Page 4 of Bitter When He Begs

Eli and Julian both burst out laughing just as Damon walks in fresh from the showers with a towel slung low on his hips. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing Roman. “You don’t wanna go?”

Roman breathes out a sigh, like he knows he’s already lost this battle. “I didn’t say that.”

Damon hums, amused. “You kind of did, I heard you.”

Eli claps his hands together. “Then it’s settled, the disgusting couple are in,” he says, then he turns to me, and I already know what’s coming. “Luca?”

I drag a hand through my damp hair, shaking my head. “Nah. Not my thing.”

Julian raises his eyebrow. “Since when?”

Since I can barely keep my breathing even without feeling like my ribs are caving in. Since I’m one wrong move away from snapping at someone just because I feel like my entire body is about to short-circuit. Since the last fucking place I need to be is surrounded by drunk assholes, flashing lights, and loud music when I already feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

But I don’t say any of that, since that’s not something Luca Devereaux would say.

I force my mouth into a smirk. “I don’t know, man. Sigma Rho pisses me the fuck off. Same pussy, same ass, no variety.”

Eli grins, throwing an arm around my shoulders like I don’t outweigh him by fifty pounds of muscle. “Come on, Devereaux. Can’t have the Titan’s QB skipping out on a frat party, now can we?”

I should say no. I should just walk out of here, go back to the house, and suffer through another night of miserable withdrawal alone while I wait for this shit to pass.

But I don’t. Because the guy with the perfect stats and the billion-dollar smile—the star player everyone expects to lead them to victory—doesn’t get to skip out on shit like this. He doesn’t get to sit in his room alone, feeling like his ribs are cracking apart.

He doesn’t get to be weak. Hehasto be there. Hehasto show up. Hehasto keep everything looking perfect.

So I flash them my signature smirk and mutter, “Guess I should make an appearance.”

Julian whoops, Eli punches my arm, and I pretend like this is exactly what I wanted all along. Damon, on the other hand, shoots me a weird look. I bite the inside of my cheek, ignoring the way my stomach twists as we all finish up and head out.

Damien, Killian and Thorn are already outside waiting for us, the whole crew ready to fuck some shit up. I keep my expression easy and my posture relaxed, even though my whole body is screaming at me to leave.

The pre-game at our house is exactly what I expect—booze, music, the air thick with smoke and laughter. I keep a drink in my hand because it’s expected, despite knowing that alcohol will only make the withdrawals worse.

I keep my focus locked on one place, forcing my brain to stay sharp and ignoring the itch in my blood that tells me I need something more.

By the time we get to Sigma Rho Alpha, the party is already at full tilt. Music vibrating through the walls, bodies packed together, lights flashing, smoke curling through the air from the joints being passed around. The kind of party that only exists at Blackthorne—the kind where trust fund babies, athletes, and frat bros pretend they own the fucking world.

I move through the crowd with the guys, scanning the room like I always do; taking stock, keeping track of who’s watching, who’s moving, and who’s paying attention. It’s a habit I can’t shake, knowing where everyone stands before they even realize I’m looking. But then I—

Fuck.

I see him before my brain even registers who he is. Sage Blackwell—ash blond hair slightly longer than the last time I saw him, glasses slipping down his nose, and a drink in his hand as he leans against a makeshift bar, listening to someone talk.

For a second, I didn’t even realize it’s him because there’s something different about him. He’s still got that too-smart-for-this-place look, still the legacy kid with the big brown eyes and built frame that doesn’t quite match his nerd persona.

But there’s something else now, something that makes him look like he actually belongs. I usually make it my mission to read up about new frat pledges to see which ones can be used and easily manipulated, and Sage was right at the top of that list.

Three months ago, I had him shoved up against a locker with my hand around his throat while I threatened him. I played with him for about a week and made him sweat, before I got bored. He was supposed to stay scared and keep his head down; for the most part, he did.

ThisSage Blackwell, this guy oozing confidence and looking comfortable, isn’t the guy I left trembling in that locker room. He looks like he fits in more than I do.

Eli catches my expression and follows my gaze, then whistles under his breath. “Sage Blackwell, huh? Didn’t peg you for a guy with nerd taste, Devereaux.”

I tear my gaze away, wondering how the fuck Eli knows Sage. “I don’t give a shit about him.”

Eli grins like he doesn’t believe me, and that pisses me off even more.

This was a bad fucking idea. I shouldn’t have come. I should be at home, sweating through another miserable night of withdrawal and trying to convince myself that tomorrow will be better. Not standing in a frat house staring at the one person I thought wouldn’t be a problem.