Chapter 96: 81.2 - CONFESSION
The ringing echo of cheers and a digital applause still hummed in the periphery of my Mind Palace, a phantom sensation after ending the livestream between Selene and Azalea.
Selene, the ancient, battle-hardened mage, and Azalea, the modern, pragmatic doctor. Sometimes, I swear, my inner world was more chaotic than the actual ER on a Saturday night.
"Bloody hell," I muttered to the empty air of my Mind Palace’s main hall, rubbing my temples.
"Mental acrobatics like that should come with a hazard pay."
But then, the thought hit me.
That controlled chaos, the need to keep two powerful, conflicting personalities from tearing each other—and me—apart, it mirrored something else entirely. Something real. Something I was desperately trying to avoid acknowledging.
The world was spinning, or maybe it was just me.
How many gulps of gin had I downed tonight? I couldn’t even remember.
All I knew was the reek of alcohol clinging to my pristine graduation gown, and it felt so right. So perfectly, disgustingly right. Graduating from medical school, poised to be a brilliant surgeon, yet here I was, a pathetic, drunken mess sprawled across my own apartment.
And there he was, Satoko, sitting on my sofa, radiating that infuriating, untouchable grace. Too pure, too perfect for someone like me, whose brain felt like it had been run through a blender.
I let out a harsh, cynical laugh, my throat raw.
"Satisfied, Prince Charming?"
He turned, his brows barely twitching. His short, dark hair was impeccably neat, framing a face that was almost criminally handsome. God, he was beautiful. Too beautiful.
"Kairi, you’re drunk," he stated, his voice flat, edged with a weariness that only fueled my fire.
"Oh, really? No s***, Sherlock." I dragged myself across the floor, my limbs heavy and uncooperative.
"I’m drunk. And you... why are you never drunk, Satoko? Why are you always so damn composed?"
I jabbed a finger at his knee, covered by the expensive fabric of his dress pants. It felt hot, or maybe my hand was just burning up with a fever of my own making.
"Why don’t you ever touch me? Why am I never enough for you, huh?"
A wave of bitter self-loathing washed over me, a familiar, acrid taste.
It was disgusting. He was only here out of pity, I was sure of it. Noble Doctor Satoko, always extending a hand to the pathetic and the broken. And tonight, I was his prime exhibit.
He took a slow, deep breath, his eyes narrowing, a subtle warning in their depths. "Kairi, stop it. You don’t know what you’re saying."
"Don’t know? I know exactly what I’m saying!" I cackled, a raw, ugly sound, leaning closer until the hot, boozy breath from my lungs must have choked him. "Or maybe, I am repulsive, aren’t I? Is that why you never want... more than this?" I seized his hand, forcing it to my burning cheek. "Touch me, Satoko. Touch me like you want me, not like I’m some charity case!"
He ripped his hand away, his eyes flaring with a sudden, furious heat. "Enough, Kairi!"
"Enough of what?! Enough of the truth?! Enough because you’re scared to admit that I’m not some perfect little trophy you can parade around?!" Pain, sharp and visceral, mixed with the raging fury and a desperate, burning desire that felt like it would tear me apart. I grabbed his wrist again, my fingers digging into his flesh. "Why do you keep showing up?! Why do you keep being here if you don’t f***ing want me?! WHY?!"
And then, the damn broke.
"I LOVE YOU, YOU IDIOT!"
Satoko’s shout tore through the room, reverberating off the walls, and something inside me shattered. My anger, a raging inferno moments before, vanished, replaced by... what was this? Shock? A blinding, overwhelming relief?
"Then why the f*** did you never touch me?!" My own scream ripped from my throat, no longer fueled by pure rage, but by years of buried frustration, a gnawing ache I’d carried inside me. "Why couldn’t you just say it?! Why did you keep driving me absolutely f***ing insane?!"
His eyes were glistening, but he wasn’t crying. There was only pure, unadulterated fire in them, a volatile mix of fury and... yes, love. I saw it now, stark and undeniable. I’d been a blind fool.
Unconsciously, instinctively, I lunged forward, pulling him to me. He didn’t resist. Our mouths crashed together, a raw, desperate collision. This wasn’t a gentle, tender kiss. This was a brutal exchange of anger, a furious claiming, a mutual surrender from two people who had vehemently denied their own devastating feelings for far too long. I tasted the bitter salt of tears on my tongue, my own or his, I couldn’t tell. We devoured each other, punishing and pleading, until, finally, we simply gave in. Surrendered to the overwhelming wave that had threatened to drown us for years.
My hands moved, possessed by a will of their own. I tore at the buttons of his shirt, my fingers fumbling, trembling. The expensive fabric wrinkled and bunched as I yanked it open, then off, tossing it haphazardly to the floor.
The sight of his defined chest, pale in the dim apartment light, made a sharp, strangled hiss escape my lips. God, he was utterly magnificent. This felt terrifyingly real, yet also like the most depraved fantasy I’d ever dared to entertain.
I crawled over him, my body heavy and eager, pressing myself against him, my lips trailing fire down his neck, over his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin, perhaps from sweat or the drying tears. My body trembled uncontrollably, not just from the gin coursing through my veins, but from the raw, feral madness that had been dormant for so long.
"S***," I rasped, my voice hoarse and raw, "I hate this." I pushed him gently, forcing him to recline on the sofa, his head hitting the soft cushion. My mind was a chaotic storm: disgusted with myself for this forceful, almost coercive act, yet simultaneously consumed by an insane, desperate hunger for him. All my internal filters were obliterated. My brakes were gone, and I was speeding toward a glorious, terrifying unknown.
He watched me, his eyes still shimmering with unshed tears, a flicker of fear mixed with... something else. Raw, unbridled desire. It only pushed me further over the edge. I leaned down, kissing him again, deeper, harder, more brutally. I could taste the bitter gin mingled with the intoxicating flavor of his own mouth.
"You deserve better," he whispered, the words barely audible between our punishing kisses, yet he didn’t push me away. That contradiction, that passive consent, drove me absolutely wild. He said one thing, but his body screamed another.
"F*** that," I mumbled, ripping off the last of my own clothes, discarding them like trash. My hands moved to the waistband of his dress pants, pulling them down, fumbling with the zipper.
He gasped, a sharp intake of breath, but there was no strong resistance.
I could have stopped.
No, I should have stopped.
But the idea was unthinkable.
I was too drunk, too desperate, too long starved.
