3-The Cipher

Massimo Bianchi

Desire is a dangerous thing.

That's why I never let them feel anything more than lust.

I learned early on that feelings are a fucking liability.

Like a slow, rotting disease that turns men into fools and women into disasters.

I don't do emotions—I don't do love.

What I do is, late-night whispers that mean nothing, tangled sheets that smell like expensive perfume, and the kind of kisses that leave bruises but never last. No questions asked. No second times, and definitely no strings attached.

They always want more.

Always think they're different.

As if I haven't seen their type a thousand times before—wide eyes, trembling lips, hope curled around their fingertips like a goddamn prayer. As if spreading your legs a night before Church gathering would give them a place in heaven or whatever place these goddamn people have made up. Begging on knees. Praying.

But prayers don't work on men like me.

I take. I ruin. I walk away.

Because desire is a dangerous thing.

And I never let them feel anything more than lust.

That should be the case as I watch the little rabbit run down the corridor halls probably running late for her business class.

Either that or she'll end up hiding behind the college cafeteria and crying her heart out. Probably writing in her pathetic diary too. Another letter to fuck her life. It's convenient in a sense I find it entertaining.

A smirk tugs at my lips as I lean against the lockers, watching Krystina Romanovski bolt down the hallway. The pleated skirt barely sways with her movements and that flimsy excuse of a top clings to her like a second skin. Red. Bold. Almost like she's asking for attention.

So little Miss Saint can wear that, but I'm the villain for looking?

What was I expecting anyway? Women. Always the same. Always pretending.

They'd bat their lashes, and act demure, while secretly revelling in the way eyes follow them. And Krystina? She's no different. She just wears the innocence act better than most. Too well, actually. In fact, it's almost admirable—the way she plays the part. All shy glances and bitten lips, like she doesn't know exactly what she's doing.

Sweet little Krystina, the innocent saint. The naive nerd. The quiet girl who wouldn't hurt a fly.

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

Because innocent girls don't wear skirts that ride high when they run. They don't slip into tops that cling like a fucking second skin. And they sure as hell don't spread their legs.

To be honest, I thought she was different. I thought she was truly a saint—until her loudmouth sister got caught in a sex scandal until her name was whispered through the halls until her pictures ended up in the team's group chat.

A slut.

F.A.K.E.

She might run, might tremble under my gaze, but that blush staining her cheeks? That nervous way her fingers fumble? That's not just fear.

And that interests me.

Not because she's special. She's not.

Not because she's worth my time. She isn't.

It's because she isn't even apologetic.

It's just... how do I say this? Funny.

The lollipop shifts between my teeth as I tilt my head, still watching her retreat. The muscles in my jaw tense.

I don't like the running part.

It's not that I care. She's not worth the effort.

But she doesn't get to just leave.

The muse doesn't run unless the cipher allows it.

A sharp giggle breaks my thoughts, and my eyes flick to Sienna. She's perched against the lockers, perfectly polished, lips curved into a mocking smirk. "God, she's so sensitive," she purrs, flipping her hair like a fucking arrogant little brat. "Like, seriously? It's embarrassing."

I don't know what irritates me more—the high-pitched shrill of her voice or the fact that she thinks she gets to play with my toys.

"Leave the poor girl alone for once. You're better than this, Bianchi." Nico, the peacemaker muttered earning a slap on his shoulder.

I should agree. I usually would. Instead, my expression flattens.

Sienna scoffs. "Because he's terrifying, Nico."

The lollipop cracks between my teeth as she disappears around the corner and that's when I decide to pay my attention to the ruckus around me.

Nico shakes my shoulder with the hand that'll be in a cast if the motherfucker doesn't read the atmosphere.

He's about my age and has dark hair that's choppy and unsightly if I say. Turns out, he doesn't actually like when I play with my little rabbit. Or bully, his words not mine, her. Most days, he doesn't care if I choke the Romanovski princess or humiliate her in front of the campus. But today? He brings her up. And that piques my interest.

"So, what's the plan for tonight, Devil's pawn?" Nico pushes himself off the locker and pulls out a cigarette before pressing it on his lips. "The upcoming fight, what's your plan?"

"Win, obviously," I push myself off the locker and walk to the exit. Who cares about classes anyway? Not like I give a fuck. Only thing I come to this hell for is the upcoming league. No matter if I'm influential enough to buy the whole country, Hockey gives me life. A reason to stay entertained in this boring world.

"Cocky, huh?" Nico falls in steps with me along with Sienna, another powerful whore of a powerful family.

I scoff, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Confident. There's a difference, Nico."

He exhales a lazy stream of smoke, tilting his head. "Yeah? And what happens when some underdog gets lucky? You gonna cry about it?"

I stop walking, turning just enough to level him with a look. "Lucky?" A slow smirk tugs at my lips. "I don't believe in luck. Only skill. And I'm the best."

Nico snorts, but Sienna hums, brushing a manicured nail down my arm. That irked me. But I resisted the urge to snap her little hand and shove it down her throat. That'd be a bad reputation for me, wouldn't it?

"So poetic," she purrs. "You should put that on a T-shirt."

I roll my eyes, stepping out into the open air. The afternoon sun is blinding, but I barely feel the warmth. The only thing that matters is the upcoming fight and then the league. The only thing that keeps me from losing my mind in this dull, repetitive existence.

Life's so dull sometimes I feel like throwing hands. And not the tantrum kind.

Hockey is the one thing that makes sense. The ice, the speed, the rush of adrenaline when bodies collide. It's brutal. Unforgiving. Just the way I like it.

And when it's not enough, I box.

The scars on my knuckles are proof of that. Proof that I need more than just the rink, more than just sticks and pucks. Some fights demand fists. Some frustrations can't be skated off.

A sharp vibration in my pocket breaks the thought. I pull out my phone, already knowing the name flashing on the screen before I see it.

Lorenzo Bianchi.

I let it ring. Let it fucking burn into my palm before I shove it back in my pocket before I heard a ping.

Nico nudges me as we cross the quad. "Your old man coming to watch?"

A muscle ticks in my jaw, but I don't falter. "No."

He exhales a slow drag of smoke, watching me too carefully. "Didn't think so."

The buzzing starts again. I ignore it.

The Bianchi name means power. It means control. It means doing whatever the fuck you want and getting away with it. But it doesn't mean showing up. It doesn't mean giving a shit.

I smirk, shaking off the thought. "Doesn't matter." Wouldn't matter.

Because at the end of the day, the ice or boxing ring is the only place where I'm in control. Where I decide the outcome.

And I never fucking lose. Not in hockey. Not in fights. Not when I set my eyes on something.