Page 305 of Bad Prince
I saw it.
The flinch of need. The flare of something primal and possessive in those dark eyes.
Heat explodes across my cheekbones, races down my throat, pools low in my belly. My thighs clench involuntarily.
Because that look he’s giving me now?
It isn’t polite.
It isn’t patient.
It’s starvation wearing a thin veneer of control.
The space between us hums—electric, violent, alive.
Like the air itself is strung with copper wire and someone just flipped the switch.
“Cortez!”
Ref’s bark slices through.
Now.
I drag in a breath that feels like swallowing fire.
Rip my eyes away.
Toss the ball.
Explode upward.
Arm whips down.
The serve detonates over the net—clean, vicious, untouchable.
Whistle shrieks.
Game.
The gym detonates.
Teammates crash into me—screaming, jumping, grabbing.
“STELLA!”
“HELL YES!”
“YOU’RE A DEMON!”
I’m laughing, gasping, heart slamming against my ribs, every nerve singing.
But even in the chaos, I look up.
My father is standing—clapping, proud, immovable, the picture of certainty.
Higher up?—
Tristan hasn’t moved.
