Page 117 of Bitter When He Begs

I zero back in on Queen Bee, who’s doing a pretty poor job of pretending she isn’t rattled. “You’re all what, twenty-one? Twenty-two? Why the hell are you still acting like this is high school?” I let that settle. “Grow up and get over it.”

Her eyes flash, her chin lifting like she wants to say something that’ll cut, something that’ll land—but nothing comes. Just her mouth opening, then closing again. The squad behind her shifts awkwardly, clearly over the scene now that the tide’s turned.

I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow. “We done?”

She glares for a second longer, then turns on her heel and walks off, the rest of them trailing behind her like ducks in Lululemon.

I let out a long exhale once they’re gone.

Nate claps me on the back. “Holy shit, I forgot what a Sage nuke looked like.”

“I didn’t even go that hard,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “They just don’t expect me to bite.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, grinning, “that was the verbal equivalent of a roundhouse kick to the throat.”

I smile, but it fades a little as we start walking again. “Do you think I overdid it?”

“No,” Nate says firmly. “I think you were calm, composed, and surgical in your execution. That was hot.”

I snort. “Shut up.”

“You want me to lie?”

I glance over at him, at his smug, shit-eating grin, and even though my pulse is still buzzing from adrenaline, and I know that confrontation’s going to live rent-free in a few cheerleaders’ heads for the next month, I feel lighter.

“You think Luca’s gonna hear about this?”

“Oh,” Nate says. “You’ll know if he does. Campus might need a cleanup crew for what’s left of the cheer squad.”

I hum under my breath, letting the thought roll through me. I didn’t do it for Luca, not really. I did it because I’m tired of pretending like I’m not allowed to exist in his orbit. Like I’m some footnote in the story of his life when the truth is, I’m the goddamn chapter that changed everything.

By the time we get to the coffee cart, I’m smiling. Nate orders something sugary and terrible for his heart—some kind of iced abomination with extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon that he swears helps his joints, which is a bold lie. I get a coffee with oat milk and honey, still half-shaking but steady where it counts.

The barista calls our names, and Nate immediately starts flirting, making the poor girl blush while I wrap my hands around my cup, trying to coax the residual tension from my fingers. My heart’s calmed down, but there’s still that edge of adrenaline clinging to me, like static that won’t shake loose.

I stare down into the surface of my drink, watching steam curl up and disappear into the air, and try not to think too hard about how easy it was to go for the jugular back there. How good it felt.

I don’t hear him approach. Of course I don’t—Luca’s six-foot-three of stealth when he wants to be, especially when he’s planning something. All I get is the faint rustle of denim andthe telltale breath against the back of my neck before he’s right there, warm and close, arms sliding around my waist from behind.

“Sunshine,” he murmurs, lips brushing just under my jaw as he presses a kiss to the side of my neck, slow and smug.

I jump, swatting at him without any real effort. “Jesus, Devereaux. You trying to make me spill this?”

“I’d never,” he hums, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he tightens his hold and nuzzles in like we’re in the privacy of his room instead of standing three feet from a coffee cart with a full audience. “You smell like roasted coffee beans and bratty behavior. It’s doing things to me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, but I don’t actually push him off. I just lean back a little, let his arms be a cage around me while I sip my coffee and pretend I’m not melting from the inside out.

He hums against my jaw again, then adds another kiss for good measure. “You okay? I heard you verbally assassinated the entire cheer squad.”

I elbow him in the stomach—not hard, just enough to earn a laugh. “Who keeps reporting my life back to you in real-time?”

“Thorn texted me a minute ago. Said you served a five-course meal of humiliation and sass in the middle of the quad. Also, that you made someone cry. I’m so proud.” His mouth is back on my neck again, and I resist the urge to melt.

“You’re clingy,” I mutter, even as my head tilts, traitor that it is.

“You’re mean.”

“You’re interrupting my brooding.”