Chapter 13
Seraphina
Revenge is better when it’s wearing someone else’s jersey.
The game starts in an hour, and I wasn’t going to go. I really wasn’t. But after my mother’s visit, after Lucien’s little closet stunt this morning—something in me has snapped. Clean in half. The perfect Society daughter is dead, and what’s left is pure, undiluted rage.
I dial a number I haven’t used in months. Three rings later, a familiar voice answers.
“Seraphina Carvelli. What kind of trouble are you looking for today?”
“Hey, Nicholas.” I smile despite myself. Nicholas Taylor, my father’s most efficient fixer. The man who can get anything, anytime, anywhere. “I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need a Westfield Wolves basketball jersey. Number 19. Jackson Reid. Within the hour.”
There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Planning to piss someone off?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Consider it done. I’ll have it at your dorm in forty-five.”
I hang up and head for the shower, stripping off my clothes as I go.
The icy water does its job, shocking my system back to sanity. By the time I step out, my skin is covered in goosebumps, but my mind is clear. Tonight isn’t about Lucien or my fucked-up attraction to him. It’s about sending a message: I don’t belong to him.
I blow-dry my hair into loose waves before throwing it up into a perky cheerleader-esque ponytail and apply my makeup. Bold and daring.
Nicholas delivers right on time, knocking on my door exactly forty-five minutes later. When I open it, he hands me a shopping bag with a smirk.
“One Westfield Wolves jersey, as requested. Had to bribe the equipment manager, but what else is new?”
I peek inside—the silver and black jersey looks pristine. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“I know.” He studies my face, his expression turning serious. “Whatever you’re planning, be careful. Your father would kill me if anything happened to you.”
“Nothing’s going to happen, probably. Don’t worry, Nicky. I’m an adult, as my mother reminded me earlier.”
“I’m sure you are,” he says with a slight eye-roll. “Just...don’t do anything that’ll require me to clean up afterward, okay? I’ve got plans tonight.”
“No promises,” I tell him with a wink, already closing the door.
As soon as Nick is gone, I pull the Westfield jersey from the bag, running my fingers over the smooth silver and black fabric. Number 19 emblazoned in bold lettering across the back, with REID spelled out above it. It’s perfect.
I strip off my shirt and slide the jersey over my head. It’s huge on me, hanging down to mid-thigh, but that’s not how I’m going to wear it. I grab a hair tie and knot the fabric at my waist, cinching it tight until it shows a strip of my stomach.
If Lucien wants a show, I’ll give him a fucking show. I shimmy into the tightest pair of blue jeans I own. They’re practically painted on, molding to every curve of my ass and thighs. But the best part? They completely cover my legs.
I dig through my closet for my black thigh-high boots. He made it a point that he wanted to see my legs tonight so now I’m double covering them.
The boots are my secret weapon—sleek leather that hugs my calves and thighs, zipping all the way up to just a few inches below my crotch.
They’re hot as fuck, but they show absolutely nothing.
I pull them on, admiring how they make my legs look a mile long while still telling Lucien to go fuck himself.
But it’s not enough. I want to go all in.
I grab my makeup bag and find a silver eyeliner. With steady hands, I draw a “19” on my right cheek, making sure it’s big enough to be visible from the court. Then I dig through my drawer until I find a silver ribbon, tying it into a perfect cheerleader bow at the top of my ponytail.
Stepping back to look at myself in the full-length mirror I realize it’s the perfect fuck you. I look like the ultimate basketball girlfriend—just for the wrong fucking team.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lucien:
Satan
Where’s my good little sister? Game starts in 30.
The text makes my blood boil and solidifies my resolve. I grab my phone and open the camera, positioning myself to capture the full effect of my outfit. I pout my lips slightly, making sure the 19 on my cheek is clearly visible, and snap the selfie.
Without hesitation, I post it to CampusCrawl with the caption: “Ready to watch @JacksonReid19 and the @WestfieldWolves destroy the Angels tonight! #WolvesNation #GoWolves”
I tag Jackson Reid and the official Westfield Wolves account, then add a few more basketball hashtags for good measure.
I arrive at the arena right as the buzzer signals the tip-off.
The click of my thigh-high boots against the polished floor echoes with each confident stride as I walk directly toward the courtside seats. I don’t slow down, don’t hesitate, don’t acknowledge the turning heads or the whispers that follow me like a wave.
“Is that...?” “Holy shit, she’s wearing a Wolves jersey...” “Devereux is going to lose his fucking mind...”
I keep my chin up, my face a mask of perfect indifference as I slide into the empty courtside seat at the very end of the row, directly opposite the St. Augustine bench. The spot gives me a perfect view of the court—and more importantly, gives Lucien a perfect view of me.
The Black Crown Society members scattered throughout the student section notice me immediately. Their stares burn into me like hot pokers, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something close to horror. One of the Saints girls—Victoria something—actually gasps out loud, her hand flying to her throat.
A group of low-level Sinners a few rows back are openly gawking, elbowing each other and pointing in my direction. I can read their lips even from here: “She’s fucking dead.” “Is that Reid’s jersey?” “Devereux is going to kill her.”
My skin crawls under the weight of their stares, my stomach knotting with anxiety that threatens to make me bolt from my seat. Part of me—the part that’s been conditioned to be the perfect daughter, the obedient Society girl—wants to run and hide.
But I can’t do that. I refuse to do that.
I pretend I don’t hear them, keeping my eyes fixed on the court where the players are already in motion. The ball moves fast, back and forth, neither team scoring yet. I scan the court for Lucien and spot him immediately—number 23, his tall frame impossible to miss as he intercepts a pass.
He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s too focused on the game, his face set in intense concentration.
A Society daughter slides into the empty seat beside me. Vivienne or some shit.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she whispers, her smile never faltering for the benefit of anyone watching. “Are you insane? He’s going to kill you.”
“Not your concern,” I reply coolly, not even looking at her. “And he can fucking try.”
“You don’t understand,” she hisses. “They’re going to be furious with you for this disrespect.”
I finally turn to look at her, making sure my silver “19” is facing her directly. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”
She pales and moves away, practically scrambling back to her seat further down the row where the other Society girls sit.
The crowd erupts as Lucien makes a perfect three-pointer. I remain seated while everyone around me jumps to their feet.
And that’s when it happens.
The entire arena goes silent, like someone just flipped a fucking mute switch on three thousand people. Lucien’s hands are still raised in perfect follow-through from his shot, but his head is turned—looking directly at me.
Holy shit.
If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ashes. No—if that look alone could open up the pits of hell and swallow me and everything else around me, it would have. His steely gaze is a fucking hellmouth, ready to consume worlds.
I know I should look away. I know I should shrink down in my seat and pray he doesn’t murder me in front of all these witnesses. But fuck that.
I raise one eyebrow at him, the universal “what are you gonna do about it?” expression. If I’m going to hell, I might as well do it full send.
For three heartbeats, we’re locked in this staring contest while the entire arena watches, holding their collective breath.
Then, without breaking eye contact with me, Lucien walks back to the bench and whispers something to one of the assistants. The man’s eyes widen before he nods and scurries away.
The referee blows his whistle, breaking the spell. The court resets, and the game continues, but I can feel the shift in the atmosphere. Everyone keeps stealing glances at me, then at Lucien, waiting for the explosion.
I pull out my phone, pretending to be completely unbothered, and scroll through my social media. My post is already blowing up—hundreds of likes, comments, and shares in less than thirty minutes. Jackson Reid himself has even liked it, which sends a thrill of vindication through me.
On the court, Lucien steals the ball from a Westfield player and dribbles down the court with predatory grace. I hate how beautiful he looks as he leaps and dunks the ball with enough force to make the backboard shake.
The crowd goes wild, but I remain seated, arms crossed over my borrowed jersey.
Apparently, I’ve pissed Lucien off enough that he’s playing like a man possessed. Ten more minutes of game time and he’s already scored fifteen points, blocked three shots, and made some fancy-ass pass that had the announcer screaming about “dimes” or whatever the fuck that means in basketball.
The crowd around me has given me a wide berth, like I’m radioactive. No one wants to be caught in the blast zone.
I’m in the middle of replying to some guy asking if I want to meet up after the game when I feel it—a shadow falling over me, blocking out the harsh arena lights. The air around me seems to drop ten degrees, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t need to look up to know it’s him.
But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my immediate attention, so I finish typing my reply before slowly raising my head.
He’s standing there in all his six-foot-five glory, sweat glistening on his forehead, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.
His face is a mask, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
There’s a timeout on the court, which explains why he’s not playing, but not why he’s looming over me like the angel of fucking death.
It takes everything in me not to flinch under the intensity of his gaze.
“Get up,” he says, his voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I lift my chin, meeting his eyes directly. “No.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches—the only visible sign that he’s about to lose his shit completely.
“Get. Up. Now. Miss Carvelli,” he repeats, putting such heavy emphasis on my last name that I feel it drop like lead in my stomach.
Something about the formal way he says it, combined with the lethal look in his eyes, makes me stand before I can stop myself. My body betrays me, responding to the authority in his voice even as my brain screams at me to stay seated.
Once I’m on my feet, he leans in close, his mouth right next to my ear. His breath is hot against my skin, making me shiver despite my determination to remain unfazed.
“You can either take the jersey in my hand and go to the bathroom and change,” he whispers, and I notice for the first time that he’s holding a folded St. Augustine jersey, “remove that fucking number off your face and throw that ribbon away, or I can strip you right here in front of everyone and do it myself.”
My blood runs cold. “You wouldn’t.”
His smile is pure predator. “I would. I will. And better than anything else, I can. There’s not a thing you or anyone else can do about it, so make wise choices.”
My heart hammers against my ribcage as I weigh my options. He’s bluffing. He has to be. Even he wouldn’t strip a woman in the middle of a crowded room.
But sometimes when you push someone past the edge, you find out exactly what they’re capable of.
I snatch the jersey from his hand, my fingers trembling with rage rather than fear. “You haven’t won,” I hiss, leaning in close enough that only he can hear me.
“Keep telling yourself that, Little Sinner.” His smile is all teeth, like a shark that’s scented blood. “I’ll see you back here in five minutes.”
I turn on my heel and stalk toward the exit, keeping my head high even as I feel every eye in the arena boring into my back.
Joke’s on him because I’m just going to leave and go right back to my dorm.
The click of my boots against the polished floor echoes with each step.
I’m halfway out of the door when I notice them—two broad-shouldered Society guys stationed like bodyguards at the exit.
“Miss Carvelli,” the taller one says as I approach. “We’re here to escort you.”
“I know where the bathroom is,” I snap, trying to push past them.
The shorter one steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Mr. Devereux’s instructions were very clear. We accompany you to ensure you return to the game.”
I could make a scene right here, scream about being held against my will, but what would be the point? The entire Black Crown Society would back Lucien’s play, and I’d just look hysterical.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
So much for going home and eating brownies and ice cream.