Chapter 33
Lucien
The roar of the crowd hits me as I stand at the mouth of the tunnel, my heart hammering against my ribs. The championship game. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to the next forty minutes.
Coach is barking last-minute instructions behind me, but I’m barely listening. My mind keeps drifting to my father—to the quiet, efficient way I dismantled him. No grand speeches, no dramatic confrontations. Just a series of calculated moves that stripped him of everything he valued.
That’s what kills a narcissist like Vincent—not the public humiliation, but the quiet erasure. The way his name has already started to fade from Black Crown’s records, his influence evaporating like morning dew. He’s still breathing for now, but he’s already dead to the world that matters.
“Deveurex!” Coach snaps, jolting me back to the present. “You with us?”
I nod, rolling my shoulders as the adrenaline floods my system. “Let’s fucking do this.”
The team forms up behind me, a wall of red and black jerseys ready to storm the court. I can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me. The culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice.
I take a deep breath, then lead the charge out of the tunnel.
The noise is deafening. Thousands of voices blend into a single roar as we burst onto the court. The arena lights are blinding after the darkness of the tunnel, but my eyes adjust quickly, scanning the crowd automatically.
And there she is.
Front row, center court.
My jersey hangs off her shoulders, the “DEVEREUX” stretched across her back in bold white letters. My number is painted on her cheek in red, a perfect match to the ribbon tied in her hair with the same number. She’s marked by me everywhere, claimed for everyone to see.
Our eyes lock across the court, and something primal stirs in my chest. She’s mine. Fucking mine. And she’s here, wearing my name, my number, my colors. Just like she always was supposed to be.
I don’t smile, but I give her a single, deliberate nod, and the corner of her mouth quirks up in response. She knows what that nod means. She knows what I’m thinking.
The national anthem plays, but I barely hear it. I’m focused on the game ahead, on the team across from us.
Tip-off comes, and the game explodes into action. I snag the ball, driving down the court with them on my heels.
I fake left, then spin right, leaving them stumbling as I launch into a perfect jump shot. Swish. Nothing but net.
The crowd erupts as I turn, my eyes immediately finding Seraphina. I point directly at her, making sure every camera in the arena catches the gesture. Her face lights up, that smug, possessive smile spreading across her lips as she preens under the attention.
That’s my fucking girl.
The Jaguars answer with a three-pointer, and the game settles into a brutal back-and-forth. They’re playing dirty—elbows flying, shoves that the refs conveniently miss. Clarkson gets in my face after a particularly hard foul, his breath hot against my ear.
“Your girl watching you get embarrassed tonight, Devereux?” he taunts, his eyes flicking toward Seraphina. “Maybe I should introduce myself after I wipe the floor with you.”
Something dark and violent unfurls in my chest. “Keep her name out of your fucking mouth,” I growl, shoving him away.
The ref blows his whistle, but I’m already moving, my blood boiling with rage. Nobody threatens what’s mine.
The next play, I steal the ball from his hands, driving hard to the basket. He tries to block me, but I power through his defense, slamming the ball through the hoop with enough force to make the backboard shudder.
Two points. And I’m just getting started.
I turn, finding Seraphina again. Point. Her eyes flash with that dangerous light I love, her lips forming words I can’t hear but can easily imagine. “That’s my man.”
The game intensifies, both teams refusing to back down. We’re tied at halftime, and Coach is losing his fucking mind in the locker room.
“Devereux! Where’s your head at?” he demands, pacing in front of me. “You’re playing like you’ve got something to prove.”
“I do,” I say simply, taking a long drink of water.
The second half is even more brutal than the first. Clarkson is targeting me now, looking for any opportunity to take me down. I return the favor, our bodies colliding with increasing violence as the clock ticks down.
With five minutes left, we’re down by four. Not insurmountable, but we need to move.
Cassian passes me the ball, and I drive hard to the basket. Clarkson steps in to block, but I spin past him, launching into a fadeaway that drops through the net.
Three points. One-point game.
I point to Seraphina again, watching her rise to her feet, her hands raised above her head as she cheers. The camera lights flash around her, capturing her in all her glory—my name across her back, my number on her face, my fucking heart in her hands whether she knows it or not.
The Jags score again, pushing their lead back to three. We answer with a quick two, but time is running out.
Forty seconds left. We’re down by one.
They have the ball, running down the clock. Clarkson dribbles at the top of the key, a smug smile on his face as he watches the seconds tick away.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
Ten.
I see my opening. He gets cocky, showing off with a fancy crossover that leaves the ball exposed for just a split second. I lunge, my fingers closing around the leather.
Steal.
I’m already moving, pushing my body to its absolute limit as I race down the court. Clarkson is on my heels, desperate to recover, but I’m not stopping. Not for him, not for anyone.
The basket looms ahead. Five seconds.
I launch into the air; the ball cradled in my hands as I soar toward the hoop. He jumps with me, his hand slapping against my arm, but it’s too late.
The ball leaves my fingers, arcing perfectly through the air as the buzzer sounds.
Nothing but net.
The arena explodes. My teammates swarm me, lifting me off my feet as the crowd goes absolutely fucking insane. Championship. We did it.
But all I can think about is her.
I push through my celebrating teammates, my eyes locked on Seraphina as she climbs over the barrier separating the court from the stands. She’s running toward me, her face flushed with excitement, my jersey fluttering behind her like a battle flag.
I catch her as she leaps into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist as I spin her in a circle. Her lips find mine, hungry and desperate, and I kiss her like I’m trying to devour her whole.
“You did it,” she gasps against my mouth, her hands tangled in my sweaty hair. “You fucking did it.”
“I told you I would,” I growl, setting her down but keeping her pressed against me.
The cameras are flashing around us, capturing every moment of our celebration. I don’t give a fuck. Let them see. Let everyone see what’s mine.
I grab her face between my hands, my thumbs tracing the number on her cheek. “You wore my name,” I say, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes her pupils dilate.
“Of course I did,” she replies, her lips curving into that wicked smile that drives me insane. “I’m yours, aren’t I?”
I pull her closer, my mouth at her ear so only she can hear. “Tonight, I’m going to fuck you while you’re still wearing my jersey. I’m going to ruin you while everyone in this arena screams my name.”
She shivers against me; her nails digging into my shoulders. “Is that a promise, Devereux?”
I kiss her again, hard and possessive. “That’s a fucking guarantee.”