Page 306 of Bad Prince
Still locked on me.
Still burning.
Like that single heartbeat of unguarded want is still looping inside him, replaying, refusing to fade.
And now there’s no more hiding.
He saw it—the silent, screaming invitation I flung across the gym like a lit match into dry grass.
I saw the answering inferno ignite behind his eyes.
The unspoken promise that roared back: I feel it too. And I’m done pretending I don’t.
This thing between us?
It never died.
It was only waiting for one of us to stop lying.
And tonight—we both stopped.
The gym is still detonating around me—cheers crashing like thunder, bodies slamming into mine, the sweet sting of victory in every high-five. But my pulse is no longer just from the game.
It’s from him.
I force my eyes down, let my teammates drag me into the team huddle. Coach’s voice cuts through the roar—sharp commands, quick corrections, the usual post-win fire. I nod at all the right places, mutter “yes, Coach,” but my skin is still buzzing with that one look from the stands. The one that said Tristan is one second away from burning the entire rulebook for me.
Huddle breaks. Sweat cools on my neck. My jersey clings heavier now.
And there he is—my father—already waiting at the edge of the court, arms crossed, that rare, quiet smile carving lines at the corners of his eyes. I jog over before I can talk myself out of it. The second I’m close enough, he pulls me into one of those crushing hugs that still feel like coming home even after all these years.
“You hung the moon tonight, Stella.” His voice is low, just for me. “Proud doesn’t even cover it.”
My throat tightens. I let myself lean into him for three full seconds—letting the pride, the safety, the everything-I-fought-for wash over me. This is why I said no to Tristan in the first place. This focus. This version of me. But tonight that version feels cracked open, raw at the edges.
I pull back, grinning up at him. “Told you I had it.”
He laughs once, short and warm, thumb brushing my cheek like he used to when I was ten and skinned my knee. For one perfect heartbeat, it’s just us.
Then my gaze betrays me. It lifts past his shoulder, straight back to the shadowed row high in the stands.
Tristan is no longer alone.
Isa is there—watching the whole time—I remember spotting her earlier, glossy dark hair, red lipstick sharp enough to cut glass, designer jacket draped over her shoulders like a trophy. Now she’s sliding into the seat beside him, close enough thather thigh presses deliberately against his. One manicured hand lands on his forearm, fingers tracing slow, possessive circles. She leans in, lips brushing his ear as she says something that makes his jaw flex again—this time in a completely different way.
He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t lean in either. His eyes flick once—fast, almost guilty—down toward the court. Toward me.
Our stares collide again.
Even from here I feel it: the snap of electricity, the silent scream of everything we just admitted. His body is still angled toward me, like the rest of him never left that moment. But Issa notices. Her smile sharpens, predatory and perfect. She turns his face back to hers with two fingers under his chin, then rises on her toes and kisses him—slow, deliberate, right on the corner of his mouth. Not quite innocent. Not quite scandalous. Just enough to stake a claim in front of the entire gym.
My stomach drops like I just missed a block.
Heat floods my face again, but this time it’s mixed with something vicious and green. I know that kiss. I know exactly how his mouth feels when a woman does that. And I know he’s letting her because he still has to “deal with Issa”—whatever tangled mess that is. I told him to focus on himself too. I pushed him away. Now I’m watching the consequence play out in real time while my father is still talking about my stats like the world isn’t currently on fire.
“—media in five, Cortez,” one of the assistants calls from behind me, breaking the spell.
Dad squeezes my shoulder once more. “Go handle your business. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
