But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my immediate attention, so I finish typing my reply before slowly raising my head.
He’s standing there in all his six-foot-five glory, sweat glistening on his forehead, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. His face is a mask, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. There’s a timeout on the court, which explains why he’s not playing, but not why he’s looming over me like the angel of fucking death.
It takes everything in me not to flinch under the intensity of his gaze.
“Get up,” he says, his voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I lift my chin, meeting his eyes directly. “No.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches—the only visible sign that he’s about to lose his shit completely.
“Get. Up. Now. Miss Carvelli,” he repeats, putting such heavy emphasis on my last name that I feel it drop like lead in my stomach.
Something about the formal way he says it, combined with the lethal look in his eyes, makes me stand before I can stopmyself. My body betrays me, responding to the authority in his voice even as my brain screams at me to stay seated.
Once I’m on my feet, he leans in close, his mouth right next to my ear. His breath is hot against my skin, making me shiver despite my determination to remain unfazed.
“You can either take the jersey in my hand and go to the bathroom and change,” he whispers, and I notice for the first time that he’s holding a folded St. Augustine jersey, “remove that fucking number off your face and throw that ribbon away, or I can strip you right here in front of everyone and do it myself.”
My blood runs cold. “You wouldn’t.”
His smile is pure predator. “I would. I will. And better than anything else, I can. There’s not a thing you or anyone else can do about it, so make wise choices.”
My heart hammers against my ribcage as I weigh my options. He’s bluffing. He has to be. Even he wouldn’t strip a woman in the middle of a crowded room.
But sometimes when you push someone past the edge, you find out exactly what they’re capable of.
I snatch the jersey from his hand, my fingers trembling with rage rather than fear. “You haven’t won,” I hiss, leaning in close enough that only he can hear me.
“Keep telling yourself that, Little Sinner.” His smile is all teeth, like a shark that’s scented blood. “I’ll see you back here in five minutes.”
I turn on my heel and stalk toward the exit, keeping my head high even as I feel every eye in the arena boring into my back. Joke’s on him because I’m just going to leave and go right back to my dorm. The click of my boots against the polished floor echoes with each step. I’m halfway out of the door when I notice them—two broad-shouldered Society guys stationed like bodyguards at the exit.
“Miss Carvelli,” the taller one says as I approach. “We’re here to escort you.”
“I know where the bathroom is,” I snap, trying to push past them.
The shorter one steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Mr. Devereux’s instructions were very clear. We accompany you to ensure you return to the game.”
I could make a scene right here, scream about being held against my will, but what would be the point? The entire Black Crown Society would back Lucien’s play, and I’d just look hysterical.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
So much for going home and eating brownies and ice cream.
Chapter 14
Lucien
Victory tastes sweet, but obedience tastes fucking sweeter.
The buzzer screams through the arena, and the crowd loses their collective shit as I sink the final three-pointer of the night. Triple double—fifteen points, twelve assists, ten rebounds. Just like I fucking predicted. The scoreboard flashes 86-71, St. Augustine over Westfield, and my team swarms me, slapping my back and screaming in my ear like we just won the championship instead of a regular-season game.
I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
My eyes are locked on one person only as she sits courtside in my jersey that she finally put on, but with that goddamn silver19still defiantly painted on her cheek and that fucking ribbon still in her hair. The little disobedient brat thought she could outsmart me. Change the jersey, but keep the rest. Like I wouldn’t notice. Like I wouldn’t make her pay.
I push through my team, ignoring Coach’s attempts to pull me into the post-game huddle. I’ve got more important business to handle.
