26. Chapter 26
Chapter 26
Avery
Is it possible for someone to change their entire personality in a short amount of time?
Of course, it is. Most of the time it's related to your mood. Even the slightest thing can upheave your state of mind.
But it's still strange to see that somehow in the span of forty-five minutes, Damon's mood entirely flipped.
In Dr. Smith's office he was sarcastic, witty, and warm toward me. But now? It feels like I've gone back in time, and it is day one in Lilydale all over again.
The moment my session ended and I bounced out of the office, Damon's face was cold. He barely spoke two words to me, just gesturing for me to hurry up behind him.
Even when he bothers to look at me, which has been all of three times since then, he's angry.
Grey is nowhere to be seen and with Theo stuck in solitary confinement, I'm left alone with Damon at lunch.
He eats his food silently, only humming in reply any time I try to speak to him.
Is it me? Did I do something?
I know that in reality I couldn't have, but there's still a small—okay, large—part of me that wants to apologize. I want him to look at me warmly again, to display that side that he's shown lately.
After lunch, he walks with me in silence to Charmaine's classroom, turning around and stalking off before I can open my mouth once we reach the door.
It eats me up the entire lesson, especially when I notice that Grey is still missing. I lose track of how many times I stare at his empty chair, panic threatening to take my sanity as I worry that they somehow got their hands on him. But surely if that was the case, Damon would have said something.
By the time the lesson is over and free time has started, I'm on edge. I expect to see Damon or Grey waiting for me when I exit the room, but to my surprise, it's Jillian.
"Hey…" I greet awkwardly.
Jillian kicks off from the wall, her hair swishing behind her in a high ponytail. "Hey, Avery. Damon sent me to keep you company."
"Where is he?" I ask as we follow the rest of the gen-pop toward the hall for commencement of free time.
People ahead of us start to veer off into different directions—some inside the hall, others to the courtyard. Instinctively, I walk into the library. It's the only place that feels like home since I know Theo won't be in one of the empty rooms down the corridor.
"He's in his room," she answers, apparently unbothered by my lead of direction. "And Grey's out dealing with something."
I frown. No one has told me anything, and the fact that there's still secrets between us kind of hurts. Mainly because I'm worried—Whittingham seems determined to separate us. So, why have the men suddenly decided to leave me to my own devices?
"Is Damon okay?" I question quietly.
I have no idea if Jillian knows more than I do. It's clear that she's an important person to Damon and Cirque des Morts, so it's worth a try.
"I think so," she replies, leaning against a bookshelf. "He hasn't said much if that's what you're asking."
Nodding, I do my best to keep the worry off my face, but Jillian notices anyway.
"Don't stress," she murmurs. "I think he's just decompressing."
"Decompressing?" I repeat. "Did something happen?"
Jillian pauses, apparently contemplating how much to give away. "I believe he paid a visit to Whittingham. He's usually pissed off afterward."
That makes sense. He did say that he was going to speak to him. But still, it's Damon we're talking about. He's impenetrable, ruthless. I've never once known him to be cold and detached like this after speaking to Whittingham. Something else must have happened, otherwise he'd be here.
I don't like how much I'm in the dark right now—it's unsettling.
Pulling my cell out of my pocket, Jillian watches me quietly as I quickly send off a text message to Theo and Grey. I consider texting Damon too, but it sounds like I won't get a reply—if he wanted to talk to me, he'd be here.
When I finish, I shove the cell back into my pocket. We stand in silence, the awkward tension growing until I decide to make small talk.
"Where's Byrone?" I ask politely. It's no secret that they are a couple and spend most of their time together when possible.
"He's in his room," she says, and I can tell there's a bit of sadness laced in her tone.
I nod, feeling even more guilty. Everyone keeps putting their lives on hold for me, as if I'm some ancient artifact that needs guarding.
I'm not sure where my train of thought comes from—whether fueled by guilt, anxiety, or the need to be close to one of the guys—but the words fall from my lips before I can stop them.
"Can you get me an access card?"
Jillian listens to my unusual request, not a hint of surprise crossing her face. Instead, she digs into her pocket, pulling out a shiny black plastic card without hesitation.
"Here," she says, holding it out.
Carefully, I reach for it. I'm filled with disbelief that she handed it over so easily, but then again, things have rapidly changed in the past few weeks. I'm no longer the girl being forced to attend meetings while being made an example of. I'm now in Damon's inner circle—something I paid for with my life.
"Thank you," I murmur gratefully, pocketing it next to my cell. "I'll make sure you don't get in trouble for this."
She knows I mean from Damon, not Whittingham, her lips curving into a small smile. "I'm not worried," she says calmly. "Don't forget the pin code."
I listen closely as she rattles off the four digits, repeating them in my head several times so I don't forget.
Together, we walk to the door of the Westwood wing, Jillian letting me do the honors of swiping the card and punching in the code to make sure I've got it correct.
It's oddly empowering having the ability to walk freely without the guys leading the way. It's cathartic in a sense, almost like I'm saying fuck you to Lilydale.
The Westwood wing is practically deserted—the only people in here being the ones who can bypass the system. Jillian gives me a little wave as she stops in front of Byrone's door, letting herself in. When it's just me left in the corridor, nerves finally hit as my feet slow down.
I can see the numbers on Damon's door clearly, my heart racing as I pause in front of it.
How will he react?
Better yet… why am I doing this?
I shove the questions and doubts aside, letting the part of me that's desperate to check on him win. Swiping the card, I enter the code again, holding my breath as the door clicks open.
Stepping inside the room, my eyes immediately find Damon. He's sitting on his bed, one leg tucked toward his chest as he leans his forearm on his knee. In his other hand is a bottle of whiskey, my nose instantly turning up at the smell.
His gaze is on mine straight away, face almost free of emotion except for a fraction of anger. Even though it's there, it's clear that it's not aimed at me.
"Hey…" I mutter, closing the door behind me.
Damon doesn't answer, bringing the bottle to his lips as he takes another swig.
His guard is up, body tense, but I walk over, standing at the edge of the bed in front of him. "I just wanted to check on you," I add softly.
"You shouldn't be here," he mutters, voice darker than I've heard in some time. "You are supposed to be with—"
"Jillian, yes. But I wanted to see you," I cut him off.
It feels intimidating standing over him, so I slowly drop to my knees, leaning back on my heels. He doesn't move, but his eyes follow my change in position.
In my pocket, I feel my cell buzz—a reply from either Grey or Theo. But I ignore it, keeping my attention on Damon. He must hear the vibration too, his eyes darting to my shorts before finding my face again.
"What happened?" I ask him when he doesn't reply.
Another swig—his eyes finally breaking contact as he turns his head to the left, staring at the wall.
"Nothing."
The response is cold, hostile… and so obviously full of shit. It actually makes me hurt a little.
The savage leader, the one always in control, the one who always looks out for everyone else… pained. But I should have known he'd go through something like this alone. It makes me wonder how many times he has retreated to his room to deal with battling emotions.
All the times he scolded me for showing emotion, for not being able to hold it in… it hits me hard. This is what he meant. And for once, I disagree with him.
If I've learned anything from the guys recently, it's that I should process things, not let them hide in the dark corners of my mind. Damon raised that point himself, even going as far as lecturing me on not bottling it up after he rescued me.
"That's fucking bullshit," I murmur. "You're upset about something."
"I don't do upset," he snaps back.
I'm still on my knees, gazing up at him, but he refuses to look at me. Reaching forward, I place a hand on his leg, begging him to snap out of his staring contest with the wall.
His muscles tense under my palm but he still doesn't face me.
I drop my head, running through ideas on how to get him to talk. I know I shouldn't push him, but we're supposed to be on the same side now. When one of us goes down, we all do together.
Something red catches my eye poking out from under his bed, and my free hand slips under, pulling it toward me. It scrapes along the concrete, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the familiar mask.
It's the same red mask he wore when he pulled me out of that white room, the hard plastic feeling cold under my fingers.
Curiously, I lift it into my lap, letting my hand fall away from his leg. Picking it up, I let the irrational thoughts win, sliding it over my face. I want to see what it looks like from the other side, whether it's comfortable with good visibility. Considering it was late when they found me, I have to wonder if it obstructed their vision in the dark hallways… if the way he fought and defended me against the guards was beyond basic skill.
Surprisingly, the black mesh over the eye sockets doesn't hinder my vision as much as I thought it would. I can see perfectly fine—especially when Damon finally swings his gaze back to me, astonishment on his face.
"What are you doing?" he asks quickly.
I smile at him but quickly realize he can't see that. So, I tilt my head to express my curiosity and innocence. "Nothing," I reply, deliberately using his own frustrating words against him.
Putting my hands on my thighs, I straighten up, staring directly at him. Something flashes in his eyes, his leg dropping from his chest as he scoots to the edge of the bed. He drops his legs on either side of me, leaning forward to glance down at my kneeling frame.
"Avery," he growls.
"What?" I shoot back. "Red not my color?"
We stare at each other for a few seconds longer, until he reaches out, lifting the mask off my face. It rests on the top of my head, my eyes still holding his.
"Fuck it," he snaps.
The air cackles with electricity as he rushes forward, smashing his lips to mine. It's forceful, almost desperate. Our tongues clash as I melt into him, his arms snaking around my back. I'm hoisted up from my kneeling position, clumsily falling into his lap.
There's a small clang as the mask falls off the top of my head, bouncing along the ground, but I'm too caught up in the taste of surprise whiskey to care.
Heat ignites in my stomach, more irrational thoughts winning as I throw my arms around his neck. It feels too good to worry about the what-ifs and the should-I .
This feels right. I can't explain why.
My chest pushes into his as a hand slides firmly down my spine. When it reaches the waistband of my shorts, he doesn't stop, dipping under the fabric to glide over my ass.
I let out a tiny moan when he grabs my ass firmly. My fingers skate through his hair, tugging on the strands.
I take back what I said about whiskey, because on his lips, it's my new favorite thing.
His hand slips further south, slightly brushing against my pussy and he groans into my mouth. My own moan seems to pull him from his trance, his body suddenly tensing up.
Damon doesn't move his hand away though, his forehead pressed against mine. We're both slightly breathless, our lips barely touching now.
"Avery," he murmurs, my name sounding like a sin on his lips.
I pull back slightly, checking his face for regret.
"Damon…"