Page 37 of House Rules
Years ago, I heard one woman talk about her experience with Storm. She wouldn’t say what happened between them, only that the adrenalin crash after was intense, and worth it. Storm had never had the same woman twice. In fact, once a woman spends some time with him, she never comes back for any of them.
There have never been any complaints or scandals, no police reports filed, so whatever he does, theyclearly at least enjoy it. It just shakes them to their core. I ache to know what he does that has such a powerful impact.
My mind races with the ideas, thinking back to the way he looks at me with his intense eyes as he flips that blade. Could he…
I push the thought out of my head, not wanting to scare myself with how turned on the idea of Storm with the knife makes me.
Then there is Conrad. Con, the demanding God among Titans. I hate the girls he entertains the most. I get to watch night after night as they get on their knees and wrap their lips around his gorgeous cock. My mouth waters every time I watch them tease him. I want to be the one whose hair he runs his fingers through, the one who gets to taste him, feel him.
I want his deep blue eyes on me while I show him how much better I can be than those women. What would it have been like if I hadn’t left him? Would we still be together?
What if I hadn’t run from the hotel room that day?
He gave me the best orgasm I have ever had with only his hands, and he touched me in places no one else has dared get close to.
With my eyes closed, I think back to that hotel room. I remember how wet I was and his groan of approval when he fingered me. My hand slides down my body. It will only take a moment, just enough to take the edge off. They will never?—
My door slams open, jolting me upright when Conrad comes into my room without knocking. For a second, I think I see disappointment flash in his eyes. I am just relieved he didn’t wait another five minutes. He would have caught me with my fingers in my panties, working out the frustration they have caused.
“We’re going to a baseball game. Get dressed,” he says and leaves as quickly as he came.
I grab some of my clothes, a pair of ratty jeans and a T-shirt, figuring it will be more appropriate for a baseball game. But the second I walk into one of the common rooms, Atticus looks disgusted at my clothing. Storm rolls his eyes, and Maverick and Con both demand I go back and put on one of my “uniforms.”
“Go change now, or I’ll be forced to help you do it,” Con growls at me.
I’m tempted to tell him to help me then, just to push back, but I don’t. I bite my tongue, and I go and change into another ridiculous micro dress. At least this one’s halter top is a little flowy, so it camouflages a good portion of my chest. It makes me feel a little bit more comfortable.
I bite my lip as I take inventory of myself in the bathroom mirror. My comfort isn’t the point.
I haven’t forgotten my purpose here. Every day that I get a few moments to myself, I try to investigate. When the men are otherwise occupied with their flavors of the night, I sneak around and try to find something…anything I can give the mafia.
Every single time, I find nothing. Maybe if I were to hang back today…?
Returning to the common room, I do a little spin, gaining a scant nod from Con and a disinterested look from Atticus. “Do you really need me at this game?” I ask. “Maybe I could hang around here and get some work done while you’re there…”
Con snorts. “We’re the only work you need to worry about.”
Maverick shoots me a disbelieving look and wraps his paw around the back of my neck to push me ahead of them. “Stupid question.” I feel like a child being marched across the hall to the principal’s office for a dress code violation.
“Wait.” Storm’s quiet command stops us in our tracks, and I look back at him curiously. His gaze is fixed on my back, bared by the dress. He steps closer and reaches out a hand, brushing aside the edge of the flowy top and baring my side. “What’s this?”
Shit. Shitshitshit.The bruises I sustained from the beating have bloomed into a collage of ugly purples, yellows, and green. They’re fading, but still very evident. Up to this point, I’ve been able to conceal them with my dress choice, but I didn’t think about the way this one moves around me.
I hear one of the men utter a soft curse, and then Con’s fingers are on my ribcage, pushing the shirt aside so he can better see. “Who the fuck did this to you?”
“N-no one,” I stammer out, jerking away. They’re surrounding me, though, closed in like a circle of protective monoliths.
“Don’t lie to me, Phoenix.” Con’s glare is cold enough to raise goosebumps on my bare flesh.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. They’re all too close, and yet somehow it’s Conrad’s stare that squeezes the most. Like he’s waiting to decide whether I’m worth defending—or worth punishing.
I rub my arms with my hands and focus on a spot just past his shoulder. If I don’t look him in the eye, maybe I can make the lie more believable.
“I’m not lying. No one did it. I tripped over a cat the night I was walking here and fell off a concrete stoop. There was a rock on the ground, and that’s what I landed on.”
For a protracted moment, no one speaks. They all stare at me, assessing. Finally Atticus shakes his head and moves toward the elevators, touching Con briefly on the elbow. “Good enough.”
Con’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and he studies me a second longer. Then he motions to the elevator. “Right. After you, Phoenix.”
