My mother's face flushes pink, but she doesn't back down. “My place? I'm merely pointing out?—”
“Your place,” my father repeats, cutting her off with a single raised finger, “is not to question how I manage my family or my daughter. Your job is to look pretty at functions and keep your opinions to yourself unless explicitly asked.”
The dining room goes so quiet I can hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. My mother's face has gone from pink to white, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palm.
“Davis,” my father calls without taking his eyes off my mother, “we'll have dinner now.”
Davis appears almost instantly, as if he's been hovering just outside the door waiting for the tension to break. Two other servers follow him, carrying silver platters that they set down with practiced precision. The smell of expensive beef and truffle oil fills the air.
“Filet mignon with black truffle reduction, roasted asparagus, and potato pavé,” Davis announces, his voice neutral as if he hasn't just witnessed my father verbally muzzling my mother.
We eat in silence for several minutes. I cut my steak with unnecessary force, imagining it's the thick tension in the air. My mother picks at her food, taking tiny bird-like bites and sipping water instead of wine. My father eats methodically, like he's refueling a machine rather than enjoying a meal.
“I had an interesting meeting today,” he finally says, breaking the silence without looking up from his plate. “With some of my well-respected associates.”
I snort, the sound loud and ugly in the formal dining room. “Wouldn't it be better to call them your bosses?” I take another gulp of wine, liquid courage warming my veins. “You can just say you got called to stand in front of the council of rich old fucks of Black Crown.”
My mother gasps, her fork clattering against her plate. “Seraphina! That language is?—”
“Accurate,” my father interrupts, surprising us both. His lips twitch in what might almost be amusement. “Though I would have perhaps phrased it a bit differently.”
“Elliott!” My mother looks genuinely scandalized, her perfectly Botoxed forehead attempting to wrinkle.
I take a bite of steak, chewing slowly. “So what did the council want? Another virgin sacrifice? Someone's firstborn?”
My father hums, running his finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Actually, the meeting was about the Choosing Ceremony . It's happening next month.”
I pause mid-chew, the meat suddenly tasting like sawdust in my mouth. I force myself to swallow before carefully setting down my silverware. My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach for my wine glass, taking a long, deliberate sip to buy myself time.
Across the table, my mother's hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her own drink. She's twitchy, eyes darting but refusing to land on anything.
“They wanted to remind me that you’re eligible.”
I turn back to my father, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “I'm sure I am, just like every other daughter of Black Crown. Luckily for me no one is going to touch me, we're practically pariahs. So thank fuck for that.”
My father's lips quirk up in that not-quite-smile again. “Well, you never know. Stranger things have happened.”
The wine turns sour in my mouth.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Chapter 5
Lucien
The ball leaves my fingertips like it's an extension of my fucking soul. Three seconds left on the clock, the score tied 89-89, and the entire gym is holding its breath. It arcs through the air—perfect fucking trajectory before swishing through the net as the buzzer screams.
Game over. St. Augustine wins. St. Charles can suck my dick.
The crowd erupts like a volcano, and my teammates swarm me, pounding my back, screaming in my ears. I've scored forty-two points tonight, carried these fuckers on my back the entire second half. My blood's on fire, adrenaline making everything sharper, brighter.
“Holy shit, Devereux!” Coach Fontaine is actually smiling for once, his perpetual scowl replaced with something close to pride. “That's what I'm talking about!”
I scan the crowd as they chant my name—”LU-CI-EN! LU-CI-EN!”—drinking in the worship like it's the finest whiskey. And that's when I see her.
Tucked away in the highest corner of the bleachers, trying to blend into the shadows but failing miserably with that fire-red hair. Watching me. Her face is half-hidden behind a book she's clearly not reading, but I'd know those eyes anywhere.
I lock my gaze on her and let a slow smirk spread across my face. Got you, Little Sinner.
