Page 76 of House Rules
“Now,” I say, quiet. “This should prove you can trust me, even if you don’t want to. So tell me why you’re really here.”
Her chin lifts. Tears keep coming anyway. She looks at me like I might be the worst thing that everhappened to her and the only thing that ever tried to make any of it right.
“I can’t,” she says.
I nod once. Not acceptance. Not yet. Understanding. “Okay.”
I step back to give her the space she never had. I pick dead leaves off the grass that aren’t there because I already cleared them, because I don’t know what to do with my hands when they aren’t holding a blade. She stands there long enough for the lilies’ scent to turn thick and the security lights to hum louder with the night.
When she finally moves, it’s toward me.
I don’t touch her.
I just open the door and wait while she climbs into the SUV. She buckles herself this time. She keeps her eyes on the window as we pull away, but her hand rests palm-up on the console like she forgot to hide it.
I don’t take it.
I drive us back to a penthouse where people are loud and I am supposed to be louder, and I try notto think about how easy it would be to keep driving until the worst parts of us fall off in the dark and the only thing left is the part of me that bought a headstone with no name on the receipt.
24
Con
When I wake up,the girl from last night is gone. No note, no lipstick on the glass, no lingering perfume in the sheets—just a void that feels like relief.
Good.
I don’t even remember her name. Don’t care to. The only thing I care about is that she’s not here, trying to make a claim she was never invited to stake. That’s always the risk with girls who think the fuck was worth more than it was.
I never promise them anything—never even look them in the eyes long enough for them to imagine something permanent—but somehow they stilllinger, hoping they’ll be the one to change the game.
None of them have.
Except her.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, rubbing my hands over my face. I didn’t sleep—not really. Spent the night tossing and turning with Phoenix in my head like she owned it.
That little chain dress burned itself into my brain, every link of it flashing like a fucking neon sign over skin I can’t stop wanting. Her nipples—soft, tight, barely veiled—have eclipsed every memory I’ve ever had of other women.
And it pisses me the fuck off.
I grab a vitamin tincture from the drawer and down it with the half-empty bottle of water on my nightstand. The hangover's dull but manageable. It's not the headache or the dehydration that’s making me mean—it’s the fact that I’m hard as fucking stone and haven’t been able to come without thinking of her in weeks.
I tug on sweatpants and shove my feet into slippers, already scowling by the time I leave my room. Thepenthouse is too quiet. Morning light filters through the windows like it’s trying too hard to soften what this place really is.
When I reach the shared kitchen, I spot her.
Phoenix. Sitting at the coffee table like she owns the fucking morning. Her legs are tucked beneath her, her ratty T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head in a lazy knot. There’s a mug in her hands, steam rising into her face like a shield, and for a second, just one, she looks like peace.
It guts me.
I can’t be calm—not when she’s the reason I’m unraveling. Not when my cock is aching, and my pride is shot, and my temper is as brittle as glass.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I bark.
She doesn’t even look up. “Enjoying my morning coffee before the rest of you wake up.”
The casual tone hits harder than a slap.
