Page 86 of House Rules
It obliges.
Two men get out. One circles wide. The other grabs her hair and yanks her into the alley so fast it steals my breath.
I don’t move, even though everything in me screams to spill blood. Not yet. I press back into the shadow of the building, blade already in my palm. Damascus steel, familiar and cold. My fingers wrap around the handle like I was born with it.
These guys aren’t professionals. Not by a long shot,which means they’re either desperate… or stupid.
But I’m not.
And they just laid hands on something that belongs to me.
Craning my neck just a little, I listen.
“We’re running out of patience, you stupid bitch,” one of them snarls, his hand on her throat like he’s got the right to put it there.
“I don’t have anything, I don’t think they’re part of?—”
He cuts her off with the back of his hand, and the sound of her hitting the pavement punches straight through my chest.
My grip tightens around the blade, the knuckles going bone white, but I hold still. Not yet. Phoenix is tough. She can handle that. And I’ll make them pay for it.
She’s already pushing herself up, one hand bracing against the brick, blood smearing down her cheek.
I’ll let him think he’s in control for another breath.
Because when I end him, it won’t be fast.
“We’ve given you enough time to get evidence,” the fat one says, his voice slick with satisfaction. “The boss is inclined to give you more time, but I don’t think I’m going to do that. I think I’m going to take a down payment on his investment.”
What the fuck does that mean?
What investment?
My skin itches like something’s crawling beneath it. These aren’t random thugs. They know something—know her.
“Yeah,” the tall one grunts. “Maybe that’s what we need to do. Take a down payment. That way, we can also tell our boss exactly how long it’s going to take to pay off your father’s debt with your body.”
He grabs her by the hair, jerking her upright. She fights. Of course she fights. Her fists come up. Her knees snap out. But they’re two, and she’s one, and they don’t care that she’s scared. That she’s crying now.
Tears of fear. Not frustration. Not defiance. Real fear.
That’s enough.
I step out of the shadows, the knife hanging low at my side, glinting in the sun.
“Put her down.”
My voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shake. It’s low, cold, laced with something feral. Something unhinged.
“This doesn’t concern you,” the fat one says, barely glancing over.
But the tall one does look—and freezes. Recognition hits like a slap. I see it in both of them.
Good. I want them to know exactly who they're dealing with.
The tall one fumbles for a revolver, pulling it from his waistband like that’s going to save him. His hand’s trembling. He’s not a killer. Just a man playing pretend.
“Stop right there,” he says.
