Chapter III
Lucien
I'm in her fucking room, and it smells like her.
Not exactly how I planned to spend my Friday night, but the second I found out which dorm they assigned her, I knew I'd end up here. The keys to every building on campus have been in my possession since freshman year—perks of having the Devereux name.
I lock the door behind me and stand in the darkness for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. The moon casts enough light through the window to illuminate the small space.
Single room. Of course she got a single.
Daddy Carvelli might be a second-rate power player compared to my father, but he still has enough pull to secure his daughter some privacy.
I wonder if Elliott Carvelli knows his princess doesn’t share his blood but my own.
“Seraphina,” I whisper her name into the empty room, testing how it feels in my mouth as I infect her place with my presence. Three years of not saying it aloud, and now it's all I want to say for the last few days.
I know I shouldn't be here. This is the kind of shit that gets restraining orders slapped on normal people. But I've never been normal, and the rules that apply to everyone else have never applied to me.
Moving to her desk first, I run my fingers over her textbooks.
Advanced Economics, Constitutional Law, Ethics in Business—heavy reading for someone who used to tell me she wanted to study art history.
I flip through her planner, memorizing her schedule.
Monday through Thursday are packed with classes, study groups in the library on Tuesdays and Fridays.
Her laptop sits closed on the desk. Password protected, I'm sure, but that's easy enough to get around if I really wanted to.
The bathroom door is ajar, and I push it open.
Her toothbrush stands in a cup next to the sink—lavender, manual, not electric.
Same as before. Some things haven't changed.
I open the medicine cabinet, scanning the contents: birth control pills, Advil, allergy medication, face wash that smells better than it should.
I return to the main room and move toward her dresser. This is where it gets really fucking pathetic, but I don't care. I need to know everything about her now. What she wears, what she sleeps in, what touches her skin.
The top drawer slides open silently. Socks, tights, and some scarves. Boring. I move to the second drawer and hit the jackpot.
Underwear. Lots of it, and not the cotton shit she used to wear when I would have her pushed up in every hidden alcove at St. Catherine’s.
I pick up a black lace thong, rubbing the delicate fabric between my fingers. It's so small, barely anything to it. I hold it to my nose and inhale deeply, groaning at the faint scent of her laundry soap.
Stuffing the thong into my pocket, my cock getting even harder at the thought of carrying a piece of her with me.
Moving to her closet, I push the door open, running my fingers along the row of identical uniforms. Countless white dress shirts, black sweater vests with the large white A embroidered on the breast, black pleated skirts all hanging in perfect order. So fucking proper, so perfectly St. Augustine.
I finger one of the black sweater vests, rubbing the soft material between my thumb and forefinger. In my mind, I see it marked with a black A instead. The sweater a blood red, marked by a Sinner, not a Saint. No pink for her. Marked by me. She should be wearing my colors, no one else’s.
She looks so much better in red, to go with that fiery ass attitude and hair the color of flames.
Behind the uniforms, I find her regular clothes—designer labels I can recognize from anywhere.
Valentino, Gucci, Prada. Expensive shit that she can't wear on campus with their dress code policies.
The elite playing dress-up as proper students, as if wearing a college uniform somehow sets them up for success in the real world.
I run my hand over a silky black dress, imagining how it would cling to her curves. How easy it would be to push up over her hips when I bend her over.
This is getting pathetic. Breaking into her room, stealing her underwear, fantasizing about her clothes. I'm acting like some lovesick teenager instead of the man who's about to take over The Sinners.
But I can't help it. Three years without her, and now she's back within my reach. It's like a fucking addiction. One taste was never going to be enough.
I turn away from the closet and move toward her bed.
The sheets are pulled tightly and everything perfectly in its place.
So controlled, just like she always was on the surface.
I remember how that control would shatter when I had my fingers inside her, when she'd bite down on her fist to keep from screaming.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, I run my hand over the comforter. I wonder if my hand is tracing the same path as hers, each thread has been touched by the both of us.
A quick glance at my watch tells me her Advanced Ethics class ended five minutes ago. She should be heading back now.
I lean back on her bed, making myself comfortable. The mattress barely gives under my weight. I cross my ankles, fold my hands behind my head, and wait. This moment has been years in the making. I want to savor every second of it.
A key slides into the lock. The handle turns and then the door is swinging open.
She walks in, her back to me as she closes the door behind her.
“You really should pay more attention to your surroundings, Little Sinner.”
She whirls around, a gasp caught in her throat. Her books tumble from her arms, hitting the floor with a series of thuds that echo in the sudden silence.
“Lucien,” she whispers, and hearing my name on her lips again is like a fucking shot of heroin straight to my veins.
“In the flesh.” I don't move from my position on her bed, letting her take in the sight of me sprawled across her space, claiming it like I've claimed everything else in life.
Her shock quickly morphs into anger, those hazel eyes darkening to the color of a forest before a storm. “How the fuck did you get in here?”
Smirk, I twirl my key around my finger. “I have my ways.”
“Get out.” Her voice is steel, but I can hear the slight tremor beneath it.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” I sit up slowly, never taking my eyes off her.
She's still in her uniform—white button-up shirt tucked into a black pleated skirt that hits mid-thigh, exposing those legs I used to mark with my fingertips.
Her red hair is pulled back in a tight braided ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
“Get out,” she repeats, her voice stronger this time. She bends to gather her fallen books, keeping her eyes on me like I'm a predator that might pounce. She's not wrong.
“Not even a hello? After all this time?” I click my tongue in disapproval. “Your manners have gone to shit, Seraphina.”
She straightens up, clutching her books to her chest like a shield. Then she fucking growls at me. An actual growl, low in her throat, lips pulled back to show her teeth.
I almost laugh. She looks like an angry kitten trying to intimidate a wolf. It's so fucking cute I almost smile, which would ruin the whole vibe. The sound goes straight to my cock, though, reminding me of other times she made that noise. Usually when my hand was between her legs.
“I don't owe you shit, Lucien,” she spits, tossing her books onto her desk with enough force to make her lamp wobble. “Especially not after you broke into my fucking room like some psycho stalker. What's next? Going through my underwear drawer?”
If she only knew. The thong in my pocket feels like it's burning a hole through the fabric.
“Such a mouth on you,” I say, standing up to my full height, watching as she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. I tower over her, using every inch of my six-foot-five frame to remind her how easily I could overpower her. “You're like a feral little feline, all hiss and claws.”
Her cheeks flush with anger. “Fuck you.”
“But I know exactly how to tame cats, Seraphina. How to make them arch their backs and beg for more. How to make them purr.”
“Don't,” she whispers, but she doesn't step back.
My cock throbs painfully against my zipper. I want to grab her, throw her on that pristine bed, and remind her body who the fuck it belongs to. I want to rip those prim clothes off and mark every inch of her skin until there's no doubt who owns her.
But I can't. The thought of my father and her mother makes bile rise in my throat even as my dick stays hard as fucking steel.
“What's wrong, Little Sinner? Afraid you'll like it too much?” I trace one finger along her jawline, not quite touching her skin but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her.
She slaps my hand away, her eyes blazing. Taking a deep breath, something changes in her posture. The fire dims in her eyes, shoulders slumping slightly as she steps back.
“Just leave me alone, Lucien,” she says, her voice flat and empty. “I didn't ask to come back here. I just want to keep my head down and get the fuck away from this place as soon as I'm able. I don't want any problems. I'll stay out of your way.”
I cock my head, studying her like the fascinating creature she is.
Something's off. Her words say one thing, but her body tells a different story entirely.
She's trying so hard to force herself to match those empty words, but Seraphina's never been good at hiding from me. I can read everyone, especially her.
“You've always been every single one of my problems, Little Sinner,” I say, letting a cruel smile play across my lips. “So I guess it's tradition at this point. Like fucking Christmas, but with more daddy issues.”
I step entirely into her personal space, crowding her until her back hits the wall.
Dipping my head down into the curve of her neck, I inhale deeply.
She does the same, a small sniff that she tries to disguise, but I feel it.
Her body locks up like a Pavlovian response to my cologne—the same one I've worn since we were teenagers.
Custom-made, because nothing mass-produced would ever touch my skin.
“You were born property of Black Crown,” I whisper into her ear, letting my lips brush against the sensitive skin there.
“You'll stay property of Black Crown, and you'll die property of Black Crown. Just like me.” I pull back just enough to see the shiver that runs through her.
“You can run and you can hide, but we all end up paying the Society in blood, one way or another.
I'll be seeing you real soon, Miss Carvelli.”