Chapter 9
Lucien
Ifeel her presence before I see her.
My blood hums with recognition, like a predator sensing its natural prey. The air in the cavernous great hall of the Devereux mansion shifts, electrifies, as Seraphina steps through the massive double doors.
She’s wearing my dress. The black silk clings to every curve like it was poured over her body, the neckline plunging between her tits in a way that makes my cock twitch behind the expensive fabric of my tailored pants.
The slit up the side exposes a long stretch of creamy thigh with each step she takes.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
“Bold choice. Your father looks like he’s about to have a coronary,” Asher murmurs beside me, sipping champagne as he tracks her movements. Cassian snorts, adjusting his black tie.
I don’t need to look at Vincent to know Asher’s right. I can feel my father’s rage radiating from across the room where he stands with the other elders. Let him fucking seethe.
Seraphina moves through the crowd like she owns the fucking place, despite the whispers trailing in her wake. She looks defiant even with the fear she’s desperately trying to hide. My cock hardens just watching her pretend she’s not terrified.
“You’re staring,” Cassian mutters, nudging me with his elbow. “Try to look a little less like you want to bend her over the nearest surface.”
“I do want to bend her over the nearest surface,” I reply without taking my eyes off her. “And I don’t give a fuck who knows it.”
Around the edges of the room, I notice Valentina in her pristine dark red dress, playing the perfect Society princess. She’s flanked by Ophelia, Asher’s stepsister. The girl looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, wearing a dark emerald dress that’s elegant but doesn’t scream pick me.
My gaze sweeps over the other “eligible” daughters scattered throughout the room—the Montgomery girl with her desperate smile, the Whitmore heiress practically shoving her tits in my direction, the Blake’s youngest daughter hovering near the champagne fountain.
They’re all done up like fucking Christmas presents waiting to be unwrapped.
The joke’s on them. They were never real options. Not for me, not for Cassian with his pathetic hard-on for Valentina, not even for Asher who’s been eyeing his new sibling with a look that would make their parents disown them both if they knew.
We’ve all already Chosen. Some of us years ago when Seraphina first caught my eye across a crowded ballroom. Some more recently, like Asher’s sudden interest in forbidden fruit.
The ancient grandfather clock strikes ten, and the room falls silent as The Head steps onto the raised dais at the front of the hall. My father—the great Vincent Devereux—in his element, commanding attention with nothing but his presence. I hate how much I resemble him.
“Welcome to the annual Black Crown Society Sinners Choosing Ceremony,” he begins, his voice carrying to every corner of the massive room without effort. “Tonight, we continue a tradition that has sustained our society for generations.”
I tune out most of his bullshit speech, keeping my eyes locked on Seraphina. She’s pressed herself against a column, trying to blend into the shadows. It won’t work; it never works when I’m around.
“This is not just a ceremony,” Vincent continues, his voice dropping to that tone that makes everyone lean in. “This is your summons. Cross the threshold, and you will not return unchanged.”
The room is silent enough to hear a fucking pin drop. Even the servers have frozen in place, sensing the gravity of the moment.
“Every crown is bought with blood. Yours or another’s.
” My father’s eyes sweep the room, lingering briefly on Seraphina before finding me.
The challenge in his gaze is unmistakable.
He thinks I won’t choose her, that I’ll spare her the embarrassment and humiliation when it comes out we’re siblings.
It’s her or no one, and I’ll follow tradition and choose.
I’d rather lock her away and keep her from anyone else, and it’ll be my cross to bear.
Having my obsession and yet not being able to really have her because of my fucking father and her mother.
Vincent raises his hand, silencing the murmurs that have started to ripple through the crowd. His eyes lock with mine, a cold warning flickering in their depths.
“Now,” he says, his voice carrying across the hall, “our Sinners will mingle. Tradition dictates they speak with each potential choice before the final selection.”
He waves his hand dismissively at Cassian, Asher, and me. The gesture is casual but loaded with meaning. Go play your part in this fucked-up pageant.
“Don’t embarrass me,” my father adds under his breath as I walk past him, just low enough that only I can hear.
I give him a smile that’s down right devilish. “You do enough of that yourself.”
I can feel the eyes of every Society parent on us—calculating, hoping, scheming. Each one thinking their precious daughter might be the one we choose.
“This is such bullshit,” Asher mutters, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing server and downing it in one go. His eyes keep darting to where Ophelia stands, looking bored as hell next to a chattering Valentina.
“Play nice,” Cassian warns, his face a perfect mask of polite interest as the Montgomery girl practically throws herself in his path. “We have roles to fulfill.”
I scan the room for Seraphina, but she’s disappeared from her spot by the column. Fucking typical. Always trying to run from what’s inevitable.
“Lucien,” a breathy voice purrs next to me. I turn to find Vanessa Bosworth pressing her tits against my arm, her dress cut so low I can practically see her fucking belly button. “I’ve been hoping to speak with you.”
“Vanessa,” I acknowledge flatly, not bothering to hide my disinterest. “How’s your father’s insider trading case going?”
Her face falls for a split second before she recovers, plastering on that practiced smile again. “Daddy says it’s all a misunderstanding. You know how these things are.”
“Sure do.” I step away from her, creating distance. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I work my way through the daughters like I’m checking items off a fucking grocery list. The Blake girl with her nervous giggle.
The Whitmore heiress who not-so-subtly mentions the merger possibilities between our families.
Each one more desperate than the last, all of them thinking they have a chance when they never fucking did.
All the while, I’m tracking Seraphina through the crowd. She’s like a ghost, appearing briefly before slipping away again. Playing hard to get when she’s already been caught.
After an hour of this bullshit, Vincent signals to us from across the room. Time for the next phase. Cassian, Asher, and I break away from our respective conversations and head toward the east wing of the mansion. Each of us knows what’s coming next.
“Gentlemen,” one of the masked attendants says, bowing slightly as we approach the ornate door that leads to the ceremonial chamber.
The ancient wood is carved with symbols only those initiated into Black Crown can truly understand—power, legacy, blood oath.
“Are you prepared to make your selections?”
“Get on with it,” I growl, straightening my tie. My patience is fucking paper-thin tonight. All I can think about is Seraphina in that dress.
The attendant’s face remains impassive behind his mask. “Very well. Please follow the traditional protocol.”
We line up before him—me first, as heir to the Devereux legacy, then Cassian, then Asher. The hierarchy is clear, has been since we were children playing in these same halls. I lean in close to the attendant’s ear, my voice low enough that only he can hear.
“Seraphina Carvelli.”
I feel rather than see his slight hesitation, the momentary stiffening of his shoulders before he nods once.
Cassian steps up next, whispering his choice.
His face betrays nothing, but I already know who he’s Chosen.
The De la Cruz girl has been his obsession since we were teenagers.
A forbidden fucking fruit if there ever was one, with the blood feud between their families stretching back generations. How very Shakespearean of them.
Asher is last, his usual smirk replaced with something more serious as he leans in to make his selection. When he steps back, there’s a darkness in his eyes I recognize all too well. We’re all about to cross lines tonight that can’t be uncrossed.
The attendant bows again. “It will be done. Please enter the chamber and prepare yourselves.”
We walk into the ceremonial room, and the heavy door closes behind us with a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut.
The space is dimly lit with dozens of black candles, their flames casting long shadows across the stone walls.
A massive table of polished obsidian dominates the center, three ornate chairs positioned along one side.
Above it hangs the original Sinners emblem—a twisted crown of thorns cast in black metal, dripping with what looks like fresh blood but is actually some kind of resin that never dries.
On the table, three masks await us. Blood red, with a subtle glow emanating from beneath the surface, as if the material itself is alive.
More modern than the ornate masks Sinners used to wear but this is a new generation heralding in.
Lifting the mask to my face I slide it on and it conforms to my face.
The world shifts through the eye sockets, everything bathed in a crimson glow.
“Fuck, I hate this room,” Asher mutters, loosening his tie slightly as he drops into one of the chairs. “Always feels like the walls are watching us.”
“They are,” Cassian says, running his finger along the edge of the stone table. “The eyes of every Sinner who came before us.”