Page 42 of Bitter When He Begs

“Bullshit.”

I grit my teeth, eyes flashing toward him. “Nate—”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” His voice drops slightly, and his easy smirk fades. “Luca.”

I go still, and of course, Nate sees it. His jaw tightens, fingers tapping against his arm. “What the fuck did he do now?”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it doesn’t,” Nate snaps.

I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket. “I went looking for him, okay? That’s on me.”

Nate watches me, unimpressed. “And?”

“And nothing.” I force my voice to stay even, to stay bored, to sound like this whole fucking thing isn’t eating me alive from the inside out. “He said some shit. I left. End of story.”

Nate’s fingers flex, his body thrumming with barely contained anger. “What kind of shit?”

I push past him to get to the fridge, needing something to do with my hands before I start throwing shit. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

That’s a lie. Luca has never said that before, not with that cruel fucking edge. But I don’t need Nate knowing that. Because if I tell him the exact words Luca threw at me, the way he mockedme, the way he cut me open just because he could, Nate will do something fucking stupid.

And as much as I want to see someone knock Luca Devereaux on his ass, I know it won’t change a thing.

So I keep my mouth shut.

I grab a bottle of water, twisting the cap off, taking a slow sip while Nate just stares at me, waiting for me to break. Finally, he exhales and shakes his head. “You know you’re fucking exhausting, right?”

I smirk, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “You love me.”

Nate rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “You good?”

I hesitate before I nod. “Yeah.”

Nate doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go for now. And I don’t know if I’m relieved or if I feel even fucking worse.

I don’t talk to anyone the next day. Not because I can’t—I just don’t want to.

The last thing I need is Nate on my ass, trying to drag more information out of me about what happened, or worse, trying to do something about it. So I keep my head down, avoid eye contact, move through my classes like I’m just another overworked student trying to get through the day.

And it works for a while.

I manage to slip through the cracks, answering when I have to, nodding at people when necessary, but otherwise keeping to myself. No one bothers me. No one pushes.

But of course, it doesn’t last. Because Luca Devereaux is a fucking menace.

I feel him before I see him.

That weight—that suffocating, heavy presence that sucks all the air out of the room the second he walks in. It’s different from when anyone else notices me, different from the usual“Hey, Sage, can you look over my paper?”or“Hey, Sage, do you remember what Professor Murphy said last class?”

Luca noticing me is like a fucking lock-in.

I feel his eyes on me. I know he’s watching me, and I refuse to look up. I focus on my notes, scribbling useless shit just to make it seem like I’m busy, like I don’t care that he’s standing just a few feet away. That he’s probably already thinking up ways to fuck with me.

And then, just like I knew he would, he corners me.

I don’t even hear him approach—just suddenly feel him there, leaning down, one hand on the back of my chair, the other on the desk in front of me, caging me in.

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