CHAPTER 12 — THE BROTHER WHO DOESN’T FORGIVE
POV: Noah Bennett
Mason’s voice still came faintly through the phone when Damon pulled away from me on the couch, taking with him the warmth of his body, the smell of skin, white tape and rain, and that dangerous intimacy that had just left us defenseless in the middle of the penthouse.
Julian’s name cut through the room like a door slamming in some forgotten place, and I felt my body react before Damon even looked at me.
Tension in my shoulders, dry throat, hands searching for something to occupy them.
I picked up the towel I’d used to clean his skin and folded it with too much care, as if damp fabric could hide that I knew exactly what Julian’s presence on campus meant.
Damon hung up without responding to Mason right away.
He sat there for a few seconds, shirtless, the white tape crossing his shoulder and chest, his hair disheveled from my hands and his mouth still marked by what we’d just done.
It was unfair that he looked like this at the exact moment the world turned threatening again.
Part of me wanted to pull him back, force him to stay in that post-body silence, in the space where he’d admitted he didn’t know if he was okay.
The other part—the one trained by four years of secrets and consequences—was already rising inside me, counting risks.
“You went pale,” Damon said, and it wasn’t a provocation. It was an observation, which made it worse.
“You just got news that your brother is on campus unannounced, asking for you after a call you avoided all day,” I responded, snatching his shirt from the floor and throwing it at him harder than necessary.
“If you want to turn my expression into a mystery, at least put some clothes on first. Julian probably won’t appreciate the aesthetic of post-moral-collapse sports recovery. ”
His mouth almost reacted, but the almost died when he pulled the shirt on carefully over his injured arm.
I moved closer instinctively to help and stopped before I could touch him.
Damon noticed the pause. The room became charged with a strange awareness, made of what we’d allowed minutes before and what we now forced ourselves to contain.
He finished putting on the shirt alone, slower than he should have, and I said nothing about the pain that crossed his face.
He said nothing about my hand frozen in midair.
“What do you know about Julian?” he asked.
The question came directly, without the cruel ornamentation Damon used when he wanted to make me stumble.
That scared me more. I went to the medical bag and started putting away the tapes, though the session had ended in a way no report would accept.
There was an old document hidden in my locker in the physical therapy room, an anonymous message on my phone, and Julian’s signature burning inside my head.
The right thing would be to tell. The prudent thing would be to wait.
The problem was that prudence, at Northaven, had always looked a lot like cowardice to those who paid the price of silence.
“I know he doesn’t do anything without a reason,” I responded, because it was true enough not to be a lie. “And I know that if he came in person, he wants to control something before it slips out of place.”
“Anyone who knows Julian knows that.”
“Then maybe you should ask yourself why it took you so long to suspect him.”
Damon’s face closed like an armored door.
The response had been sharper than I’d planned, and maybe part of me really did want to hurt him—not out of malice, but because he kept looking at me as if I kept secrets for pleasure.
I didn’t. A secret wasn’t treasure; it was dead weight tied to your ankle.
Damon stood up from the couch, adjusting the hem of his shirt with his right hand, and the movement brought back the captain, the Blackwood heir, the man capable of putting on control the same way he put on clothes.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
I laughed once, without humor, because the night had apparently decided to keep escalating into the absurd. “No.”
“If Julian came to talk about you, he’ll prefer that I show up alone. That’s reason enough for you to come.”
“I’m not a shield, Damon. Not bait. Not living proof for you to throw into the middle of a family fight.”
“And I’m not enough of an idiot to walk into a conversation with my brother knowing you have half the answers and are pretending they’re concentrated acid.”
The anger rose hot, but with it came an uncomfortable lucidity.
Damon was right, at least in part. Julian wanted me away from Damon, away from the program, and especially away from any document that linked his name to what had happened four years ago.
If I stayed at the penthouse, Julian would tell Damon a calibrated version before I had a chance to breathe.
If I went, maybe I’d become a target. But stationary targets bled too.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table. I glanced at it reflexively, expecting maybe another anonymous message, but it was my father.
“Julian requested dinner with sponsors. Damon must attend. You were included as medical officer.” Below, another line: “Be careful what you say.” I stared at the screen until Damon approached from behind me, too close but not touching.
I didn’t need to show him; I felt him reading over my shoulder.
“Looks like the decision’s already been made,” he said.
“Northaven loves making decisions about my body, my schedule, and my social ruin without consulting me,” I responded, locking the screen and grabbing my jacket.
“Let’s get this over with before I remember I can quit the internship, move to another country, and become a massage therapist for rich dogs somewhere without hockey. ”
“You’d hate rich dogs.”
“I hate rich captains. I’m gaining transferable experience.”
The restaurant Julian had chosen was fifteen minutes from campus, on a street where old buildings had been renovated to look discreet, though every door whispered inherited money.
The place was called Alder & Stone—low lighting, dark wood, glasses too delicate, and servers who looked at Damon as if they recognized not just a customer but an entire family institution.
I entered behind him with my jacket closed, my posture straight, and my heart beating at a rhythm that irritated me for its lack of discipline.
In theory, I was there as medical officer.
In practice, each step took me closer to the man who had helped turn my name into convenient guilt.
Julian Blackwood was waiting for us at a reserved table near the window, accompanied by two Northaven sponsors and a woman from the university's legal department.
He stood when he saw us, and my first thought, as always, was that Julian looked too expensive to be human.
Dark suit, understated watch, black hair perfectly in place, polite smile with no warmth behind it.
He was older than Damon, more polished, less physical, but they shared the same arrogant bone structure, the same kind of gaze that could size up your weaknesses before offering a greeting.
“Damon,” Julian said, embracing his brother with calculated care, as if the injury were a logistical detail rather than real pain.
Then his eyes shifted to me. His smile didn't change.
That bothered me more than if it had. “Noah Bennett.
I have to admit, I didn't expect to see you back at Northaven so soon.”
“I didn't expect to be having dinner with you either,” I replied, shaking the hand he offered because refusing would hand him too easy a victory. “Academic life has a questionable sense of humor.”
His hand was cold, dry, firm. He held on half a second longer than necessary—not enough to be rude, just enough to remind me he knew how to apply pressure without leaving a mark.
When he let go, Damon was staring at our hands, his jaw tight with that tension I already knew from the report and from bed.
It wasn't jealousy now. It was alertness. Maybe.
“Sit with us,” Julian said, gesturing to the chair across from him, right beside Damon. “Considering you now play such an intimate role in my brother's recovery, it seems only fair that we talk like adults.”
“Adults usually check a shared calendar before springing a dinner on someone,” I said, sitting because there was no graceful way to stay on my feet. “But I appreciate the effort at improvisation.”
Damon sat beside me, close enough that the side of his thigh almost touched mine under the table.
The proximity was accidental, technically speaking.
Neither of us moved our chair to correct it.
A waiter appeared, poured water, offered wine, and I declined before anyone could turn my glass into another thing to scrutinize.
Damon ordered only water too—a silent compliance with the medical plan that I noticed despite trying not to.
Julian noticed too, and his gaze slid over me with venomous subtlety.
“I see Noah has been strict,” Julian said, folding the napkin in his lap. “Damon has always resisted limits. Competitive family, you know.”
“Competitiveness doesn't repair an inflamed tendon,” I replied. “Limits aren't the enemy of performance. Sometimes they're the only reason performance keeps existing.”
“A noble philosophy,” Julian said, his smile thinning slightly. “Curious to hear it from someone who left Northaven so abruptly. I always imagined institutional limits weren't your specialty.”