Lucien fucking Devereux.
Just thinking his name makes my body react against my wishes. Heat pools between my legs, my nipples tighten, my heart hammers against my ribs. It's disgusting how my body betrays me, how it still craves him.
I haven't seen him yet, but I know he's here. The king of St. Augustine, heir to the Sinners of The Black Crown Society. The secretive brotherhood of wealth and influence that everyone pretends doesn't exist while kissing its ass. The society that nearly destroyed my family. The society that owns this entire town.
Ducking into the women's bathroom, I lock myself in a stall before anyone can trap me in an unwanted conversation. Leaning against the door, I close my eyes and try to breathe through the panic rising in my chest.
You can handle this. You're not the same girl who left. I keep repeating to myself because fake it til’ you make it.
And the thing is I'm not. That girl was naive, thinking she could play with fire without getting burned. That because her family was part of the society, nothing could really touch her. That girl was a fucking idiot.
The bathroom door swings open with a bang, interrupting my pity party for one. The last thing I need is some St. Augustinesocialite trying to make small talk while I'm on the verge of a panic attack.
“I swear to God, did you see him at practice today?” A voice that sounds like money—old money—bounces off the walls. “Lucien fucking Devereux in those shorts should be illegal.”
My stomach drops through the floor. Just his name in someone else's mouth makes my skin prickle.
“Girl, the whole Unholy Trinity is on another level this season,” another voice chimes in. “I heard that Coach Fontaine says they're headed straight for nationals.”
“It's not just basketball,” a third voice adds, lower, conspiratorial. “It’s like this year has everyone on edge. All three of them are graduating and you know what that means.”
I press my ear against the stall door, my heart hammering so loud I'm surprised they can't hear it.
“Lucien, though...” The first voice again, breathier now. “He looks like the devil reincarnated this year. Like, I'm not even that religious, but I'd let him drag me straight to hell.”
They all laugh, and I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
“I swear he's carved from fucking marble or something. Those arms, those thighs, that jaw...he's not human. And his eyes?—”
“Green like poison,” another girl finishes. “My roommate hooked up with Cassian a few months ago, and she said Lucien walked in on them in the locker room and just...watched for a minute. Said his eyes made her come on the spot.”
More giggles, the sound of lipstick tubes clicking open.
“You know Jessica tried to talk to him after her PoliSci class? He didn't even look at her, just kept walking, and she still spent the entire night talking about it like it was a religious experience.”
“That's what I mean. Men, women—doesn't matter. They all fall at his feet, bend over backwards to do whatever the fuck he wants.”
“He's a Devereux,” one says, like that explains everything. “The very fucking epitome of a Devereux. Born to rule, bred to conquer.”
My nails dig into my palms. They don't know shit. They haven't seen the real Lucien—the one who pinned me against walls, who whispered filthy promises against my neck, who marked my inner thighs with bruises shaped like his fingertips. They haven't seen the darkness behind those poison-green eyes.
“I heard he's taking over The Sinners next year,” the whisper is so low I almost miss it. “My brother said the initiation ceremony is next month, and Lucien's leading it.”
“Fuck, can you imagine being Chosen by him? Like, officially.”
“Did you hear that rumor about Lucien supposedly having a sister?” one of them says, her voice dropping even lower.
“What? No way,” another girl scoffs. “He's an only child. Everyone knows that.”
“Apparently it's some secret love child or something. Very hush-hush, but that's just what I heard.”
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my fucking head. These idiots have no idea what they're talking about. Even if there was a secret child, Vincent Devereux would never let anyone talk about it. That man erases scandals like they're pencil marks. Completely and without a trace. Any mention would have been wiped from existence.
My body betrays me with a sudden violent sneeze that echoes in the bathroom.
The gossip stops instantly. I imagine three sets of eyes snap toward my stall.
Fuck it.
