Page 43 of Bitter When He Begs

Fucking predictable.

“You ignoring me, Sunshine?” His voice is smooth, and meant to get under my skin. It always does. But today I don’t let it.

Instead, I sigh, set my pen down, and tilt my head up to meet his gaze; my expression is blank and unimpressed. “I don’t know, Luca,” I say, my voice dry. “Am I?”

There’s a flicker in his eyes—just for a second, just long enough for me to know that wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

His lips curl into a smirk. “Careful,” he murmurs. “I might start thinking you’re playing hard to get.”

Normally, that would piss me off, but I know what he’s doing, and I refuse to play along this time. So instead, I just nod. “Alright,” I say, shrugging. “Then think that.”

Luca blinks, and I think that response has thrown him off. With a sigh, I just return to my notes, picking up my pen again like I’m already done with this conversation.

He doesn’t move right away. I can feel that he hates this. The shift in his energy, the way his fingers flex against the desk like he’s stopping himself from grabbing me and forcing a reaction out of me. But I give him nothing.

“You’re really just gonna act like I’m not standing right here?” he asks, and there’s a bite to it now. Like the calm is starting to wear on him.

I hum under my breath, not even looking at him this time.“I’m just doing what you told me to do, Luca. You made it pretty fucking clear I’m nothing to you. So here I am. Being nothing.”

Another beat of silence. I know it’s pissing him off. Luca’s always been addicted to my reactions—good, bad, explosive—it doesn’t matter. He just wants to feel something bounce off him. He wants to be someone else’s problem. But not today. Not mine.

“Sunshine.”

The nickname comes out like a warning. I know that tone—he used it the first time he had me alone in his bedroom. Back then it made my knees weak, but now I’m over his bullshit.

I glance up again, meet his eyes head-on, no heat, no challenge, just… done. “You looked me in the face and tore me down, and now you’re pissed that I’m not licking the wounds you gave me?”

He straightens a little like he’s gearing up for a fight, like maybe he thought I’d fall apart again, snap back with something emotional or spiteful. But I don’t. I just look at him, calm andlevel, like he’s just another guy who fucked up and can’t figure out why he’s not getting his usual reaction.

And after a long, tense moment, he exhales and steps back, muttering, “See you around, Sunshine.” Then he’s gone.

I don’t let myself look up until I’m sure he’s out of the room, until the tension in my shoulders unwinds just slightly, until I know I’ve won this round.

Luca Devereaux is used to playing with his food, but I’m not fucking playing anymore.

Luca

Therestaurantisoverpricedand modern. The kind of place that serves water in glass bottles and charges more for the garnish than the food itself. I sit across from my father, the Devereaux name carrying more weight here than anything printed on the damn menu.

My older brother, Jaxon, lounges beside him like he owns the world—and maybe he does. He’s the heir, after all. The one who followed all the rules, walked the path carved out for us since birth, and never once stumbled.

I should’ve ordered the steak. Something solid, something that would take more effort to chew than it does to bite back my fucking tongue. Instead, I’ve been pushing around some kind of fancy grilled chicken with herbs I can’t pronounce and don’t give a shit about.

My father doesn’t even glance at me. His eyes are on his phone as he speaks, voice flat and critical. “You were sloppy last game.”

My jaw clenches. “I threw for 312 yards and three touchdowns.”

His gaze lifts—it’s cold like it always is when he looks at me. “And still couldn’t close out the third quarter without scrambling like a rookie. Stats don’t mean shit if you can’t finish strong.”

Jaxon moves beside him but doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

I lean back in my chair, my appetite gone. “We won, didn’t we?”

“You won because your defense picked up your slack.” My father sets down his phone, eyes narrowing. “You think being a starter means you’ve proven something? You haven’t proven a damn thing, Luca. Blackthorne’s full of soft kids with big mouths. You’re not going to make it on raw talent alone. You never could.”

I should be used to this by now. The disappointment. The relentless picking apart of every single thing I do. But it still slides in under my skin, and buries itself there like rusted metal.

“I’m leading the fucking team in yards,” I say, my voice low.