Chapter 17
Lucien
Waking up feels like a Herculean feat. I don’t want to have to deal with her today. Even the devil needs a vacation sometime.
After a quick shower, I dress in gray sweats and a white t-shirt for conditioning with the team in a few hours. I debate whether to wake her or let her sleep, but the decision is made for me when I hear movement from down the hall.
I find her in the kitchen, still wearing my clothes, her hair falling out of the braid I put in last night. She’s clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a lifeline, her knuckles white around the ceramic. The bruises on her wrists from where I grabbed her yesterday stand out against her pale skin.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
She doesn’t look up, just stares into her coffee like she’s trying to drown herself in it. The silence stretches between us, thick with all the fucked-up shit that happened yesterday.
“I’m taking you back to your dorm,” I finally say, grabbing my keys from the counter. “Let’s go.”
She’s been silent since we left my place, staring out the window like the passing scenery holds all the fucking answers she’s looking for.
I can still smell my soap on her skin. The one she used to scrub herself raw last night.
The memory of finding her bleeding in my shower twists something inside me that I’d rather not examine.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as I pull onto campus, the morning sun glinting off the windshield.
My head is pounding from lack of sleep. After putting her in the guest room, I spent most of the night pacing, replaying the look on her face when she fled to the bathroom.
That mixture of self-loathing and disgust wasn’t what I wanted.
Breaking her wasn’t supposed to break me in the process.
I pull up in front of her dorm building, putting the car in park without saying a word. She doesn’t move immediately, just sits there with her hands gripping the sweats I gave her to wear.
Finally, she reaches for the door handle, still not looking at me.
She nods once, a quick jerk of her head, before pushing the door open and sliding out. Not a single word.
I watch as she rounds the front of my car, her movements stiff like she’s fighting against some invisible current.
The morning light catches in her hair, making the red strands glow like fire.
I’m struck by how fucking beautiful she is, even with dark circles under her eyes and her skin still raw in places from her self-inflicted wounds.
Before she can walk away completely, I roll down my window and rap my knuckles against the car door. The sharp sound makes her stop and turn, her eyes finally meeting mine.
“What?” she asks, her voice flat and empty.
“We’re not—” I start, then pause, feeling the weight of what I’m about to say.
The test results from the lab burn in my mind.
“We’re not siblings or half-siblings, not even cousins.
There isn’t a single drop of DNA shared between us.
” I let that sink in for a moment before adding, “Well, in the familial sense. There’s definitely more than a drop in you after last night. ”
Her face goes through a rapid series of emotions—confusion, shock, disbelief, then something I can’t quite read.
Her mouth opens like she’s about to speak, but I don’t wait to hear what she has to say.
I hit the button to roll up my window and put the car in drive, peeling away from the curb with enough force to make the tires squeal.
In my rearview mirror, I can see her standing there, looking like I’ve just pulled the rug out from underneath her.
I need to clear my head. Need to get her out of my system, at least for a few goddamn hours. The smell of her is still in my car, on my clothes. The memory of finding her in my shower, skin raw and bleeding, keeps flashing behind my eyes like some fucked-up horror film.
Instead of heading back to my place, I turn toward the athletic complex. No one should be there this early, not even the most dedicated players. I need the solitude, need to punish my body until my mind shuts the fuck up.
The security guard nods when I pull into my reserved spot. Everyone knows my car, knows my face. Being the heir to the Devereux fortune has its perks, one of which is 24/7 access to anywhere I want to be on this campus.
“Morning, Mr. Devereux,” the guard says, not even bothering to check my ID.
I grunt in response, already pulling my gym bag from the trunk. The weight room is dark when I enter, exactly how I want it. I flip on just enough lights to see what I’m doing, not the harsh fluorescents that illuminate every corner.
The silence is a balm to my frayed nerves. No teammates, no coaches, no Society members watching my every move. Just me and the weights and the chance to exhaust myself into oblivion.
I start with a punishing set of deadlifts, loading the bar with more weight than I typically use. My muscles scream in protest as I pull, but the pain feels good. Clarifying. With each rep, I try to purge the image of Seraphina’s blood mixing with shower water, swirling down the drain.
Moving to the squat rack I load plate after plate. I push myself harder than usual, welcoming the burn that spreads through my quads, the way my lungs fight for air.
Three sets in and my legs are shaking, but I add more weight. Physical pain is cleaner, more honest than whatever clusterfuck is happening in my head. I can control this, can push through it, can master it.
“Going for a new PR?”
I look up to see Cassian standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed in his usual workout gear, hair still perfectly styled despite the early hour. Fucker probably wakes up looking like that.
“Just getting some extra work in,” I grunt, dropping into another squat, the bar bending slightly across my shoulders.
Cassian doesn’t say anything else, just moves to the bench press and starts his own routine. That’s what I appreciate about him. He knows when to shut the fuck up.
I finish my set and rack the weight, chest heaving as I grab a towel to wipe my face. The silence between us is comfortable, just the clank of weights and our controlled breathing filling the space.
“You wanna talk about it?” he finally says, not looking at me as he adds another plate to his bar.
“No,” I mutter, dropping the towel.
Cassian nods, about to say something when we’re interrupted by a medium ugly blond.
“Well, well, well! If it isn’t my two favorite emotionally constipated assholes getting their sweat on at the crack of dawn! Anyone need a spot, or are we just jerking off our egos today?”
Asher’s voice echoes through the weight room as he strolls in, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing designer workout gear that probably costs more than most people’s entire wardrobe.
Neither of us responds, and Asher’s smile falters slightly as he reads the room.
“Damn, who died?” he asks, looking between us. “Or did someone’s dick fall off? Because that would explain the funeral vibes in here.”
“Shut the fuck up, Crawford,” Cassian mutters, continuing his reps.
Asher turns his attention to me, eyebrows raised. “Devereux, you look like absolute shit. And that’s saying something since you usually look like God’s gift to humanity.”
“Not in the mood,” I growl, moving to the pull-up bar.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your sister’s little stunt at the basketball game, would it?” Asher asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
I hang from the bar, muscles tensed, then pull myself up in one smooth motion. “She’s not my sister.”
That gets both their attention. Cassian stops mid-rep, the bar hovering above his chest. Asher’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
“Come again?” Asher says, moving closer. “Because last I checked, the Seraphina Carvelli situation was a big fucking problem precisely because she is your sister.”
I drop from the bar and grab my towel, wiping sweat from my face. “I discreetly got a DNA test done. Not a single fucking shared gene between us.”
“Holy shit,” Asher breathes, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So all that time you were lusting after her—“
“She wasn’t my sister,” I finish, tossing the towel aside. “But she thought she was. And I let her believe it.”
“And you didn’t think to tell her?” Cassian asks, his tone neutral but his eyes judging the fuck out of me.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I say, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long drink.
Cassian’s expression darkens. “For how long?”
I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Found out a few days ago. Didn’t tell her until this morning.”
“Wait,” Asher says, stepping closer. “Let me get this straight. You knew she wasn’t your sister, but you let her think she was while you did whatever the hell you did.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” I growl.
“Uncomplicate it for us,” Cassian says, his voice deadly quiet. He’s standing now, arms crossed over his chest, all pretense of working out abandoned.
I load plates onto the bar, the metallic clang echoing through the empty gym. “I wanted to see how far she’d go thinking we were related. How much she’d fight it. How much she’d hate herself for wanting me anyway.”
“That’s fucked up, even for you,” Asher says, the humor completely gone from his voice.
I lie back on the bench and grip the bar, pushing it up with enough force that my shoulders strain. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Cassian echoes, stepping forward to spot me. “There’s no maybe about it. You manipulated her in a pretty fucked up way.”
I complete another rep, focusing on the burn in my chest. “She was already Chosen. Already marked. What difference does it make when she found out?”
“All the fucking difference,” Cassian says, his hands hovering near the bar as I push through another rep. “You let her think she was committing some kind of moral sin. That’s psychological torture.”
I rack the weight and sit up, wiping sweat from my brow. “Look, I didn’t come here for a lecture on ethics from two guys who’ve done worse shit than I have.”
“I’ve never made someone think they were fucking their brother,” Asher counters, sitting on a nearby bench. “That’s a special kind of cruelty, Devereux.”
The words hit harder than they should. I stand up, pacing the length of the weight room. “You don’t understand. She’s been fighting since day one. Always thinking she’s better than the Society, better than our traditions. Better than me. I needed to break that.”
“And did you?” Cassian asks quietly. “Break her?”
“She tried to claw her own skin off,” I say suddenly, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “In my shower. After I...after she...” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “She was fucking bleeding. Scrubbing herself raw.”
Both of them stare at me, the weight room suddenly silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.
“Fuck,” Cassian breathes.
“Yeah, fuck is right,” I mutter. “She thought she was committing some kind of sin. Thought she needed to bleed it out.”
“Because you let her think you were her brother while you were getting your dick wet,” Asher says, dabbing at his lip with the corner of his shirt. “That’s pretty fucked up, even for you.”
“I didn’t fuck her,” I snap. “Not exactly.”
“Don’t be pedantic, Luci.” I roll my eyes at the dumb ass nickname.
“Well incest is generally frowned upon even among us rich bastards. So the real question is why the hell your father thought she was his?” Cassian points out.
“Yeah, no shit. It’s the million dollar question along with why the fuck am I so goddamn obsessed with her and can’t let her fucking go?”
“Mm. I can look into it,” Cassian says, voice low enough I have to strain to hear it.
The Crowes are the family line that Black Crown uses when it needs to find out things members have hidden or are hiding.
They can move easily between us, between the regular folk, and everything in between. They’re like the boogeymen.
I nod, because he’s liable to find something easier. A loose thread that I can tug and unravel easily. All I need is to fill in one blank and I can’t think straight enough to do it myself right now.