Chapter 14
Lucien
Victory tastes sweet, but obedience tastes fucking sweeter.
I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
I push through my team, ignoring Coach’s attempts to pull me into the post-game huddle. I’ve got more important business to handle.
“Devereux! Great game, man!”
I turn to see Jackson Reid jogging toward me, hand extended for a sportsmanlike shake. Fucking Westfield’s golden boy, thinking he can just approach me after she wore his number.
I stare at his hand until he awkwardly drops it.
“That girl in your jersey earlier,” I say, voice low enough that only he can hear. “What’s your connection?”
Reid’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands defensively. “Bro, I swear I have no fucking idea who she is. Never spoken to her in my life. She tagged me on CampusCrawl and I liked the photo without really looking at it. Had no idea she was your girl. I don’t want any problems.”
I study his face, looking for any sign he’s lying. There isn’t any. Just pure, unadulterated fear.
“Smart choice,” I tell him, stepping closer so I tower over him despite his own considerable height. “Because if you ever so much as look in her direction again, I’ll make sure you never set foot on an NBA court. We clear?”
“Crystal,” he nods, swallowing hard. “Like I said, man, no problems here.”
I dismiss him with a look and continue toward the stands where Seraphina is gathering her things, clearly planning her escape. Cute, but not fucking happening.
My teammates are all heading to the locker room, but I don’t even consider joining them. I’m covered in sweat, my uniform sticking to my skin, but I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.
She sees me coming and freezes, her eyes widening slightly before her mask slides back into place. I love that mask. I’m going to enjoy tearing it off piece by piece.
“Going somewhere?” I ask stopping directly in front of her, close enough that our bodies almost touch. Without saying a word, I lift my hand to her face. She flinches, expecting violence, but I simply lick my thumb slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Then I make a show of rubbing my wet thumb across her cheek, smudging the silver until it’s nothing but a gray smear on her perfect skin. She tries to jerk away, but I grab her chin with my other hand, holding her in place.
“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” I murmur, rubbing harder until the number is completely gone, leaving only a faint silvery residue. “Changing the jersey but keeping his number on your face. That silver ribbon in your hair.”
My fingers move to her ponytail, finding the offending ribbon. I yank it free in one smooth motion. I hold the ribbon up between us, letting her see it before I ball it in my fist.
“You’ll pay for this disobedience,” I tell her, my voice a dangerous promise. “For every single fucking second you spent wearing another man’s number.”
“Let go of me,” she hisses. “People are watching.”
“Let them watch,” I reply, tucking the ribbon into my pocket. “Let them all see what happens when someone tries to defy me.”
I release her chin but immediately slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. To anyone watching, it might look like an intimate gesture between lovers. Only Seraphina and I know it’s a warning, a threat, a promise of what’s to come.
“You embarrassed me,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “You disrespected me. You tried to humiliate me in front of everyone.”
“Good,” she spits back. “That was the fucking point.”
I laugh, the sound dark and without humor. “And now you’ll face the consequences. That’s the point of what comes next.”
Around us, people are filing out of the arena, but I notice several Society members lingering, watching our interaction with hungry eyes.
They’re waiting for the fallout, for me to put her in her place publicly.
But that’s not my style. My revenge will be private, personal, and far more devastating than any public humiliation could ever be.
“Walk with me,” I command, releasing her hair but keeping my hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the exit.
“I was just leaving,” she says, trying to step away.
My fingers dig into her hip, hard enough to bruise. “No, you’re fucking not.”
I steer her through the thinning crowd, nodding at the Society members we pass. They know better than to approach, but I can see the questions in their eyes, the hunger for gossip about the Heir and his rebellious Chosen.
“You know what fascinates me?” I say conversationally as we exit the arena, my hand still firmly pressed to her back.
“How you think you’re the first person to ever try and humiliate me.
Like this is some groundbreaking rebellion you’ve staged.
Do you know how many people have tried to knock me down? And where are they now?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead as I guide her through the parking lot.
The night air is cool against my sweat-slicked skin, but I barely notice.
All my focus is on the woman beside me, the heat of her body under my palm, the tension in her muscles as she tries to resist my control.
I steer her toward my car parked in the VIP section, away from the main lot where students leave their shitty cars.
“Where are your little bodyguards now?” she finally asks, glancing around the nearly empty parking lot. “Or do you not need them to intimidate a woman half your size?”
I laugh, low and dangerous. “I don’t need anyone else to handle you, Seraphina.”
I crowd her against the passenger side of my Aston Martin, placing one hand on the car roof while the other stays firmly on her hip.
Her back hits the door with a soft thud, and I press in closer, using my height and bulk to trap her between my body and the car.
She has nowhere to go, and we both know it.
“Get in the car,” I tell her, my voice leaving no room for argument.
“Why should I?” she challenges, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice now.
“Because you’ve done enough damage for one night,” I say, leaning in until my lips almost brush her ear. “And because I’m taking you home.”
“I was already heading ther—“
“Not your home,” I cut her off. “Mine.”
For a moment, I think she might try to run, but then she slides into the seat, her movements stiff with anger. I close the door firmly behind her and walk around to the driver’s side.
The engine purrs to life as I slide in beside her. I pull out of the parking lot, the tires squealing slightly against the pavement.
We drive in silence for several minutes, the tension between us thick enough to cut. She stares straight ahead, arms crossed tightly over her chest—over my jersey—her profile illuminated by the passing streetlights.
“What, nothing to say now?” I finally break the silence, glancing over at her rigid form. “You had plenty to fucking say earlier when you were parading around in another man’s jersey. Suddenly quiet as a mouse?”
“I’m not going to give you the satisfaction,” she says finally, her voice cold.
“Oh, you’ll give me plenty of satisfaction before the night is over,” I promise, turning onto the private road that leads to my property.
I pull into the circular driveway of my place—a modern three-story that most people would call a mansion, but compared to the Devereux estate, it’s practically a starter home. Still, it’s mine, and no one enters without my permission.
“Fuck you.”
“There it is,” I laugh, climbing out of the car and coming around to open her door. “Come on. Out.”
When she doesn’t move, I lean in, my face inches from hers. “Either you walk in on your own, or I carry you. Your choice, but you’re going inside.”
She slides out with as much dignity as she can muster, and I guide her up the walkway to the front door. The security system disengages with my fingerprint, and I usher her inside, flipping on lights as we enter.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” I say, gesturing around the expansive foyer with its marble floors and modern artwork. “Make yourself uncomfortable.”
She stands rigid in the center of the room, still wearing my jersey like it’s contaminating her skin. I watch her for a moment, enjoying her discomfort, before I reach down and pull off my sweaty jersey in one fluid motion. Her eyes widen slightly as I toss it aside, leaving my chest bare.
“What are you doing?” she asks, taking a step back.
“Getting comfortable,” I reply, hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my basketball shorts and pushing them down my legs, kicking them off to join the jersey on the floor.
Now I’m standing in front of her in nothing but my black boxer briefs, and I don’t miss the way her eyes drop briefly to my crotch before darting away.
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, turning her back to me. “Put some clothes on.”
“My house, my rules,” I say, walking past her toward the security panel. I punch in the code to arm the system, making sure she sees me do it. The panel beeps and flashes red as the alarm activates. “There. All locked up nice and tight.”
“You can’t keep me here,” she says, but there’s uncertainty in her voice now.
I turn to face her, not bothering to hide my smirk. “I’m going to take a shower. You can try to leave if you want, but the alarm will go off, and I don’t think you’ll enjoy meeting the security team assigned to this house. They’re not nearly as charming as I am.”
Walking up the stairs toward my suite I can feel her eyes glued to my ass and I’m enjoying every second of her gaze being on me.
I pause at the top of the stairs and look back at her over my shoulder. She’s still standing in the foyer, looking like she can’t decide whether to follow me or try to break a window to escape.
“You coming?” I ask, letting my voice drop to that register that makes women wet. “Or are you just going to stand there all night pretending you’re not staring at my ass?”
Her cheeks flush with color. “I was not—“
“Bullshit. Your eyes were burning holes through my Calvins.” I gesture toward the primary suite. “Bathroom’s this way if you want the full show.”
“I’m not getting in the shower with you,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Didn’t ask you to.” I smirk.
I don’t wait for her response, just continue down the hall to my bedroom.
The door’s open, and I walk straight through to the en-suite bathroom, flipping on lights as I go.
My bathroom is fucking massive—black marble everywhere, a glass shower big enough for four people, and a soaking tub that could double as a small pool.
I drop my briefs without ceremony, stepping out of them and kicking them aside.
When I turn around, she’s standing in the bathroom doorway, her eyes widening before she quickly averts her gaze from my naked body.
“If you’re not joining me and just want to look,” I say, gesturing to the marble counter, “you can plant your pretty ass right there. Front row seat to the show.”
She scoffs, her cheeks flushing red. “Maybe I’ll just snoop through your stuff while you’re busy.”
I shrug, opening the glass door and stepping into the shower. “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide from my Chosen anyway.”
And that’s the fucking truth. There’s nothing here to hide and if there were, she would be the one to know and see it all. She’s irrevocably bound to me, no matter what her mother and my father are trying to do by appealing to the council without outing her affair with my father.
She walks out to be nosey like I knew she would. The offer was too good to pass up.