Page 116 of House Rules
36
Atticus
It is fuckingsix a.m. when the alarm starts shrieking. The shrill sound cuts through the absolute silence and pitch-black darkness of my room. The kind of dark where you can almost hear the blood in your own ears, where the walls press in close, and every shadow feels like a watcher.
I knew it would.
I’ve been lying here for hours, every muscle wound tight, eyes snapping open at every tiny nighttime noise. I was so sure that alarm was going to go off that I couldn’t go to sleep last night. But Phoenix waited until six a.m. to fucking run away.
At least she’s running for the right reasons. If there is such a thing.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and shove on my glasses, going immediately to my phone and pulling up the GPS signal for the AirTag I slipped into her old sneakers. Her sneakers are the only thing I knew for a fact she’d take if she ran.
Nobody runs away in six-inch stilettos. Nobody runs anywhere in six-inch stilettos. I don’t care what the porn Maverick likes to watch says.
The screen’s glow slices the dark, numbers and coordinates spilling across it like a heartbeat.
No, a woman like Phoenix is smart. She’s practical. The girl doesn’t own a car. I’m not even sure she has a license. She’s always gotten around on foot, and that’s how she’d leave.
I watch the tag for a second, seeing it move about a block down the street from the resort as I shove on my own clothes, tucking a revolver into the back of my pants and adding three knives from my collection to my holsters. I may not be quite as enthusiastic about knives as Storm, but I do have a love for a gleaming blade.
“Get up,” I yell, banging on the wall into Storm’s room. The sound reverberates through the thinwall, sharp enough to jolt him out of whatever half-dead sleep he was in.
My phone app tracks the tag. She’s only about three blocks from the casino, but she hasn’t moved in at least a minute. That can’t be good.
Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe I’ll wake everyone up and, by the time we’re ready to hunt her down, we’ll open the door to find her standing there, ready to apologize. Maybe she’s standing three blocks away, rethinking her terrible life choices, and she’ll come back.
God, I hope that’s the case.
Once she’s done apologizing, I’m going to take her into the playroom, put her in the shackles, and punish her. All by myself this time. I’ll have her chained in the fucking stocks while I stripe her ass.
“What’s wrong?” Storm asks, suppressing a yawn and rubbing his eyes.
“Phoenix left, and we need to go get her. Now.”
“What?” Storm asks, but I’m already halfway across the suite, pounding on Con’s and Maverick’s doors.
“Get the fuck up,” I yell. “Phoenix left, and those assholes are after her. They’ll know we’re willing to pay to get her back. We need to move before it’s too late.”
Storm’s face pales. Then his jaw tightens, and he gives me a single nod. I see the shift in his eyes—the psychopath is in charge. Good. It’s the psychopath I need right now, not the broken man. Say what you want about crazy, but crazy gets shit done.
Storm disappears into his room and comes out a moment later with his blade and a few others tucked into his pockets.
Maverick emerges wearing nothing but jeans and a scowl, sliding a set of brass knuckles onto his fist.
Con isn’t fucking around. He tucks a revolver into the back of his pants, grabs a collapsible steel baton, and slips it into his pocket—a gift from his father after he got caught beating a cheater with a baseball bat. The baton’s easier to conceal.
“Where is she?” Con asks.
I check the GPS. She still hasn’t moved. That’s not good. “Follow me,” I say, making a few calls as we head out.
“Who the fuck are you calling?” Maverick growls.
“The marina,” I say through clenched teeth. Before we even get out of the elevator, I have the staff rushing to get our yacht ready and clearing the entire marina. There will be no witnesses to what we’re about to do.
“How close are they?” Con asks.
“Less than three blocks.”
