Page 64 of Night Shift

**Disclaimer:** While the rules seem stringent, they’re designed with your safety in mind.

“Curfew at 10:00 PM? Dress modestly? Bedroom privacy? What the actual fuck?” I muttered under my breath. “What is this, a boarding school for prim and proper young ladies?”

The kitchen clean-up policy had me looking around at what was left of my breakfast-making. I half-expected some alarm was about to go off for me not having it cleaned up already. And the internet password—FidelisMD1967—only he would come with something pretentious like that. It painted a picture of Atticus that was both fastidious and infuriating, or perhaps he was just a douchebag.

“Don’t touch the Firebird. Watch out for Newton, the vicious dog,” I said mockingly. I couldn’t help but laugh. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming.

“Fine,” I said under my breath, taking another bite of my omelet. “Let’s see how many of your precious rules I can break before you get back tonight.” A wicked smile spread across my face as I imagined all the ways I could get under Atticus’s skin. This little game might be just what I needed.

I’d call Bethany, I decided. She would jump at the chance to cause a little chaos. Imagining her reaction, and her likely enthusiasm for the challenge, gave me courage. It wasn’t just about breaking rules for the sake of it; this would be a statement, a declaration that I wasn’t going to simply roll over and accept Atticus’s dictatorial terms without pushing back.

When I’d finished my meal, I took the dirty dishes to the sink and rinsed them off, not bothering to put them in the dishwasher as Atticus had done earlier. Let him find them when he returned home. With a renewed sense of purpose, I made my way upstairs. The thought of a harmless little revolt brought a spark of light into my life, a reminder that I still had some fight left in me.

The decision to start my mini rebellion by snooping through Atticus’s bedroom might have seemed petty to some, but at that moment, it seemed like the perfect first act of defiance. I walked down the long hallway, checking each door, my determination growing with every step. When I finally reached the last door, it was, unsurprisingly, locked. I chuckled, not out of frustration but amusement. Atticus really didn’t know who he was dealing with.

One thing about growing up where I had—I’d picked up a few tricks.

I headed back to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers until I found a thin icing spatula. It wasn’t the ideal tool for the job, but it would have to do. Returning to Atticus’s bedroom door, I slid the spatula between the doorframe and the latch, angling it slightly downward while mentally thanking every dodgy lock I’d encountered in my childhood home.

I pressed firmly against the lock mechanism, anticipation and a tiny bit of guilt making my hands clammy. But the thrill of the challenge, of doing something I knew Atticus would disapprove of, pushed any hesitation to the back of my mind.

With a steady hand, I wiggled and nudged the spatula forward, applying pressure until the latch gave way with a satisfying click. The door swung open, revealing his inner sanctum.

I let out a little whoop of triumph and stepped inside, pausing for a moment, struck by how different it was from the rest of the house. The personal touches made this room distinctly his. As I stood there, surrounded by his private world, I was hit by a strange blend of curiosity and guilt. I’d crossed an invisible line.

Yet, the act of breaking in, of defying one of Atticus’s explicit rules, felt like reclaiming a piece of myself. It was a reminder that I wasn’t a passive participant in the events that had upended my life. For better or worse, I was still capable of making my own choices, of stirring the pot just enough to remind both Atticus and myself that I wasn’t one to be underestimated.

The room was surprisingly elegant, warm and homey, with dark hardwood floors and tasteful artwork hanging on the walls. A large king-sized bed covered in luxurious linens took up most of the space. I couldn’t help but imagine how comfortable it would be to sleep in such a bed.

Large windows framed by formal drapes let in plenty of natural light, which cast a soft glow over everything. A big side table with a giant bouquet of fresh flowers caught my eye. A subtle, pleasant fragrance filled the room. I’d never pictured Atticus to be the type to keep fresh flowers in his home, much less his bedroom. I surmised that he must have some sort of maid or personal assistant. Turning, I found an ornate mirror standing against the wall. It added a touch of depth to the room. The furnishings—from the big comfy armchair to the headboard and nightstands—spoke of his penchant for luxury. What surprised me more, however, was the absence of a TV. It was an interesting omission that gave me another hint about Atticus’s personality.

Curiosity propelled me forward, into the massive adjoining bathroom, which was expansive enough to rival the size of my entire apartment. It was the epitome of modern elegance, with beautiful marble finishes that gleamed under the soft lighting. My eyes wandered until they landed on Atticus’s grooming products, which were neatly lined up in rows on the countertop near the sink. Intrigued, I stepped closer and brushed my fingers against the sleek bottles until one caught my attention—a bottle of Acqua di Gio by Giorgio Armani. I couldn’t resist; I picked it up, uncapped it, and sprayed a little into the air. The rich aroma enveloped me. It was a scent that I couldn’t help but love. After a moment of indulgence, I gently set the bottle back down. Only then did my gaze drift to the shower. It immediately captured my full attention. Talk about modern technology—it was equipped with multiple jets, a digital temperature display, and an array of settings that promised an experience more akin to a spa treatment than a simple wash.

Beyond the bathroom was Atticus’s closet—a carefully organized space with clothes arranged by type and color in a display that bordered on the obsessive. Even the dresser drawers dedicated to socks adhered to his strict organizational scheme. Everything was sorted by color and style in a manner that was both impressive and slightly bewildering. And, wow, was his collection of watches impressive. I’d noticed he wore watches outside of the hospital but had never paid close enough attention to realize he had different ones.

I continued to snoop, my exploration leading me to discover a small chest hidden in the back of the closet. The lock on it only piqued my interest further, a tangible mystery amidst the ordered world of Atticus Thorin. Without a moment’s hesitation, I decided to take it back to my room.

With the chest carefully tucked under my arm, I left Atticus’s bedroom. I made sure to lock the door behind me, erasing any evidence of my intrusion. As I moved back to the room I’d been staying in, my mind raced with the possibilities of what the chest might contain. I hid it away, a plan forming in my mind to try to open it later. For now, it was enough to know I had something of his, a key to understanding the man who had suddenly become so central to my life.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Bethany, eager to share everything that had happened since I’d seen her at the gala.

“Hey, Bethany,” I said slowly once she answered. “You won’t believe what happened. My apartment—it’s been trashed, destroyed, and I’m a mess. I got a call around three in the morning, and Conan rushed me over. Bethany, my life is so out of control. You’re not going to believe—”

“Oh my God, Sam! Are you okay?”

After reassuring her I was safe now, I sighed and recounted the events. Somehow, saying them out loud was more terrifying than living through them.

“That’s horrible, Sam. Why didn’t you call me sooner? Where are you staying now? Are you with Conan?”

I hesitated for a moment, knowing how bizarre my next statement would sound. “Well, Atticus insisted I stay with him. Evidently, his townhouse is the only place with enough room and a sophisticated security system—or at least that’s what the Thorin brothers decided last night. Not that I had any say in the matter.”

Her chuckle rang through the speaker. “That sounds just like Atticus. Always the fixer…has to be the one in control, huh?”

“Yeah, exactly,” I admitted, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. “I actually wanted to stay with you, but Atticus wouldn’t hear of it.”

There was a pause, and then Bethany’s voice took on an edge of excitement. “Wait, you’re at Atticus’s place now? I’ve never been there. You know how he is…so private.”

Her interest didn’t surprise me. Bethany had always been curious about the parts of Atticus’s life he kept shielded from everyone else. “Yeah, I’m here. It’s…a lot to take in.”

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