“You’re not kidnapped,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re being protected. From yourself, apparently.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, clutching the clothes to my chest.
“You already did that, in a manner of speaking,” he replies with a smirk that makes me want to punch him.
Before I can respond, he turns and walks toward the door. “Get dressed.”
When the door closes behind him, I stand there for a moment, confused and exhausted. Dropping the towel I pull on the clothes because it's a better barrier against eyes and hands and whatever else he can sneak.
My life is a disaster and not my own. Never my own. Owned by my parents, by Black Crown, and now by Lucien Devereux.
I’m so drained from this very existence.
Chapter 17
Lucien
Waking up feels like a Herculean feat. I don’t want to have to deal with her today. Even the devil needs a vacation sometime.
After a quick shower, I dress in gray sweats and a white t-shirt for conditioning with the team in a few hours. I debate whether to wake her or let her sleep, but the decision is made for me when I hear movement from down the hall.
I find her in the kitchen, still wearing my clothes, her hair falling out of the braid I put in last night. She’s clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a lifeline, her knuckles white around the ceramic. The bruises on her wrists from where I grabbed her yesterday stand out against her pale skin.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
She doesn’t look up, just stares into her coffee like she’s trying to drown herself in it. The silence stretches between us, thick with all the fucked-up shit that happened yesterday.
“I’m taking you back to your dorm,” I finally say, grabbing my keys from the counter. “Let’s go.”
She’s been silent since we left my place, staring out the window like the passing scenery holds all the fucking answers she’s looking for. I can still smell my soap on her skin. The one she used to scrub herself raw last night. The memory of finding her bleeding in my shower twists something inside me that I’d rather not examine.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as I pull onto campus, the morning sun glinting off the windshield. My head is pounding from lack of sleep. After putting her in the guest room, I spent most of the night pacing, replaying the look on her face when she fled to the bathroom. That mixture of self-loathing and disgust wasn’t what I wanted. Breaking her wasn’t supposed to break me in the process.
I pull up in front of her dorm building, putting the car in park without saying a word. She doesn’t move immediately, just sits there with her hands gripping the sweats I gave her to wear.
Finally, she reaches for the door handle, still not looking at me.
She nods once, a quick jerk of her head, before pushing the door open and sliding out. Not a single word.
I watch as she rounds the front of my car, her movements stiff like she’s fighting against some invisible current. The morning light catches in her hair, making the red strands glow like fire. I’m struck by how fucking beautiful she is, even with dark circles under her eyes and her skin still raw in places from her self-inflicted wounds.
Before she can walk away completely, I roll down my window and rap my knuckles against the car door. The sharp sound makes her stop and turn, her eyes finally meeting mine.
“What?” she asks, her voice flat and empty.
“We’re not—” I start, then pause, feeling the weight of what I’m about to say. The test results from the lab burn in my mind. “We’re not siblings or half-siblings, not even cousins. There isn’ta single drop of DNA shared between us.” I let that sink in for a moment before adding, “Well, in the familial sense. There’s definitely more than a drop in you after last night.”
Her face goes through a rapid series of emotions—confusion, shock, disbelief, then something I can’t quite read. Her mouth opens like she’s about to speak, but I don’t wait to hear what she has to say. I hit the button to roll up my window and put the car in drive, peeling away from the curb with enough force to make the tires squeal.
In my rearview mirror, I can see her standing there, looking like I’ve just pulled the rug out from underneath her.
I need to clear my head. Need to get her out of my system, at least for a few goddamn hours. The smell of her is still in my car, on my clothes. The memory of finding her in my shower, skin raw and bleeding, keeps flashing behind my eyes like some fucked-up horror film.
Instead of heading back to my place, I turn toward the athletic complex. No one should be there this early, not even the most dedicated players. I need the solitude, need to punish my body until my mind shuts the fuck up.
The security guard nods when I pull into my reserved spot. Everyone knows my car, knows my face. Being the heir to the Devereux fortune has its perks, one of which is 24/7 access to anywhere I want to be on this campus.
“Morning, Mr. Devereux,” the guard says, not even bothering to check my ID.
