I keep my chin up, my face a mask of perfect indifference as I slide into the empty courtside seat at the very end of the row, directly opposite the St. Augustine bench. The spot gives me a perfect view of the court—and more importantly, gives Lucien a perfect view of me.
The Black Crown Society members scattered throughout the student section notice me immediately. Their stares burn into me like hot pokers, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something close to horror. One of the Saints girls—Victoria something—actually gasps out loud, her hand flying to her throat.
A group of low-level Sinners a few rows back are openly gawking, elbowing each other and pointing in my direction. I can read their lips even from here: “She’s fucking dead.” “Is that Reid’s jersey?” “Devereux is going to kill her.”
My skin crawls under the weight of their stares, my stomach knotting with anxiety that threatens to make me bolt from my seat. Part of me—the part that’s been conditioned to be the perfect daughter, the obedient Society girl—wants to run and hide.
But I can’t do that. I refuse to do that.
I pretend I don’t hear them, keeping my eyes fixed on the court where the players are already in motion. The ball moves fast, back and forth, neither team scoring yet. I scan the court for Lucien and spot him immediately—number 23, his tall frame impossible to miss as he intercepts a pass.
He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s too focused on the game, his face set in intense concentration.
A Society daughter slides into the empty seat beside me. Vivienne or some shit.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she whispers, her smile never faltering for the benefit of anyone watching. “Are you insane? He’s going to kill you.”
“Not your concern,” I reply coolly, not even looking at her. “And he can fucking try.”
“You don’t understand,” she hisses. “They’re going to be furious with you for this disrespect.”
I finally turn to look at her, making sure my silver “19” is facing her directly. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”
She pales and moves away, practically scrambling back to her seat further down the row where the other Society girls sit.
The crowd erupts as Lucien makes a perfect three-pointer. I remain seated while everyone around me jumps to their feet.
And that’s when it happens.
The entire arena goes silent, like someone just flipped a fucking mute switch on three thousand people. Lucien’s hands are still raised in perfect follow-through from his shot, but his head is turned—looking directly at me.
Holy shit.
If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ashes. No—if that look alone could open up the pits of hell and swallow me and everything else around me, it would have. His steely gaze is a fucking hellmouth, ready to consume worlds.
I know I should look away. I know I should shrink down in my seat and pray he doesn’t murder me in front of all these witnesses. But fuck that.
I raise one eyebrow at him, the universal “what are you gonna do about it?” expression. If I’m going to hell, I might as well do it full send.
For three heartbeats, we’re locked in this staring contest while the entire arena watches, holding their collective breath.
Then, without breaking eye contact with me, Lucien walks back to the bench and whispers something to one of the assistants. The man’s eyes widen before he nods and scurries away.
The referee blows his whistle, breaking the spell. The court resets, and the game continues, but I can feel the shift in the atmosphere. Everyone keeps stealing glances at me, then at Lucien, waiting for the explosion.
I pull out my phone, pretending to be completely unbothered, and scroll through my social media. My post is already blowing up—hundreds of likes, comments, and shares in less than thirty minutes. Jackson Reid himself has even liked it, which sends a thrill of vindication through me.
On the court, Lucien steals the ball from a Westfield player and dribbles down the court with predatory grace. I hate how beautiful he looks as he leaps and dunks the ball with enough force to make the backboard shake.
The crowd goes wild, but I remain seated, arms crossed over my borrowed jersey.
Apparently, I’ve pissed Lucien off enough that he’s playing like a man possessed. Ten more minutes of game time and he’s already scored fifteen points, blocked three shots, and made some fancy-ass pass that had the announcer screaming about “dimes” or whatever the fuck that means in basketball.
The crowd around me has given me a wide berth, like I’m radioactive. No one wants to be caught in the blast zone.
I’m in the middle of replying to some guy asking if I want to meet up after the game when I feel it—a shadow falling over me, blocking out the harsh arena lights. The air around me seems to drop ten degrees, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I don’t need to look up to know it’s him.
