I release him, and he gasps for air, rubbing his throat.
“Jesus Christ,” he wheezes. “At least jack me off next time you choke me out.”
“You wish,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Your mouth's good for running, not much else.”
“That's not what you said last summer when I sucked your?—”
“This is so fucking rude,” Asher cuts in, pushing between us as he pulls his jersey over his head. “Neither one of you assholes has ever gotten me off, and I'm starting to feel left out.”
“That's because you're blond,” Cassian and I say in perfect unison, then lock eyes and burst out laughing.
“Fuck both of you,” Asher mutters, but he's fighting a smile as he grabs his shower kit.
“You wish, Crawford,” I say, slinging an arm around his shoulder as we head toward the showers. “But your preppy ass couldn't handle it.”
“Try me sometime,” he fires back with a wink that would make most girls drop their panties on the spot.
Cassian falls into step beside us. “If you two are done, can we please wash the stink off? I've got places to be tonight.”
“The only place you're going is to jerk off while stalking Valentina's CampusCrawl profile,” I say, keeping my voice low so the rest of the team can't hear.
We push into the shower area, steam already billowing from the stalls as the rest of the team rinses off. I claim my usual spot at the end, cranking the water as hot as it'll go. The scalding spray pounds against my tired muscles, washing away the sweat and adrenaline of the game.
My thoughts drift back to Seraphina sitting in those bleachers, trying to hide but failing miserably. She came towatch me. She can deny it all she wants, but some part of her still wants me, still needs to be near me.
The Choosing Ceremony is coming up fast, and everyone's waiting to see who I'll pick. The tradition goes back centuries, since Black Crown was founded by the Seven—the original families who built this secret society from blood oaths and wealth.
We weren’t always different sects, but like with all things, we changed, evolved. Now there’s the Sinners and the Saints. Still part of the society, still mandatory to abide by the rules and participate in fuck ass traditions but so very different.
The Saints walk around with their noses so far up their own asses. Always talking about “restraint” and “waiting for the one” like they're better than the rest of us. Fucking hypocrites. They wear white to our black and act like their shit doesn't stink.
But I've seen them. I've watched those same Saints when they think no one's looking—the way they eye their girls across campus, the way their hands shake with need. They're just as fucking animal as the rest of us. They just hide it better.
That's the real difference between Sinners and Saints in Black Crown. We're honest about what we are. We fuck. We fight. We take what we want and make no apologies for it. There's no purity among us, no pretense of moral superiority. Just raw, unfiltered desire and the power to satisfy it. The red tie I wear isn't just for show. It's soaked in the blood and sweat of generations of Sinners who came before me. Who built this society while the Saints were on their knees worshipping.
After drying off, I pull on my clothes—designer jeans that cost more than most people's rent and a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to my elbows.
“Party at the house tonight?” Asher asks, combing his golden hair back with his fingers.
“Obviously,” I respond, checking my phone again. “My father's out of town until Sunday. Perfect time to defile the Devereux name.”
And I need the distraction so I’m not lurking outside Seraphina’s dorm or doing something equally as stupid like kidnapping and holding her hostage in my closet.
Wait a minute, that’s actually not a half bad idea.
Chapter 6
Lucien
The air in my father’s office tastes like whiskey and judgment, thick enough to choke on. I sprawl in the leather chair across from his desk, one ankle resting on my opposite knee, deliberately taking up space while he paces.
“The Whitmore girl would be a prudent choice,” my father says, not looking at me as he swirls amber liquid in his crystal tumbler. “Her family’s pharmaceutical holdings would complement our energy interests. Or perhaps the Montgomery heiress—their banking connections could prove valuable.”
I watch him with hooded eyes, letting him ramble. Vincent Devereux, the great kingmaker, plotting my life like I’m just another acquisition for his empire. His silver-streaked hair is perfectly styled even at this late hour; his bespoke suit without a single wrinkle. The perfect fucking picture of control.
“The Choosing Ceremony is in one week,” he continues, setting his glass down with a sharp click against his mahogany desk. “This isn’t just about you, Lucien. This is about the future of our bloodline, our position within Black Crown.”
“I’m well aware of what the Choosing represents,” I drawl, examining my nails with exaggerated boredom. “I’ve only been groomed for it my entire fucking life.”
