Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
BASTION
The music was low and expensive—the kind meant to soothe egos too big to hold, floating beneath the clink of crystal glasses and shallow laughter.
A formal party, but just enough looseness in the collarbones to keep the testosterone from snapping.
The team had won. The sponsors were here.
The alumni. The press. And all the usual predators who wore silk gloves over knife-fingered ambition.
Griffin was here too.
Side-benched.
Still nursing his hand—wrapped, tucked close to his chest like an afterthought. But I knew better. We knew better.
Luca had broken each of his fingers.
One by one.
Not with a rage fit. Not with chaos.
With precision. Patience.
The kind that only made it worse.
And the bastard had too much pride to tell anyone what really happened. So now he stood in a corner pretending to laugh, drink in his left hand, pretending like his right hadn’t been shattered under Luca’s grip .
I didn’t give a fuck what story he spun.
My eyes weren’t on him.
They were on her.
Emilia stood across the room in a cluster of her cheer squad associates—half-glossed lips, half-rehearsed smiles. She wasn’t trying to shine. Didn’t need to. She was just there , and somehow that made everything else in the room fade into background noise.
Every now and then, someone from the other team—some heir with a swollen last name and a future empire stitched into his suit jacket—would try to angle closer. Offer a drink. A joke. A compliment she didn’t need.
She didn’t bite.
But she didn’t move away either.
Luca slid in beside me, glass in his hand.
Dark button-up open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he hadn’t even tried to make this look formal.
People were still hovering around us like gnats—girls in tight dresses, men in cufflinks, old men with dynasty plans disguised as networking.
But unless someone had a Crow crest tattooed across their back?
They weren’t worth the oxygen.
We didn’t make alliances. We didn’t need to. That was the problem.
Crows were always desired—always dangerous—but the fact we didn’t want to merge? That we didn’t need to marry into anyone’s bloodline to elevate our own?
That made us deadly.
Untouchable.
And everyone wanted a taste anyway.
“She’s been holding court over there for twenty minutes,” Luca muttered, sipping slowly.
I didn’t answer .
Didn’t need to.
My gaze hadn’t left her since we walked in.
She shifted slightly, laughing at something, fingers trailing the stem of her glass like she wasn’t fully invested. Her dress was black. Simple. Backless. A slit up one thigh that made my hands curl around the base of my glass just to stop myself from moving.
“Remember the party she kissed us at?” I said, voice low, keeping my gaze fixed.
Luca’s jaw twitched. “How could I forget?”
He exhaled a small breath, something like a laugh but darker.
“She made the move,” I murmured, tipping my glass toward my mouth. “Maybe it’s time we return the favor.”
Luca’s eyes flicked to mine. “In front of them? ”
“In front of everyone, ” I said, watching her.
Then I set my glass down.
Luca didn’t need a signal. He drained the rest of his drink and followed, slow and deliberate, like we weren’t just crossing a room—we were drawing a line through it.
The girls near her noticed first.
Their laughter trailed off mid-breath. One’s lips parted slightly. Another straightened her posture. That familiar flicker—half fear, half fascination—crossed their faces.
They all knew who we were.
Everyone in this room did.
Crows didn’t move without purpose. If we were coming toward you , it meant something.
But Emilia…
She hadn’t noticed yet.
Still mid-conversation. Still nodding politely to some heir from the North District whose suit cost more than most tuition and whose last name probably bought him into more rooms than his brain ever could.
She was listening, but not really there.
Too unbothered to realize the entire dynamic around her had shifted.
That every girl she stood with had either gone silent or leaned slightly—like they wanted to be mistaken for her.
Luca’s shoulder brushed mine once as we cut across the last row of polished dynasty kids, most of whom stepped aside instinctively. They didn’t try to hide it.
And still, she hadn’t looked up.
Not until I was close enough to touch her.
Close enough to smell that intoxicating soft scent.
She turned slightly, confused by the silence.
Then saw us.
Her lips parted—just slightly.
I didn’t wait.
Didn’t ask.
My hand came up, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around her throat—not tight, just enough to tilt her head, to let her feel me. My other hand gripped her hip, pulling her into me like I was done pretending she wasn’t mine.
And then I kissed her.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
I claimed her.
Breathless. Deep. Possessive. Like every second we’d spent apart had been a fucking mistake I was correcting now—in front of everyone.
She gasped against my mouth, but she didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. She melted.
Luca was already there.
Leaning against the bar beside her like this was nothing. Like the entire room wasn’t holding its breath. His hand slid around her waist, slow and sure, and then he pulled her back into him—his lips brushing her neck, her shoulder.
And when my mouth broke from hers, breath ragged, Luca was already there, turning her face toward him, capturing her lips with his like it was a promise.
He kissed her slow, deep, then pulled back just enough to breathe her in.
“What’s this about?” she whispered, breathless.
The fact she could still talk so quick?
Meant we hadn’t done a good enough job.
“You can’t get mad, baby,” I said, running my fingers down her spine. “You started it.”
Her lips parted again, but Luca was already touching her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek like she was something breakable.
“How’s your headache?” he asked. Voice calm. Dangerous. “Maybe we should go.”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“This is your victory party,” she reminded us, eyes darting between us like she still wasn’t sure if this was real.
Luca didn’t flinch. “ Headache , baby. How is it?”
He wasn’t letting it go. At times our obsessive traits get the best of us.
I let my hand slide up her side, curling around her waist, keeping her tucked between us like we had every right. Like we dared someone to say otherwise.
She hesitated. Then finally said, “It’s gone. I’m fine.”
People were still staring.
Phones were out. Eyes wide. Conversations hushed. But I didn’t give a damn.
What mattered—what made my chest burn with something closer to pride than anything I was used to—was that she wasn’t looking at them .
She was looking at us.
I slid my fingers into her hair, slow, careful not to tug. That headache she’d been complaining about earlier, I knew what it was from that stupid tight ponytail they made her wear for the uniform. Looked gorgeous, sure. But the thought of her needing to take painkillers just to handle it.
Made my jaw tighten.
“You eaten yet?” I asked, my hand still resting firm on her waist.
She didn’t answer. Still dazed. Still caught between the taste of our mouths and the heat pressed around her.
Luca’s fingers skimmed the back of her exposed neck, and I felt her shiver.
Then I saw them.
Those pink eyes.
Big. Glassy. A little wild. The kind she gave us when she wanted something but didn’t want to say it out loud.
I groaned, low and rough, and saw the way Luca’s breath hitched too.
She was wrecking us.
“Keep looking at us like that,” I warned, voice thick, “and we’ll take you around the corner, get you on your knees, and fill that pretty little mouth.”
Her lips parted. No sound. Just that sharp, shaky breath that told me she liked it.
No. Loved it.
And the way her thighs shifted—just slightly?
Confirmed it.
“Might be doing you a favor. Could help with that headache.” Luca smirked, lazy and dangerous.
She blushed—real, deep, and fucking beautiful—and muttered under her breath, “Idiots,” before lifting her glass and taking a sip, like that would cool the heat we’d just poured into her bloodstream.
Luca didn’t let her get away with it.
He took the glass from her hand, holding it up to the light. “What even is this?”
She gave him a look. “It’s wine.”
He sniffed it, then shook his head in disgust. “Barely.”
As if that fifty-thousand-dollar bottle of wine she’d been sipping wasn’t good enough to touch her lips.
And I got it.
I agreed .
He waved a hand at the bartender, signaling for something better. Actual liquor. The kind reserved for men with names that made people nervous. The kind that came out of hidden compartments and was only uncorked for us .
I leaned in, brushing her hair off her shoulder so I could speak directly into her ear. “Food. Did you eat?”
She shivered, barely, just enough for me to feel it.
Then she shook her head, almost sheepish.
Luca was already watching her. Already reading the same thing I was. The pink still high on her cheeks. The hunger she wouldn’t admit. The way she tilted ever so slightly between us like her body knew where she belonged.
“Better idea,” Luca said, lifting the bottle the bartender had just handed over. Something dark and expensive and dangerous.
He looked at me, then back at her.
“Let’s leave.”
Emilia blinked, caught between surprise and curiosity. “Now?”
Luca tilted the bottle toward her. “Unless you’d rather keep pretending this party is worth your time.”
I stepped in behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of my chest at her back. “Come on, baby,” I murmured into her ear. “You already gave them a show. Let’s not waste the encore.”
She hesitated for half a breath.
Then she grabbed her clutch off the bar, and turned—eyes flicking between us.
“Fine,” she said, voice steady but low. “But if we leave, we’re not coming back.”