Page 77 of House Rules
My fists clench. Who does she think she is, walking around this place with that body, acting like she hasn’t been pushing every single one of us to theedge? She’s been playing with fire and pretending she doesn’t smell the smoke.
I stalk toward her and grab her arm. “Get up.”
“What are you doing?” she snaps, trying to pull free. But I don’t let go.
“I’m done playing games with you, princess.”
I drag her into her room and kick the door closed behind us, flipping the lock with a click that feels like sealing a fate. She’s breathing fast now, chest rising and falling in sharp jerks. Her eyes go wide, but not with fear—no, that spark is anger. Good. Let her be angry. Let her burn.
“I tried it the nice way,” I growl, backing her against the wall. “I let Maverick charm you. I let Atticus play his mind games. Storm even tried. But you still won’t give us answers.”
She doesn’t respond.
I reach out and wrap my hand gently—but firmly—around her throat, pressing her against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her I’m in control.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Her hands come up, fingers curling around my wrist. Her voice is low, defiant. “Your dad hired me.”
“Don’t bullshit me. That’s not why you said yes to this job. Why are you really here?”
“I needed the money.” Her voice sharpens. “Not all of us were born with a trust fund and a god complex.”
I smirk. There she is.
That fire—the same one I saw when she first marched into our world with nothing but a lie and a spine of steel. She’s terrified and furious and so fucking alive it hurts to look at her.
“You’ve been taking notes,” I say. “Tracking staff who quit. What the hell do you think you’re going to find?”
Her chin lifts. “That’s none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business. You belong to me now.”
Her eyes flash. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
“Read the fine print, princess. You signed the contract.”
I let my hand drop from her throat and trail lower, slow and deliberate, just to prove a point—not to hurt, not to humiliate, but to reclaim the power she keeps slipping through my fingers.
Her skin is hot beneath my touch, flushed and alive, and I feel her breath hitch even as she glares at me. That glare is fire. It dares me to keep going. Dares me to stop.
“You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing?” I murmur, voice like gravel as my fingers skim the curve of her ribcage, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt. “The way you walk. The way you look at us. You want this, even if you can’t admit it.”
She jerks her face away, but I see the flush creeping up her neck. I feel the tension coil through her stomach, the war she’s fighting against herself. She doesn’t deny it. She just holds her breath.
“Tell me what you’re looking for,” I press again, my palm flattening against her bare waist, thumb stroking low and slow against soft skin.
“No.”
I yank my hand back and grab the neck of her shirt, tearing it clean down the middle. The cotton rips like paper. She gasps—not in fear, but in fury and something dangerously close to arousal.
“That was mine,” she hisses, her hands balling into fists at her sides.
“Not part of your uniform. Not in my house.”
Her breathing quickens. She’s furious, vibrating with it. But under the rage, her chest rises and falls faster, her nipples taut and flushed in the open air. She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t hide. She’s challenging me—just like always.
I let my gaze trail over her body, watching how her skin reacts to the air, to me. Then I step closer, crowding her space, my hand trailing down the center of her sternum until it rests just above the waistband of her shorts.
