Page 68 of House Rules
“Then she doesn’t win.”
I crush the cigar in the ashtray with more force than necessary and rise to my feet, shoulders bristling.
“She won’t win this game,” I say flatly. “We’ll break her first.”
Storm doesn’t reply. Just watches me go, his expression unreadable.
Another night of hookers, games, and questionable life choices awaits. Another night in the life most men would kill for. But for the first time, it feels dull.
Like all the oxygen’s left the room, and I’m chasing a high that only exists in the curve of her spine and the fight in her eyes.
She’ll break. She has to.
Or else.
When I tellMaverick and Atticus what I found, they go quiet in that way that means everything inside is definitelynotquiet. The kind of stillness before a room explodes.
“She thought we were getting to know each other,” I say. “We took her on the yacht. Told her things. Things we don’t even say out loud. And the whole time she thought we were murderers?”
Atticus doesn’t look at me. Just pours himself a drink with too much force and says, “I say we punish her.”
Maverick grins, because of course he does.
Atticus turns, eyes cold. “She loses every privilege. No contact. No eye contact. No talking. She can go back to sitting in the goddamn corner until I don’t want to strangle her anymore.”
“Agreed,” Storm says, voice low and dangerous.
Maverick leans back with his arms crossed. “Can’t we just fuck some common sense into her?”
“Not until she begs,” I cut in. “Just because we’re mad doesn’t mean the game is over.”
“Agreed,” the others echo—in unison, like they’d rehearsed it.
The hookers show up twenty minutes later. Maverick cranks the stereo, and some base-heavy party mix takes over the main room. Storm leaves his black shirt unbuttoned—his usual party uniform—and flips one of his smaller knives through his fingers like a coin. The blades don’t scare the girls anymore. If anything, they get wet for the spectacle.
Atticus doesn’t even sit. He collars his girl and drops her to her knees in front of his chair, ignoring her like she’s a piece of furniture. Which, in his world, she is.
Maverick pulls Phoenix from her wall perch and hauls her into her room. I already know what he’s doing—digging through her drawer of “options” and picking the most humiliating one. When she comes out, she’s wearing a dress made of chain links. Nothing underneath. Just bare skin and metal and fucking nerve.
My gut tightens.
It’s meant to punish her. Maybe embarrass her. It might break me first, though.
I’ve got two blondes on either side of me, their mouths tangled together, hands down each other’s tops like I’m not even here. It should be hot. Itishot.
But all I can think about is Phoenix, standing barefoot in silver chains, licking her bottom lip like she’s the one watchingme.
If I weren’t so pissed at her, I’d call her over andbury my face between her thighs. But Iampissed. And she hasn’t begged.
So I let the girls do their thing. I watch them strip each other, grope each other, put on a whole pornographic performance right there on the velvet sectional.
“Which one of you wants my cock tonight?” I ask, voice flat, eyes on Phoenix.
They both pause long enough to give me the same hungry, performative smile.
“I’m sure we can share,” one of them purrs.
“Not tonight,” I say. “Tonight’s a competition.”
