Page 11 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)

“What the hell?” she squeaks, tugging out of my hold. “What do you want?”

I shrug. “Just saying hi.”

“You are fucking exhausting.”

“Could put you to bed if you want.”

“You’d just love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I mean…you’d be pretty happy too.”

I’ve never once denied my attraction to this girl…there’s no need to. Hendrix is fucking hot and she knows it. It’s why her first defense is always to make me jealous.

Well… try to .

Green ain’t my color.

She folds her arms and pops a hip kissed by skintight black leggings.

“I have places to go, Saint,” she says, squinting from the bright lights around the stadium. “Are you done with the bullshit?”

I have zero control over my eyes as they graze the length of her body. Unbuttoned plaid shirt. Black sports bra squeezing several handfuls of cleavage.

Hendrix’s second defense—knowing I’m a sucker for great tits, so she tortures me as much as she can with hers.

I close the space between us, shielding her from the stadium lights, which allows me a better look at her eyes.

Green may not be my color, but fuck is it hers.

Those bright irises soften, the tough girl facade breaking just enough for me to catch a nervous swallow.

The look on Hendrix’s face says she’s contemplating stepping out of the invasion, but when my hand lifts to sweep her collarbone, the tiny prickles on her skin tells me I won.

“You see that, Jimi?” My touch travels to where the vein in her neck pulses. “Your body’s begging me to take care of it.”

The wild sparks return in Hendrix’s eyes as I pull away, and my cock greets them with a friendly twitch behind my jeans.

I shift on my feet, lips drawn tight.

Keep. Your shit. Together. Asshole.

Her gaze dips to the traitor, then quirks a brow.

“Oh, is it now?”

Son of a bitch.

If I didn’t already book Five for a blowjob, I’d be putting this gridiron motherfucker in a semi-permanent time out.

For the sake of maintaining the advantage I keep things simple and nod.

Hendrix reaches for the same hand I used on her seconds ago, guiding it back to her neck, then down her collarbone, all the way to the cleavage pooling at her bra.

A solid offensive play that has me salivating like a dog on the inside, and I don’t even bother adjusting my growing hard-on as she glides us over the fabric.

“That’s too bad…” She sighs, coaxing my fingers to squeeze her chest.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

Hendrix stands on her toes, bright greens steady as a beating drum as she whispers, “’Cause I already found someone who does.”

A wink follows that statement, along with a satisfied grin.

Hendrix took the lead and she fucking knows it.

With one final glance at the bulge shaping my pants she breezes past me…calling out a “hey” to who I assume is Archer.

It takes a few moments of adjusting my pants before turning around, and when I do I find her waving.

But not at Archer.

It’s the stand-in cock she’s been riding for months.

Stevenson Westbrook … known by all as Sweet Stevenson.

Tall guy. Skinny. Chivalrous. With a generic version of my fantastic head of hair. Bigger golden retriever than Beaumont.

Their whole relationship is laughable—the only thing Hendrix Montgomery prefers sweet is her vengeance.

I know because I’m always on the receiving end of it.

Stevenson casts a nervous glance at me from the entrance to the tunnel, right before Hendrix throws her arms around him for a kiss.

As always, exaggerating the PDA solely for my benefit.

Archer glances right after, standing next to them mouthing please for me to let it go and take the L.

I’m not one to take anything other than what I want—which in this case is Hendrix’s pussy in my mouth—but it’s almost time for munchies and my appointment with Five.

Archer sighs in relief when I pull my phone out of my Letterman, checking the time. Eight-fifty. Which means I’ve got a solid ten before Five shows up at my door, and I really want some fucking pizza.

I tuck the phone back in my pocket, ready to take off. But right before I turn to go, I notice Hendrix sporting a wicked grin at me over Stevenson’s shoulder.

I connect with her gaze, dragging in a breath, amused by how clueless my charm always makes her.

Jimi, Jimi, Jimi.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

I was happy to walk away and allow her to bask in a little self-gratification—because when you’re in battle with a mad king, his mercy is intended only to prolong the war.

Unlike our girl Hendrix, Archer is a pro at reading the room. Which is why he’s already on high alert following my line of sight.

To be fair, it’s not the first time I’ve watched her all over her little boyfriend, or the first time she’s taken things further than I’d normally allow with another chick.

Hendrix has been fighting the same war we started months ago on the elevator—this is just her version of friendly fire.

But this time she’s firing while I have a bruised ego.

Archer returns to pleading, eyes flooding with panic as I reach back into my Letterman, knowing the object I pull out next will not be a brand new iPhone 17.

But it isn’t until I’m meandering over with a smile as sweet as Stevenson, that Hendrix realizes just how badly she fucked up.

She looks at Archer, then her precious little boyfriend, knowing whatever is about to happen will not end well for either of her men.

Archer because he’s stupid enough to always fight for her.

And Stevenson because he’s stupid enough to still try and be with her.

When I’m only a few feet away I begin sliding my fingers through the brass and rubber holes, letting out a sharp whistle.

“Bravo, Jimi. That was quite the performance.”

“Saint don’t be a fucking?—”

“And the finale?” With a chef’s kiss to the air, I add, “Perfect touch of overkill.”

Archer turns martyr instantly with his attempt to jump in front of Hendrix—emphasis on the attempt —because I use a Jordan Retro 4 to trip his ass onto the pavement.

I may have developed an appreciation for Good Guy’s heroism, especially after going out of his way recently to help my boy Cray, but not enough to allow him to shit on my petty parade.

After Hendrix , not her golden retriever, comes over to assist Archer to his feet, she goes classic angry-girl-fist-slamming to my chest. Which, thanks to all the times she probably fights Sweet Stevie’s battles, manages to leave a tingle.

There’ll be no Captain-Save-a Goldie today, though.

Snatching both of Hendrix’s wrists, I walk her backwards into the tunnel, waiting for her little boyfriend to appear at her side.

When he does, it’s with a ghostly white face.

Hendrix is scared too, as most people are when Halo’s around my knuckles, but not enough to stop shooting spears at me between her eyelids.

My attention bounces to Stevenson, then back to angry eyes, then back to Stevenson when I squeeze her tighter.

And tighter…until she winces.

He does nothing other than ask me to stop.

Politely.

Fucking tool.

Without saying a word one hand locks around Hendrix’s throat, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to try and garner a reaction from her boyfriend.

“Saint…” She grunts, trying to pull away, but I refuse to budge until he does.

Archer jumps in again, locking an impressive strong arm around my neck.

Still…Stevie stands there frozen like a deer in headlights—too bad for him I eat deer for breakfast with my eggs.

You know…protein and shit.

With a strong elbow to Archer’s gut he releases me, hunching over to blow out a pained breath.

My fierce glare finds Hendrix. “Word of advice, Jimi. Next time you wanna sprinkle a wound…make sure the motherfucker you use to do it is worth the salt.”

I don’t give Hendrix the chance to formulate a response before letting go and securing her boyfriend’s back to my chest in a chokehold.

The muscles in my jaw tighten as I mutter to him, “And the next time you allow a crazy motherfucker to run up on Hendrix without protecting her, I’ll have a six foot grave dug up with your name on it.”

“Please don’t—” are the only words to spill out of Stevenson before thousands of volts shoot through his kidney.

Hendrix’s scream echoes down the tunnel as her boyfriend spasms against me, and I shove him to the ground. As for Archer, his stare looks almost as frozen as Stevenson’s did moments prior.

With tears rolling down Hendrix’s cheeks she falls next to Stevenson, cradling his neck.

“I meant what I said, Jimi…next time take the fucking win.”

She twists her head to face me. “I hate you!”

I lower to my haunches, lifting her chin with spiked knuckles. “Keep telling yourself that…maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

Hendrix practically drops her boyfriend’s head on the ground when she lunges at me, but her anger is no match for quarterback reflexes.

When I’m standing she flies to her feet and tries again, where Archer comes to and intervenes with a medium sized bear hug around her. Smart move, because any harder than that he’d be singing on stage for his maker.

“There’s no going back after this one, Saint!” Hendrix seethes. “Game over…I’m done!”

“Forfeiting is not becoming of you, Jimi.”

She spits a surprisingly far loogie my way.

“Neither is becoming you .”

Shoving my hands in my Letterman pockets I begin to trek backwards onto the field, jutting my chin toward a groggy Stevenson. “Don’t forget to take out the garbage.”

Hendrix offers a middle finger as Archer lets go, then pulls out a phone from behind her leggings. I assume to call the police or paramedics. Maybe both.

Most people would be concerned with getting caught, but most people don’t have a father under his belt who oversees ninety percent of the street cameras in Manhattan.

Or three of his best friends—one who dominates over half the city’s real estate, another who owns the largest private hospital, and the last one who’s on his way to governing the entire state.

All four straight descendants of Riverside’s founding fathers.

Humanity takes over in the form of pity as Archer helps Sleepy Stevie sit upright.

Either my judgment is hazy, or this guy’s been adding some Muscle Milk to his morning ’Mericano…because it takes him a lot less effort than it usually would.

I turn to continue on, picturing Riverside’s drama boy raising a set of weights instead of high notes.

Dressed in ball shorts instead of tights.

Hand up in the air calling out for a spotter instead of Juliet.

I’m seated front row in mental theatrics when the sound of moans snag my attention from the other end of the field. As I draw closer I find two guys and a girl getting their freak on.

By freak on…I mean one of them sliding a hand between her legs, and the other’s tongue inside her mouth. All three rising to a level of sloppiness that could make Riggs on his worst day cringe from secondhand embarrassment.

It’s a sweet dose of entertainment, until one of the guys rolls over to have her straddle him, and my eyes spot the fucking custom Birkin.

Fury strikes through me.

I take all of it in, the fire behind my eyes growing so hot the two handsy pricks can feel it from half a field away. Therefore sensing the need to back off the pretty young thing they’re trying to fuck.

Emphasis on the young .

More emphasis on the fuck .

I’m hit with a vision so maddening it storms the corridors of my mind, every thunderous crack chipping away at the walls I took years to build. They stand before me like a living, breathing thing. Contracting and expanding. Closing in fast.

Walls that were once white, shiny, and pristine, are now splitting wide enough to allow the darkness to creep through.

My eyes squeeze closed, and behind every new image is another crack.

The three of them naked.

Crack .

Her moaning.

Crack.

Their hands all over her.

Crack . Crack .

When I manage to pry my eyelids open, I find both guys facing me, dread taking over every inch of their faces.

Motherfuckers may not understand why, but it’s clear they know they’re as good as dead.

I drag my gaze between them, where the center of my world is sitting with her back frozen straight, looking at me over her shoulder.

My sister, Theory.

Eyes wide with terror.

Regret.

But still eager to get to me as always.

I haven’t seen her since she came for the holidays and our birthdays, and although she seemed different it was nothing like this.

A defiant sixteen year old…allowing two JV assholes to swallow her tongue and grope her.

Defile her.

Corrupt her innocence.

Theory has only ever been my baby girl—who I love more than fucking breathing. Who I cherished, raised, and sworn every allegiance to.

It’s why, in spite of my doctor’s instructions, I lose all control over what happens next.