Page 67 of House Rules
Storm doesn’t say a word. Just crosses the stone tiles and drops into the chair beside me. He doesn’t reach for the box. Never does. He doesn’t touch anything flammable—won’t even light a candle.
I glance sideways. His sleeves are pushed up tonight, and I can see the faint, round scars that dot the inside of his arm. They’re too symmetrical to be anything but intentional. Too personal to ask about, but it doesn’t matter. We all know what they are.
And it wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. Storm never answers questions. Not the real ones.
When the night terrors started, we tried everything. Booze, girls, weed, even a priest once—don’t ask. Nothing worked. And he wouldn’t talk. Claimed he was seeing a therapist.
We all knew that was bullshit.
The terrors stopped, eventually. But the screaming didn’t—not with Maverick and Atticus cycling through women like it’s a goddamn sport. It’s only ever quiet when it’s just me and Storm.
He breaks the silence first. “You look pissed.”
I take another drag, slow and deliberate. “I know why our little toy’s been snooping.”
Storm doesn’t respond, but I can feel him watching me.
“She thinks she’s living with a bunch of fucking murderers.”
His stillness sharpens. “And why would she think that?”
There’s a new edge in his voice. Not curiosity—hurt. Maybe even betrayal.
Storm’s the one who kept telling us not to jump to conclusions. The one who insisted Atticus give her a chance. Said we’d pushed her too far, too fast. That maybe she was playing defense, not offense.
I shrug, jaw tight. “I don’t know. But I’m starting to wonder if this whole minder thing—her saying yes so fast—wasn’t as innocent as we wanted to believe.”
Storm leans back, eyes on the water. We sit like that for a while. Not talking. Just breathing. Him in his silence, me in my smoke.
Eventually, I break it.
“Anyone win the bet yet?” I ask, even though we both know the answer. If someone had won, Maverick would’ve already rented a skywriter.
Storm doesn’t look at me. “No.”
There’s a pause.
Then, quietly: “What happens if she wins?”
I turn my head. “What do you mean?”
“What if one of us begs before she does?” His jaw shifts, like the words cost him something to admit. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.None of the others do it for me. I want her. Only her. I’ll have her, Con. I don’t care if I have to beg. I will.”
The thing is—I believe him.
Storm doesn’twantthings. He endures them. Avoids them. Keeps his world small and cold and controlled. But something about Phoenix…
Something about her is making us all stupid.
I blow smoke toward the ceiling fan and mutter, “Fuck.”
He’s right.
We’re circling the drain. Me. Storm. Even Atticus, for all his icy detachment. Maverick doesn’t count—he’d climb a cactus if it moaned.
“Are you really ready to lose?” I ask, staring at the ember glow of my cigar. “You gonna admit you were defeated?”
Storm doesn’t flinch. But his jaw tightens. “No.”
