started talking again.

Adrián rested his chin on one hand.

He listened.

And as he watched her get excited all over again about a bottle that hadn’t been opened in several centuries, he realized something deeply inconvenient.

He liked seeing her like this.

A lot more than he should.

"She’s adorable."

"Literally adorable."

"And I’m in trouble."

He laughed.

Rhea stopped mid-sentence and frowned.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"A little."

"Vega."

"It’s just that you’re completely different when you talk about this."

"It’s an interesting subject."

"It’s completely irrelevant."

"Vega, irrelevance is an aristocratic luxury. Learn to appreciate it."

Adrián laughed again.

Rhea held his gaze.

Her glass halfway raised.

That playful smile still on her lips.

Her golden eyes shining beneath the hanging lights.

And for a moment—

just a moment—

Adrián felt her move closer.

Barely.

Felt the distance between them narrowing without either of them explicitly deciding to close it.

Rhea opened her mouth to say something.

And at that exact moment—

Knock, knock.

Someone knocked on the pool hall door.

Adrián and Rhea turned their heads at the same time.

The door opened very slowly.

Very timidly.

With a quiet creak.

And standing on the other side, with a cream-colored knit sweater slipping off one shoulder, bangs hanging over her eyebrows, naturally rosy cheeks, a food container held in both hands, and an expression that said I came here to apologize, regretted it halfway here, but kept walking out of inertia—

was Yuki Amasawa.

Yuki saw Adrián standing beside Table Four.

Yuki saw Rhea sitting on the edge of that same table, her skirt lifted slightly over her stockings, wineglass in hand.

Yuki saw Adrián’s right hand still resting on Rhea’s waist.

Yuki’s honey-colored eyes went wide.

Very wide.

Very, very wide.

"..."

"Yuki," Adrián said, and felt all the blood drain into his feet. "Yuki, it’s not what—"

"Sorry," Yuki said.

Her voice was tiny.

Polite.

Broken.

"Sorry for interrupting. I... I walked into the wrong room. Bye."

"Yuki, wait—"

She was already leaving.

The door closed.

With his new senses, Adrián heard Yuki’s footsteps moving quickly down the hallway.

Then came the faint sound—

the smallest sound in the world—

of a food container hitting the floor.

And then nothing.

Silence filled the pool hall.

Adrián remained standing there.

His hand still around Rhea’s waist.

The wineglass in his other hand.

With the exact feeling of a man watching his life—

one of his two lives, the more fragile one, the one he most wanted to protect—

break a little more in real time.

He sighed.

Long.

Very long.

Rhea, still sitting on the table, hadn’t even changed expression.

She simply took another sip of wine.

Looked at the door.

Looked at Adrián.

Looked at the door again.

"...That was Yuki, wasn’t it?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

"Yes."

"Well. Now I understand better why Ishtar told me you were going to have problems with that girl."

"..."

"Vega."

"Yeah?"

"Do you want me to talk to her?"

"Absolutely not."

"Are you sure?"

"Completely sure."

"Okay."

Rhea took another sip.

"Then finish your wine and go after her."

"..."

"Not tonight. She’s already gone. Go tomorrow."

She looked at him more seriously.

"And think very carefully about what you’re going to say."

Adrián lowered his glass.

Looked at the green felt.

Looked at the table.

Looked at the closed door.

"Rhea."

"Yes?"

"Thanks for coming today."

"You’re welcome, darling."

"..."

"And sorry for making your life more complicated."

Adrián laughed.

A sad laugh.

Short.

"You didn’t make it complicated."

"A little."

"A little, yeah."

Rhea smiled faintly.

She stood from the table.

Straightened her skirt.

Gathered both glasses and the bottle—once again, Adrián didn’t see where she had materialized them from or how they disappeared—and walked toward the door with her usual calm elegance.

Before leaving, she stopped.

Turned around.

"Vega."

"Yeah?"

"The wine really was good, wasn’t it?"

"Yes."

Adrián smiled slightly.

"Really good."

"Good."

Her smile deepened.

"Next time, we’ll share it somewhere more comfortable."

A pause.

"Somewhere with doors we can lock from the inside."

And she left.

Adrián stood alone in the pool hall.

His cue lying on the table.

The balls scattered across the green felt.

With the exact feeling of a man who had three people in his life who mattered to him for completely different reasons—

and who had just irreparably complicated things with at least two of them.

He dragged a hand down his face.

"Great," he told the ceiling. "Everything perfectly under control."

The ceiling, wisely, continued not to answer.