I arch an eyebrow. “What makes you think I'm in a sharing mood?”
“He touch one of the St. Catherine girls again?” Asher asks, his voice dropping lower.
“Mm no, he knows better. But something like that.” I don't elaborate. Don't need to explain that it was Seraphina. That I'd rip out Richards' spine through his throat if he so much as breathed on her again.
We're almost at the gym when Cassian suddenly stops, his eyes fixed on something across the quad. “Speaking of troubling things,” he mutters. “The Carvellis are back in town. Saw the mother yesterday at that fancy boutique downtown. Looking like a fucking MILF and a half.”
I keep my face neutral even as my heart rate kicks up. “Is that right?”
“Yeah,” he continues, oblivious to the way my hands have clenched into fists. “Rumor has it that Seraphina’s back too.”
“Interesting,” I say, my voice flat and controlled while my blood rushes in my ears.
Asher bursts out laughing, the sound echoing across the empty courtyard. “Yeah, I bet it's 'interesting' to you, Devereux. Considering she's your daddy's rogue sperm and you've had your fingers in her cunt.”
I grab him by the throat before I can even think, slamming him against the brick wall of the gym. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Asher doesn't look scared—the fucker actually grins wider. “Hit a nerve, did I?” he chokes out.
I release my grip on Asher's throat, shoving him back against the wall one more time before stepping away. The temptation to bash his pretty-boy face in is almost overwhelming, but I don't have time for this shit.
“Hurry up and change before Fontaine has all our asses,” I say, my voice like ice. “Captain's orders.”
Cassian raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about being on time?”
“Since I decided I do,” I snap, already pushing through the gym doors. “Move your asses.”
Because I need to focus on basketball right now before I go find the little witch, kidnap her and lock her in my fucking basement.
Okay well that was a mistake because now I’ve got half wood and I don’t need any of these fucks thinking it’s because of them.
I wouldn’t fuck any of them.
Chapter 1
Lucien
The taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to focus on anything but the memory of Seraphina on her knees in the chapel. Coach Fontaine's whistle shrieks across the court, drilling into my skull like a fucking ice pick.
“Devereux! What the fuck was that pass? My grandmother could throw better, and she's been dead for fifteen years!”
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry doesn't win games or championships,” he barks, his face reddening beneath his crew cut. “Again! And this time, try acting like the goddamn captain you're supposed to be! The Wildcats aren’t gonna wait for you to get your shit together.”
The gym echoes with the squeak of shoes against polished hardwood as we reset the drill. Cassian gives me a look that says,what the fuck is wrong with you?I ignore him. Two hours into practice, and I've fucked up more times than in the entire last season. All because I can't stop thinking about hazel eyes, red hair, and the way her skirt rode up just enough to show the lace tops of her stockings.
I need to focus. I repeat it to myself as I dribble the ball hard enough to make my palm sting.
Driving to the basket, I fake out Watkins before making a clean pass to Asher, who sinks a three-pointer with his usual smirk. Coach blows his whistle again, but this time he's not yelling.
“That's more like it! Now do it again, and maybe I'll let you sorry fucks go home before midnight!”
We run the same drill ten more times. By the eighth repetition, my legs are burning, lungs screaming for air. Coach Fontaine isn't letting up—not for me, not for any of us. Doesn't matter that my family name is on half the buildings on campus. Doesn't matter that I could have him fired with one phone call. On this court, he's God, and I'm just another player who needs to earn his minutes.
“Suicides!” he yells after we finish the drill. “Five sets! Winner gets to skip Saturday morning practice.”
The team groans collectively. Saturday morning practice is pure fucking torture—five AM, usually after everyone's been out partying the night before. I set my jaw and line up at the baseline. This, at least, I can control. This pain is simple and clean. Easy to push through. Mind over matter or whatever that sage ass advice is. Not like the mess inside my head.
