Page 165 of Bitter When He Begs

“Not yet,” I say, voice rough. “I need this.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it. He just holds on tighter, hands curling against the back of my neck like he knows I’m barely holding it together.

After a minute, I finally set him down, grimacing as I adjust my stance. He watches me, eyes flicking over my face, taking in everything I’m trying to hide.

“Your ribs,” he says softly. “How bad?”

“Sprained,” I admit. “Could be worse. No breaks. Just hurts like a bitch.”

“And you’re not on anything?”

“Anti-inflammatories,” I say. “That’s it.”

His hand finds mine, fingers sliding through like he’s anchoring me. “I’m proud of you.”

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.But it does. It fucking wrecks me a little, standing here, all eyes on us, and this boy who used to flinch when I got too close now looking at me like I’m something good.

“You played incredible,” he says, his voice quiet and genuine.

And fuck, I needed that.

I needed him.

I don’t know how to say it out loud, don’t know how to tell him that knowing he was watching kept me grounded, kept me from spiraling, kept me from feeling like I needed to prove anything to the bastard who made me.

Instead, I just press my forehead against his, eyes slipping shut for a second, letting myself breathe him in. “I love you,” he whispers.

My heart skips, stutters, then steadies. I smile against his skin. “I know. And I love you back.”

We’re standing like that, wrapped in this stupid, perfect moment, when a voice cuts through the moment like a fucking blade.

Luca

“Luca.”

I freeze. My spine straightens before I even look up. I know that tone of voice. I’ve heard it deliver eulogies at meetings I wasn’t invited to, dressed up in approval so thin it tore on contact. It’s cold steel dressed in civility, and I’ve spent years building armor just to survive the sound of it.

I turn slowly, pulling away from Sage. Leonardo Devereaux stands in a pressed suit and an expression that doesn’t belong anywhere near this field. He’s perfectly composed like the chaos of the game hasn’t touched him; the noise, the people, the victory—none of it is real to him unless he can twist it into something transactional.

For a second, I don’t say anything. I just stare at him.

Him.

The man who made me, shaped me, broke me down into something unrecognizable, all while calling it tough love. The man who, no matter what I did, never had anything good to say.Who only ever looked at me with disappointment, as if I was a failure before I even had a chance to prove myself.

And now, here he is, standing in front of me in his tailored suit, looking at me like I lost the game, instead of fucking winning.

I force my shoulders back, standing tall, and refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing any weakness. I won’t let him get in my head, not tonight.

“I see you’re still chasing distractions,” he says casually, eyes narrowing on my boy like he’s a smudge on a spotless surface. “Always had a talent for disappointing choices.”

Sage stiffens beside me. My heart drops because I know that posture; it’s the one he wears before the kill shot. “Don’t start,” I warn, my voice flat. “Not tonight, Dad. Please.”

He tilts his head, assessing me like I’m nothing more than a disappointment standing in front of him. “Tell me, Luca. Is this why you played like shit tonight? Why you let your team almost lose? Because you were too busy sticking your tongue down some boy’s throat?”

Before I can stop him, Sage steps in front of me. Literally. Shoulders squared, head tilted, not like he’s challenging a threat, but like he’s correcting a child. “First of all,” he says, voice cool and controlled, “who the fuck do you think you’re talking to like that?”

My dad turns to him fully now, his brows lifting with the kind of patronizing amusement that used to make me feel small.