“Devereux! Great game, man!”
I turn to see Jackson Reid jogging toward me, hand extended for a sportsmanlike shake. Fucking Westfield’s golden boy, thinking he can just approach me after she wore his number.
I stare at his hand until he awkwardly drops it.
“That girl in your jersey earlier,” I say, voice low enough that only he can hear. “What’s your connection?”
Reid’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands defensively. “Bro, I swear I have no fucking idea who she is. Never spoken to her in my life. She tagged me on CampusCrawl and I liked the photo without really looking at it. Had no idea she was your girl. I don’t want any problems.”
I study his face, looking for any sign he’s lying. There isn’t any. Just pure, unadulterated fear.
“Smart choice,” I tell him, stepping closer so I tower over him despite his own considerable height. “Because if you ever so much as look in her direction again, I’ll make sure you never set foot on an NBA court. We clear?”
“Crystal,” he nods, swallowing hard. “Like I said, man, no problems here.”
I dismiss him with a look and continue toward the stands where Seraphina is gathering her things, clearly planning her escape. Cute, but not fucking happening.
My teammates are all heading to the locker room, but I don’t even consider joining them. I’m covered in sweat, my uniform sticking to my skin, but I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more pressing matters to attend to.
She sees me coming and freezes, her eyes widening slightly before her mask slides back into place. I love that mask. I’m going to enjoy tearing it off piece by piece.
“Going somewhere?” I ask stopping directly in front of her, close enough that our bodies almost touch. Without saying a word, I lift my hand to her face. She flinches, expecting violence,but I simply lick my thumb slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Then I make a show of rubbing my wet thumb across her cheek, smudging the silver until it’s nothing but a gray smear on her perfect skin. She tries to jerk away, but I grab her chin with my other hand, holding her in place.
“You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” I murmur, rubbing harder until the number is completely gone, leaving only a faint silvery residue. “Changing the jersey but keeping his number on your face. That silver ribbon in your hair.”
My fingers move to her ponytail, finding the offending ribbon. I yank it free in one smooth motion. I hold the ribbon up between us, letting her see it before I ball it in my fist.
“You’ll pay for this disobedience,” I tell her, my voice a dangerous promise. “For every single fucking second you spent wearing another man’s number.”
“Let go of me,” she hisses. “People are watching.”
“Let them watch,” I reply, tucking the ribbon into my pocket. “Let them all see what happens when someone tries to defy me.”
I release her chin but immediately slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. To anyone watching, it might look like an intimate gesture between lovers. Only Seraphina and I know it’s a warning, a threat, a promise of what’s to come.
“You embarrassed me,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “You disrespected me. You tried to humiliate me in front of everyone.”
“Good,” she spits back. “That was the fucking point.”
I laugh, the sound dark and without humor. “And now you’ll face the consequences. That’s the point of what comes next.”
Around us, people are filing out of the arena, but I notice several Society members lingering, watching our interaction with hungry eyes. They’re waiting for the fallout, for me to put her in her place publicly. But that’s not my style. My revenge willbe private, personal, and far more devastating than any public humiliation could ever be.
“Walk with me,” I command, releasing her hair but keeping my hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the exit.
“I was just leaving,” she says, trying to step away.
My fingers dig into her hip, hard enough to bruise. “No, you’re fucking not.”
I steer her through the thinning crowd, nodding at the Society members we pass. They know better than to approach, but I can see the questions in their eyes, the hunger for gossip about the Heir and his rebellious Chosen.
“You know what fascinates me?” I say conversationally as we exit the arena, my hand still firmly pressed to her back. “How you think you’re the first person to ever try and humiliate me. Like this is some groundbreaking rebellion you’ve staged. Do you know how many people have tried to knock me down? And where are they now?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead as I guide her through the parking lot. The night air is cool against my sweat-slicked skin, but I barely notice. All my focus is on the woman beside me, the heat of her body under my palm, the tension in her muscles as she tries to resist my control.
I steer her toward my car parked in the VIP section, away from the main lot where students leave their shitty cars.
