Chapter 27 — The Last Denial
The scent of dry leaves and distant woodsmoke clung to Athena, a physical reminder of her failure to find composure in the west garden. She walked back to her dorm in a daze, the simple rhythm of her feet against the paving stones the only thing tethering her to reality.
I never stopped.
The whisper echoed in her mind, shameful and true. It wasn't the fury she'd felt for eight months; it wasn't the bitterness of rejection. It was the simple, devastating confession of a heart that refused to be disciplined.
Damon's words—I was wrong—had cracked open a door she had spent months sealing shut. Now, the light pouring from that doorway was too bright, too tempting. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his gaze, the way his eyes had softened when he admitted his need. It wasn't a trick of control; it was a fracture in his armor, and she was terrified of what would happen if she reached out and touched the wound.
That evening, the air in the dorm was too thick. The casual chatter of students around, the smell of microwaved ramen, the blare of a bad reality show—it was all grating, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity of the afternoon's confrontation.
Athena knew she couldn't stay. She grabbed her oldest jacket and her keys, muttering something about needing a change of scenery, and walked out. She ended up at "The Copper Penny," a dingy, dimly lit pub a few blocks off-campus that mostly catered to faculty and the odd post-graduate student. It was quiet, anonymous, and exactly what she needed.
She was halfway through a glass of wine, staring into the liquid, attempting to construct a new wall of cynicism, when the bell above the door chimed, and a familiar figure entered.
Damon.
He scanned the room—a quick, decisive sweep—and his eyes landed on her instantly, a look of grim certainty settling on his face. He wasn't dressed in the imposing suit from the lecture; he wore dark jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a casual leather jacket. He looked impossibly younger, yet somehow more rugged, like a powerful force that had temporarily decided to stop disguising itself as polish.
He started toward her table. The air crackled with a tension that was less about past history and more about the inevitable future.
"Out of all the places in the city," he observed, stopping across from her booth. "You chose the one closest to campus."
"It's quiet," she said, lifting her chin. "Unlike your lecture."
He gave a slight shrug, a gesture that seemed too relaxed for the coiled intensity of his posture. "Mind if I join you?"
"I'd rather you didn't."
He pulled out the chair and sat down anyway. "I'm choosing to believe that was rhetorical." He signaled the bartender. "Whiskey, neat."
Silence settled, heavy and charged. She focused on her wine glass, and he watched her with an unnervingly calm intensity.
"What do you want, Damon?" she asked, finally looking up, her voice firm. "I'm not going to be a convenient distraction while you're in town."
"You were never a distraction, Athena," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register she remembered. "You were the only thing that ever mattered enough to truly derail me." He leaned an elbow on the table, his eyes catching the low light. "I told you I was wrong. I was afraid of the commitment, afraid of the chaos I'd bring to your life. I was twenty-seven, you were seventeen, and my entire world was being built on sand. My logic was flawed, yes, but it came from a place of... of trying to protect you from the inevitable implosion."
"And that made it okay to lie? To be cruel?"
"No," he admitted instantly. "It was inexcusable. I did it because I knew if I hadn't been cruel, I would have kept you, and that scared me more than any business failure." He paused, his expression softening with something akin to sorrow. "I broke my own rule that night. I chose self-preservation over honesty."
The depth of his admission felt monumental. It was the apology she'd wanted—no, needed—for eight months. It knocked the last remaining pillar of her anger down.
"So now what?" she whispered. "You apologize, and we pretend it never happened? We shake hands?"
"No." He reached across the table, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of her wrist, sending a shiver of heat up her arm. "I want to finish what we started last week."
The directness of the statement was a punch to the gut. She couldn't breathe. The air in the pub, already thick, became suffocating.
"You left," she reminded him, her voice barely a thread. "The second a reminder went off, you walked away."
"Because I knew, Athena, that if I stayed, I would have taken you on that couch without even asking if you were fully recovered," he confessed, his eyes darkening. "And no matter how badly I wanted you, I wouldn't disrespect you like that again. Not after everything."
He stood abruptly, tossing a few bills onto the table to cover their drinks. "I am staying three blocks from here. I know you're not fully healed—emotionally, perhaps physically—from what happened between us. But I also know you're no longer a girl, and I know you want this as much as I do."
He offered his hand across the table, palm up, a silent, powerful invitation.
"I won't stop you this time, Athena. But if you walk out that door with me, there are no more walls. No more pretending. We finish this."
Her entire body was thrumming, vibrating with the choice. The image of his body in the dark of his bedroom, the rough passion of his kiss, the raw vulnerability in his eyes—it overwhelmed every shred of caution.
She stared at his outstretched hand. It was strong, steady, capable of building empires and shattering hearts. She knew stepping out with him would destroy whatever life she'd started building for herself, but the hunger was too fierce to deny. This wasn't about love or logic; it was about the fire he had ignited inside her, a fire that had been starved for eight months.
With a conviction that surprised even herself, Athena placed her hand in his. His grip was immediate, possessive, and warm.
He didn't speak. He simply pulled her up out of the booth, his eyes burning into hers, confirming the total annihilation of their restraint.
They walked out of The Copper Penny, leaving the muted sounds of the pub behind, and stepped into the cool, silent intensity of the night. His hand never left hers as he led her down the street, every step an acknowledgment of the precipice they had finally, recklessly, stepped over.
The moment they reached the door of his hotel suite, his control snapped.
He pushed her against the solid wood, covering her mouth in a kiss that was bruising, desperate, and utterly consuming. She tasted the whiskey on his tongue, the passion in his lungs, and the sheer, physical relief of finally having her again.
They stumbled into the suite, the door slamming shut behind them.
"This is madness," she gasped, somewhere between two kisses.
"Glorious, beautiful madness," he countered, already moving with a practiced urgency that stripped the last layer of her denial.
He lifted her, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist, and pinned her against the closest wall. He didn't break the kiss as he stripped the jacket from her shoulders, leaving it to slide down her back. Her hands dove into his hair, gripping the thick strands as she pulled him closer, matching the hungry desperation of his mouth.
He carried her that way, clinging and desperate, across the threshold and toward the deepest shadows of the room. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the rustle of fabric, and the frantic, unified beat of two hearts that had finally found their way back to a destructive, glorious convergence.