MY FORBIDDEN NIGHTS WITH THE DEVERAUX BROTHERS (18+)

CHAPTER 1. MILLY

I am on the precipice of greatness. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself as my fingers blur across the keyboard.

This is it. The climax. The moment I have been bleeding for, sweating for, and crying over for the last eight months. Joy is an understatement to describe the electric current surging through my veins right now; I am manic. My eyes feel wide, unblinking, burning with the dry heat of staring at a screen for six hours straight. My creative energy isn’t just flowing; it is buzzing, a raging, overflowing river that threatens to drown me if I don’t get these words out now.

Clickety-clack-click.

The sound of the keys is a machine-gun rhythm in the silence of my room. My head sparks with synapses firing faster than I can track. My mind is beautiful chaos. I am in the middle of the most critical scene of the year’s biggest project—the novel that will define me. This is the big break. This is the dream I have been fighting for since I was a little girl scrawling stories in crayon on the back of my math homework.

I lean closer to the glowing screen, the blue light bathing my face in a ghostly hue. There is literally no way a publisher reads this and sends a rejection letter. It’s impossible. This manuscript feels like gold dust beneath my fingertips. I can see the future spooling out in front of me: the major publishing deal, the bestseller lists, the inevitable adaptation deal where I argue with producers about casting. I am going to be the literary icon of my generation.

My energy is wild, untamed. I watch my hands as if they belong to someone else, bringing my crazy imagination to life on the digital notepad. It has been such a long, arduous road. The months of writer’s block, the nights spent staring at a blinking cursor until I wanted to scream, the brainstorming sessions that left my brain feeling like wrung-out laundry. But it is finally here. The radiative excitement ringing through my mind is definitive evidence that the moment has arrived. There is no holding me back. I am invincible.

And then, the universe decides to humble me.

My focus is shattered by a sound that rivals a gunshot—a loud, resonant thud as my bedroom door bursts open and slams against the wall.

I flinch so hard I nearly knock my laptop off my knees. My heart hammers against my ribs, the adrenaline of creativity instantly curdling into irritation. I groan, a low, guttural sound of protest, and swivel my chair toward the intrusion.

Riley stands in the doorway, glaring at me with a furious intensity that could melt steel.

She is already dressed in that familiar "going out" armor: a shimmering top that catches the hallway light and a skirt short enough to be illegal in several conservative counties. I grit my teeth, my jaw aching from the sudden tension.

Why is she so persistent? I think, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. Why today?

"Don't tell me you are not dressed," Riley says. Her voice is deceptively calm, dangerous.

I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off.

"Milly Carter, don't you dare tell me I am standing right here, looking at you still hunched up in front of your laptop like a goblin, and you haven't even put on your underwear."

Her voice rises to a scream by the end of the sentence, the rage and disapproval making me tremble slightly. I feel a flicker of nervousness, but I try to mask it with a mischievous, lopsided grin.

"Riley," I start, trying to sound reasonable. "You have no idea how important this is to me. I’m at the pivotal scene. The characters are literally speaking to me right now."

"Oh, yeah? I know how important this is to you," she counters, stepping into the room. "So important that you hunch over that laptop twenty-four-seven, every single night, probably until you develop a popped-out eyeball or a permanent spinal curvature. Is that really what you want?"

I grind my molars together. "Goddammit, Riley. Can’t I just skip this one?"

"There is absolutely no escaping this," she declares, planting her hands on her hips. "You are not weaseling your way out this time. Milly, I have let it go other times. I’ve let you bail for 'inspiration,' for 'deadlines,' for 'headaches.' But this? This is the breaking point."

She walks over to me, her heels clicking aggressively on the floorboards, and grabs my wrist.

"For heaven's sake, when the hell are you going to let loose and just have some fun in your life?" she demands, dragging my hand. "No amount of pleading is going to stop me from convincing you, so you either get up right now and get dressed, or I am locking you outside this building in your pajamas."

"Oh, great," I mutter, throwing my head back and gazing at the ceiling. "Hostage situation. Wonderful."

I feel the weight of destiny crushing me. Why did it have to be today? Why tonight, of all nights, when my brain is pulsing with energy? The image of the last part of my story is playing out in my head like a cinematic masterpiece. My fingers actually ache with the phantom sensation of typing, itching to bring the vision down onto the paper.

But looking at Riley’s face, I know she’s not bluffing. She doesn’t seem ready to listen to my pleas, and honestly, I’m scared to test her.

"Fine," I say, the word tasting like ash. "Fine! You win."

I know I’m going to have to postpone the writing, and that terrifies me. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don't know if this lightning-in-a-bottle inspiration will still be there in the morning or if it will evaporate like mist. But I reassure myself that I do not have a choice.

This isn't the first time Riley has tried to force me into her world. It’s been two solid weeks of her pleading with me to go to this specific event. I’m stuck at a crossroads. I have to go partly because I feel guilty about neglecting her. Riley has always been my anchor. She supports me, sits beside me in silence while I write, and defends me when I’m too shy to speak up. It wouldn’t be fair if I didn't support her in return by enduring the "fun" she enjoys.

That is the stark difference between us: I’m a hermit crab, and she’s a golden retriever. I can’t deny how annoying it is, yet that friction is exactly what makes us friends.

Riley releases my wrist and immediately starts buzzing around my room like a hummingbird on espresso. She rips open my wardrobe doors, throwing clothes onto the bed, muttering to herself about color palettes.

I stand there, arms folded, frowning deeply. I’m still having a hard time understanding the hype.

"I still don't get what is so fascinating about this guy," I grumble. "Who the hell is he? Lucien whatever-his-name-is."

Riley pauses, holding a hanger mid-air. "Deveraux. Lucien Devereaux."

"Right. Him. What sort of magnetic energy does he hold that makes almost everyone in this school act like their head is about to pop off? And if he’s so popular, why haven't I heard of him? I’ve never seen him on Spotify charts. I’ve never seen a poster."

Riley rolls her eyes, resuming her excavation of my closet. "Because he’s underground, Milly. That’s the point. But this is the break of it, okay? It's his big moment. I really cannot miss this, and neither can you. This is the night he could be featured on billboards and become a global sensation. We need to be there to say we saw him when."

I just roll my eyes, wondering how she thinks any of this is interesting to me. As I groan inwardly, I cast a longing look at my laptop, wishing I could conjure up some magical energy to make Riley disappear so I can scramble back to my fictional world.

"Here," Riley announces.

A bundle of fabric hits me square in the chest. I catch it instinctively, tearing my gaze away from the screen.

"Put those on. Those are the best fit for this occasion. And do not give me that angry look, or else I'm going to show you my sarcastic calm look."

I shudder. I hate it when she gives me that look; it’s an eerie expression that makes my skin crawl, a threat that says I know where you sleep.

"I’m going, I’m going," I grumble.

I bend down and pick up the clothes that fell to the floor. Luckily, Riley knows my taste. She hasn't thrown me a sequined bikini. It’s a pair of casual denim trousers—high-waisted, comfortable—and a simple, crisp white t-shirt. It’s safe. I can work with safe.

I dress grudgingly, my movements slow and exaggerated to show my displeasure. When I pull the shirt over my head, I look up to see Riley chuckling.

"What?" I snap.

"It's just... it's somehow funny and animated, the way you are so angry about this," she laughs. "I don't really know how you are my friend, honestly. It's weird. How the hell can you be so angry about going out, living the life, having fun?"

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "So, this is a party?"

Riley shakes her head quickly. "No, not a party. It's a concert. A show. A moment of history. Just this once, Milly. If you feel like you do not like his show, I promise you I'm never going to pressure you about going out again."

"I hate you," I say without heat.

"Oh no, you don't," she singsong, reveling in my unhappiness.

"We're taking your car," she adds, tossing me my keys. "You're driving."

I scoff, catching the keys. "Yeah, like I'm ever going to allow you to drop that stinking butt on my driver's seat."

Riley laughs out loud as we head out of the room. I stop at the doorway, my hand gripping the frame. I glance back at my laptop sitting on the desk, the screen dark now, hiding the incomplete work.

Goddammit, Milly, I think. Just go.

I walk back, save the file one last time, and shut the lid with a definitive click.

Riley resurfaces from the hallway, grabs my arm, and yanks me out. "No escaping from this," she says.

"Crap," I whisper. "I obviously do not have a choice."

The drive is short, but the dread is long.

When we arrive at the campus event auditorium, the reality of the situation hits me. The place is packed. I hate crowds. I hate the way they smell, the way they move like a single, suffocating organism, the way personal space ceases to exist.

I was happy I grabbed a jacket on the way out. The night air is biting, and I wrap the hoodie tight around myself, burying my hands in the pockets. Riley leads the way, slicing through the throngs of students like a shark.

I stop instantly at the entrance, paralyzed by the wall of noise. The atmosphere is feral. Countless bodies press against each other, jumping to the rhythm of the pre-show music. The bass thumps in my chest, uncomfortably syncing with my heartbeat.

Riley stops halfway and turns around. She sees me standing there, eyes wide, breathing shallowly. She closes her eyes and exhales, her expression softening.

"This is going to be hard," I mouth to her.

"Hey, it's fine, okay?" Riley shouts over the noise, moving back toward me. She grabs my shoulders. "Relax. I know how nervous you are around crowds, so I prepared a special passage for you. I promise there's a place I'm going to take you where we're going to get a better view, and there are zero sweaty strangers rubbing against you. Trust me. It's like a sneaky VIP area."

I raise an eyebrow. "I really do not know how you are my friend."

"Funny, isn't it? I ask myself that question countless times." She grins, entangling her arm with mine.

She leads me away from the main crush, guiding me toward a side entrance. I pull my hood up, hiding my face. I feel like a ghost moving through the sprawling campus of the Crestwood Institute. Nobody knows me, and I like it that way. I’m a shadow. A nobody. So why the hell am I so scared?

It takes a few minutes of navigating dimly lit corridors and dodging tech crew members carrying cables, but we finally arrive.

"Here we are," Riley whispers.

We are backstage.

My eyes adjust to the dim lighting. It’s a cluttered space filled with equipment cases and wires, but it’s quiet. A guy with a headset and a clipboard nods at Riley, then swings open a heavy velvet curtain.

From where we stand, we have a perfect side-profile view of the stage, but we remain hidden in the shadows. The crowd is a sea of bobbing heads beyond the bright stage lights, but they can't see us.

"What do you think?" Riley nudges me.

"You are crazy," I say, though I feel a wave of relief wash over me.

"Oh, come on, admit it's awesome," she gloats. "Literally only a few people get to be back here. I actually had to talk to the host to reserve this for us."

I turn to look at her, suspicion narrowing my eyes. "And how do you have any sort of connection with the host?"

She gives me a nervous grin, shrugging. "Nothing really. Just, maybe like a little acquaintance or something."

"You slept with him, didn't you?" I interrupt.

Riley winces. "Damn, man, you make me sound like a slut."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "It's not like—oh fine, I just..." I raise my hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's alright." She gives me a playful jab in the arm. "I understand you. It's cool. I'll just pretend like I didn't hear that."

We settle in, leaning against a stack of crates. Suddenly, there is a shuffle of feet behind us.

I turn, and the air seems to leave the room.

A gigantic figure walks past us. A guy I have never seen in my life brushes slightly against my arm, the heat radiating off him. He makes his way toward the stage with a battered acoustic guitar in his hand.

"Oh my God," Riley squeals beside me, practically vibrating. "Never thought I would have the chance to see him up close. Isn't he so cute?"

She is clapping her hands like a toddler. I look at her, scrunching up my face in disgust, then turn my attention to the dude.

Lucien Devereaux takes his place on the stool center stage. He adjusts the mic stand with a languid grace.

Honestly? There is nothing special about him. He looks like the factory-standard 'bad boy.' He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that strains against visible, bulging muscles, and his left arm is a canvas of intricate, dark ink sleeves.

Oh great, I think. Definitely hot. But definitely trouble.

He is exactly the kind of boy I despise. The arrogance, the tattoos, the brooding silence—it’s all a walking red flag. I scoff and roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m ready to be unimpressed. I’m ready to mock him.

He strikes the first chord.

The sound is crisp, melancholic, and perfect. The entire crowd in the auditorium goes wild, their screams deafening, but then Lucien leans into the mic.

He begins to sing.

The moment his voice rings through the speakers, something flinches deep inside my chest.

Holy shit.

It’s magnetic. It’s raspy yet smooth, like whiskey poured over gravel. It’s soulful in a way that doesn’t match his hard exterior. The melody sweeps through the air, and slowly, the screaming crowd quiets down, mesmerized, singing along in a hushed whisper.

I stand there, stunned. How does a guy who looks like he punches walls for fun have a voice like an angel? And how does the crowd know the lyrics if he’s so underground?

I’m about to ask Riley, to admit that maybe, just maybe, she was right.

But the moment is shattered.

"Oh, look. It's the library mouse."

The voice cuts through the music like a rusty knife. My blood runs cold. I don’t even need to turn around to identify the speaker. It is the voice of my nightmares.

I slowly turn. Madison stands there, flanked by her posse of cheerleaders. She is grinning widely, her eyes gleaming with predatory delight. She looks like she just found a wounded animal to poke with a stick.

Riley grips my arm tightly. "Milly, just ignore her," she whispers urgently. "Lucian is playing—"

"I mean, seriously," Madison draws out the words, stepping closer. "What are you even doing back here? This area is for people who actually matter."

I clench my fists at my sides. Calm down, Milly, I tell myself. Breathe. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

I force a peaceful expression onto my face, though my heart is pounding a war drum against my ribs. "I'm just here with Riley. We're not bothering anyone."

"You bother people just by existing, sweetheart," Madison sneers. She looks me up and down with exaggerated disgust. "God, even your clothes scream 'I have no friends.' Oh wait—" She glances at Riley. "—you have one. How charitable of her."

"Madison, back off," Riley snaps, stepping in front of me.

Madison ignores her, locking eyes with me. "Did your mommy dress you this morning, Milly? Or did you just raid the nearest dumpster behind the Goodwill?"

Something snaps.

It’s an audible crack in my composure. The stress of the unfinished novel, the anxiety of the crowd, the exhaustion—it all boils over into a blinding white heat. My infamous temper flares without borders.

I push past Riley, my calm facade shattering into a million jagged pieces.

"You know what, Madison?" My voice is low, trembling with rage. "I'm so tired of your pathetic need for attention. Do you practice being this insufferable, or does it come naturally?"

Madison's eyes widen in genuine shock. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I step closer, invading her space. "You parade around here like you own the place, but everyone knows the only reason people tolerate you is because they're terrified you'll make their lives miserable. That's not power, Madison. That's just sad."

"Milly," Riley hisses behind me. "I think you need to dial it down a notch."

But I am too far gone. I am a runaway train.

"Hey! You can't talk to her like that!" one of the minions squeaks from the back.

I whip my head toward her. "Oh, I can't? Watch me. Maybe if you spent half as much time developing an actual personality as you do tearing people down, you wouldn't be so threatened by someone who just wants to be left alone!"

Madison's face flushes a deep, ugly crimson. I can see the veins bulging in her neck. She glares at me like she wants to tear me apart with her bare hands.

"You little—" she snarls.

She lunges.

It happens in slow motion. Her hands come up, palms open, and she shoves me. hard.

"Oh my goodness!" Riley screams, reaching out.

But it’s too late. The force of the shove sends me stumbling backward, my feet tangling in the heavy velvet curtains. I flail for balance, but there is nothing to grab.

I fall backward, tumbling out of the shadows and straight into the blinding white light of the stage.