Chapter 1
Lucien
The taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to focus on anything but the memory of Seraphina on her knees in the chapel. Coach Fontaine's whistle shrieks across the court, drilling into my skull like a fucking ice pick.
“Devereux! What the fuck was that pass? My grandmother could throw better, and she's been dead for fifteen years!”
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn't win games or championships,” he barks, his face reddening beneath his crew cut. “Again! And this time, try acting like the goddamn captain you're supposed to be! The Wildcats aren’t gonna wait for you to get your shit together.”
The gym echoes with the squeak of shoes against polished hardwood as we reset the drill.
Cassian gives me a look that says, what the fuck is wrong with you?
I ignore him. Two hours into practice, and I've fucked up more times than in the entire last season.
All because I can't stop thinking about hazel eyes, red hair, and the way her skirt rode up just enough to show the lace tops of her stockings.
I need to focus. I repeat it to myself as I dribble the ball hard enough to make my palm sting.
Driving to the basket, I fake out Watkins before making a clean pass to Asher, who sinks a three-pointer with his usual smirk. Coach blows his whistle again, but this time he's not yelling.
“That's more like it! Now do it again, and maybe I'll let you sorry fucks go home before midnight!”
We run the same drill ten more times. By the eighth repetition, my legs are burning, lungs screaming for air.
Coach Fontaine isn't letting up—not for me, not for any of us.
Doesn't matter that my family name is on half the buildings on campus.
Doesn't matter that I could have him fired with one phone call.
On this court, he's God, and I'm just another player who needs to earn his minutes.
“Suicides!” he yells after we finish the drill. “Five sets! Winner gets to skip Saturday morning practice.”
The team groans collectively. Saturday morning practice is pure fucking torture—five AM, usually after everyone's been out partying the night before.
I set my jaw and line up at the baseline.
This, at least, I can control. This pain is simple and clean.
Easy to push through. Mind over matter or whatever that sage ass advice is. Not like the mess inside my head.
“Go!”
I explode off the line, pushing my body to its limits. Touch the free-throw line, back to baseline. Touch half-court, back to baseline. Touch the far free-throw line, back to baseline. Touch the far baseline, back to baseline. One suicide down, four to go.
By the third set, half the team is dragging ass, some even puking in trash cans along the sidelines.
Weaklings, puke if you have to but then get back to it.
Push through the pain, it’s all fucking mental, anyway.
You have to have ultimate control over your body and how it reacts.
We’re wrapping up the final suicide when coach yells.
“Water break! Two minutes!”
I grab my bottle, squeezing water into my mouth and over my head. Across the court, Asher is doubled over, hands on his knees.
“You good?” I ask him, not because I give a shit, but because I need him functional for the season.
“Fuck you,” he pants, which means he's fine.
Cassian saunters over, somehow looking composed despite the sweat drenching his practice jersey. “Blond isn’t really his type, Ash,” he says, smirking.
Coach's whistle blasts again before I can respond, which is good because I was about to put Cassian through the fucking wall.
“Five-on-five! Black team—Devereux, Crawford, Miller, Zhang, Rodriguez. Red team—Crowe, Jefferson, Watkins, Parker, Hernandez. Let's go!”
I take my position at point guard, dribbling the ball slowly as I survey the court. The familiar rhythm centers me, gives my energy somewhere to go.
The court is my kingdom, and for a few blessed minutes, I lose myself in the game. Cassian guards me tight, his defense always a challenge worth meeting. I fake left, drive right, and break past him to slam the ball through the hoop with enough force to make the backboard shudder.
“That's what I'm fucking talking about!” Coach bellows, actually looking pleased for once.
We're up by six when the gym doors swing open, letting in a blast of cooler air and the high-pitched chatter of female voices. My concentration doesn't break—I intercept a pass from Jefferson to Watkins without even turning my head—but I clock the interruption. A group of girls filters into the bleachers, giggling and whispering like they're at a goddamn slumber party. Any other time and I’d enjoy the attention, it feeds my fucking ego even if I’d never touch any of them. I don’t shit where I eat.
I recognize the three bitches from hell—Blake, Bosworth, and Whitney—perched in the front row.
They've changed out of their uniforms into tight tops and shorter skirts, perfume practically visible as it wafts across the court. You’d think with the amount of money their families make they could afford something that doesn’t assault my senses.
“Pick up the pace, fuckers!” I shout to my team, driving harder into the paint just to prove a point.
I slam another dunk, hanging off the rim for a second longer than necessary.
Not because I'm showing off—I don't give a fuck who's watching—but because I need to establish dominance. This is my court and if you give an inch someone will take a mile. I don’t feel like having blood under my fingernails right now.
“Devereux, stop hot-dogging and play the game!” Coach yells, but I can tell he's impressed.
The girls have brought reinforcements—a few more St. Augustine girls and even some guys from the debate team who probably came to drool over the girls rather than watch us play. The bleachers are filling up, the energy in the gym shifting from practice intensity to performance pressure.
I catch Asher shooting a wink toward the stands as he sinks a three-pointer. The responding squeals make me want to vomit.
“Focus, Crawford,” I growl, shoving the ball into his chest for the next play. “You can get your dick wet after we win on Saturday.”
“Jealous I might get some attention?” he fires back, his shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Please. I don't need to try.” And it's true. I can feel their eyes on me—especially the blonde one, Serena, who's practically undressing me with her gaze. She's been trying to get in my pants since freshman year, doesn't seem to understand that I don't recycle the team's leftovers.
We run another play, this time with Cassian breaking through our defense to score.
The red team cheers, and I notice how Jefferson puffs out his chest when he catches one of the girls watching him with hungry eyes.
Fucking pathetic. If they knew what a two-pump chump Jefferson is, they'd stop staring at him like he's God's gift.
The next play is a mess. Miller fumbles a perfectly good pass, and Coach loses his shit, throwing his clipboard to the floor with a crash that echoes through the gym.
“That's enough!” Coach Fontaine bellows, his face turning that special shade of purple that means we've pushed him too far. “Hit the showers. Practice tomorrow, usual damn time. And if any of you show up hungover, you'll run until you puke your guts out.”
Finally, I grab my water bottle and chug what's left, letting the cold liquid soothe my parched throat. My jersey clings to my sweat-soaked skin as I make my way toward the locker room, already planning the ice bath I desperately need.
But before I can get three steps off the court, I see Serena and her fucking entourage making a beeline straight for us. Serena's wearing a skirt so short it barely qualifies as clothing, and her top is cut low enough I think I see the edge of her nipple.
“Lucien!” she calls out, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “You were amazing out there.”
I stop dead in my tracks, fixing her with a stare that would make most people shrivel. “What do you want?”
She doesn't flinch, just steps closer, invading my personal space.
“We're having a little get-together at my place tonight,” she purrs, running a finger down my arm. “Thought you and the boys might want to join us.” Her friends giggle behind her like this is all part of some practiced routine.
I look at her finger on my skin like it's a cockroach I'm about to crush. “Take your hand off me.”
She blinks, confusion crossing her face before she quickly recovers, pulling her hand back but not stepping away. “Playing hard to get? I like that.”
“No, I'm playing 'not interested,'” I say, my voice flat and cold. “Not now, not ever. Do I need to spell it out for you? I. Don't. Want. Your. Cunt.”
The gym goes eerily quiet. Even her friends stop giggling, eyes wide with shock.
“You don't mean that,” she says, her voice smaller now. “Everyone knows we'd be perfect together—”
“Perfect?” I laugh, and it's not a nice sound. “The only thing you'd be perfect for is a quick fuck in a bathroom stall that I'd regret before I even zipped up my pants. And I don't do regrets.”
Her face flushes red, embarrassment and anger warring within her.
“And if you ever touch me again,” I step closer, towering over her, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper that only she and her little friends can hear, “I'll make sure the Blake name disappears from every board, every donor list, and every fucking social register in this state.
Your daddy's company will mysteriously lose all its contracts, your trust fund will evaporate, and you'll be explaining to Daddy Dearest why your entire bloodline got wiped out because you couldn't keep your desperate hands to yourself.”
Her face drains of color so fast I'm almost impressed. The mascara-rimmed eyes that were trying to seduce me seconds ago now fill with tears.
Behind me, I hear Cassian let out a low whistle followed by poorly concealed laughter. Asher doesn't even try to hide it, his cackling echoing through the gym.
“You—you can't do that,” she stammers, but her voice trembles with the knowledge that I absolutely fucking can.
“Try me.” I smile, all teeth and threat. “Now get the fuck out of my sight before I decide to make an example of you anyway.”
The girls huddle together like frightened sheep, whispering furiously as they back away. Serena's face is a twisted mask of humiliation and rage as she storms off, her heels clicking aggressively against the polished floor, her minions scurrying after her.
“Jesus Christ, Devereux,” Asher chokes out between laughs as we push through the locker room doors. “Did you have to nuke her entire existence? I was planning to maybe hook up with Taylor next weekend.”
I strip off my sweat-soaked jersey, tossing it into my locker. “Find someone who doesn't make my dick want to crawl back inside my body.”
Cassian shakes his head, still smirking as he unties his shoes. “You know her father sits on the university board, right? He's not exactly a nobody.”
“Do I look like I give a fuck?” I grab my towel, heading for the showers. “Blake Industries has been sucking Devereux Corp's dick for contracts since before we were born. Her father knows better than to cross my family.”
“Still,” Asher calls after me, “you could've just said no like a normal person instead of threatening generational extinction.”
“Normal is boring,” I call back, turning on the shower and stepping under the scalding spray. The hot water pounds against my tired muscles, washing away sweat and tension. I close my eyes, trying to clear my head, but all I see is Seraphina.
My cock stirs, hardening despite my exhaustion.
She’s still fucking haunting me. I turn the water to cold, gritting my teeth as the icy spray hits me like a thousand needles.
That’s better. The last thing I need is to walk out of here with a fucking hard-on for my half-sister. Not that anyone knows that.