Chapter 354: The Reveal to the Crowd

Landon and Brian exchanged

one

look.

One single, wicked, perfectly synchronized glance. A wink that carried the weight of every prank, every late-night gym session, every shared secret between boys who’d long since crossed into brotherhood through mutual lunacy.

And then they

moved

.

Fast. Coordinated. The kind of ambush that only happens when you’ve drilled it in secret for weeks.

Phei felt the shift behind him—every nerve screaming

react, twist, stop them

—but the moment he tried to lift his hands, tried to spin, tried to do

anything

—

Nothing.

His arms locked at his sides. His legs turned to stone. His entire body stood frozen mid-breath, as though someone had replaced his blood with quick-set concrete.

Twenty feet above the roaring crowd—visible to no one else but him—a four-foot silhouette of

void-black

ice and

gleeful malice

hovered in mid-air. Translucent violet glow pulsing against the stadium lights.

The fairy gave him a cheeky little finger-wiggle wave, lips curled in pure, unrepentant mischief.

That little—

Landon’s voice came low at his ear, not even slightly apologetic. "Sorry, captain."

Brian, grinning like a demon. "The people have spoken."

They grabbed the hem.

And

pulled

.

The shirt rose slowly—torturously slowly—like they wanted every single person in the building to memorize the journey.

Past the low-slung waistband. Past the navel. Past the sudden, brutal reveal of

six

carved abdominal blocks stacked in ruthless symmetry—deep separations, razor edges, veins faintly visible under golden skin that had no business looking this obscene on a seventeen-year-old who’d been a skinny shadow three weeks earlier.

The crowd

gasped

.

Twenty thousand people sucked air at once. A stadium-wide vacuum.

The shirt kept climbing.

Past the lower pecs—thick,

armoured

plates that curved outward. Past the upper chest—broad, heavy, developed in ways that screamed either brutal iron or something far less natural.

And then—the

V

.

Those cruel, arrow-sharp lines starting at his hips, deep iliac furrows slicing downward, vanishing beneath the waistband like they were personally daring every woman (and half the men) in the building to imagine where they ended.

The basketball shorts sat

dangerously

low. Low enough to frame the deep-cut V like a picture frame. Low enough that the thick, unmistakable outline of his cock pressed against the fabric—not fully hard, not even close, but heavy.

Present.

A lazy, arrogant bulge that the loose regulation shorts could not hide.

The stadium

detonated

.

Screams. Actual, throat-tearing screams. The sound you hear when the frontman of a sold-out arena tour rips his shirt off—except this was a high school basketball court and the boy in question was supposed to be a nobody charity case.

"

OH MY GOD—"

"HOLY FUCK—"

"IS THAT REAL?!"

"I’M LITERALLY GOING TO FAINT—"

In the front rows, girls clutched each other. One collapsed straight onto the bleacher like her knees had simply clocked out. Programs became fans. Phones were raised at shaky angles.

The PheiCrush Simps section had become a war zone of blushing and hyperventilation. Emily stood petrified—crimson from forehead to throat—mouth parted, eyes locked on abs she’d never allowed herself to fantasize about in this much detail even after seeing him naked, she still was fascinated each time he saw them.

Her palm pressed flat over her racing heart like she needed to physically hold it inside her chest.

Up in the VIP boxes.

Dravenna Ashford leaned forward. Wine glass frozen halfway to her mouth. Her dragon-sharp gaze raked down every ridge, every shadowed cut, every glistening inch of exposed skin. Her tongue slipped out—slow, deliberate—tracing the curve of her lower lip like she was already tasting him.

Three booths away, Adriana Castellano had gone statue-still.

Oh,

she thought.

This changes

everything

.

She’d dismissed the leaked photos as teenage filter nonsense. Convinced herself the boy next door—couldn’t possibly look like the circulating images suggested.

But now she was staring at the proof in living, breathing, sweat-glistening flesh.

That face—criminal. God-tier and

bedroom eyes

. That body—

criminal

. No teenage boy had the right to a torso like that. No charity case should have V-lines that looked carved with a scalpel.

Her husband sat beside her—scrolling, oblivious, probably putting out fires from Brett’s latest disaster.

He didn’t notice his wife’s breathing had turned shallow. Didn’t notice her thighs had clamped together beneath the silk of her dress. Didn’t notice her fingers had gone white around the stem of her champagne flute.

That’s the boy from next door,

she thought, mouth paper-dry.

That’s... that’s not a boy anymore.

Melissa Maxton watched from her seat, expression serene.

Inside, something dark and possessive purred.

Mine.

All of that sculpted, obscene perfection—

mine

. And none of these screaming harpies had the faintest idea.

On the court the cheer squad had given up all pretence of professionalism.

Paige’s mask had shattered. Lips parted. Eyes wide. The betting app on her phone completely forgotten as she stared at a body that had just rewritten her personal definition of

unfair

.

Fuck,

she thought.

I should have put down double.

Beside her, Brielle let out a tiny, involuntary whimper—then immediately snapped her mouth shut, spine ramrod straight, cheeks flaming.

Paige heard it. Their eyes met. No words. No need.

Across the court the Heaven Reapers stood in various stages of psychic damage.

Brett—jaw locked, eyes burning with ugly envy. Anderson—staring at the rafters like they might save him. Kyle—fists clenched, expression blank but knuckles white. Danton—trying and

failing

to maintain Legacy composure. His gaze kept flicking to the V-lines. To the bulge. Each glance chipped another piece off his ego.

That’s my cousin?

He thought, something sour twisting in his gut.

That’s the charity case.

How?

And Marcus Heavenchild—arms crossed, face stone, every inch the untouchable prince.

Except something was

wrong

.

The boy who’d stared him down yesterday had been dangerous. Predatory. A weapon wearing teenage skin.

This version radiated something colder. Older. A weight that had nothing to do with teenage bravado or system buffs.

Marcus’s instincts—honed over a lifetime of being the apex in every room—screamed one thing:

That is no longer entirely human.

The question rose before he could stop it:

What the hell happened to him?

He crushed it instantly.

His eyes dropped—just once—to the carved torso on display.

One second.

One heartbeat.

And in that heartbeat, something flickered. Recognition. Threat assessment. The faintest, most unwelcome whisper:

Can I actually beat that?

He buried the thought beneath centuries of Heavenchild arrogance.

But it had been there.

Amber watched from higher in the stands, mask perfect, eyes calculating.

Soon,

she thought.

Soon that body will be kneeling at my command.

Her leverage burned a hole in her pocket.

She could wait.

On court, Landon and Brian were

cackling

—full, wheezing, can’t-breathe laughter—at the betrayed look on Phei’s frozen face.

They kept the shirt rucked up under his armpits, letting twenty thousand people (and the livestream) drink their fill.

"You’re both

dead

," Phei muttered through locked teeth.

"Worth it," Landon wheezed.

"So fucking worth it," Brian agreed.

The crowd was still screaming. Still chanting his name like a war cry.

And then—

FWEEEEEEET!

A single, razor-sharp whistle sliced the chaos in half.

The stadium went dead silent.

Every head snapped toward the sound.

The game was about to begin.