Page 90 of House Rules
“Shit, come on, man, you know he needs a while to decompress,” Maverick says, stepping between them. “He needs a shower, some alone time, and then some food—andthenhe’ll be able to talk. Not before.”
“I know. That’s why I was getting Phoenix the fuck away from him.”
“No. She doesn’t leave my sight,” Storm says, pulling me closer to him. “Not after those men tried to hurt her. I need her safe.”
I turn in his arms and place my hand on his cheek. He nuzzles into my palm as I tilt his face down, guiding his eyes to mine.
“I need a shower. So do you. Let’s get cleaned up. Everyone else can order food, and after we eat, we’ll figure everything out, okay?”
I keep my voice low, soothing, like I’m reasoning with a hurt child.
Storm looks like he wants to argue, but then he nods. I lead him toward my room, but he pulls me into his instead.
The room is dark, but it has an almost Zen-like feel. Not quite minimalist, but there’s a calming energy to it. There’s even a little desk fountain in the corner and a desktop rock garden with a tiny rake. I don’t get much time to look around before he pulls me into the bathroom—which is roughly the size of my bedroom.
I make a move toward the shower, but he pulls me toward the massive jetted tub.
He starts the water, then throws in some white rocks from a large glass jar on the counter. The smell of eucalyptus and spearmint fills the room. Bath salts.
Pulling me to my feet, he strips off the rest of my torn dress and even removes the ridiculous shoes. Then he grabs a washcloth, runs it under the water,and starts cleaning the blood off my face and hands.
“Get in the tub,” he says.
“No.” I take the washcloth from his hands and run it under warm water from the sink. I fold it gently, set it aside, and turn back to him to unbutton his shirt. I take the cloth and wipe the blood from his hands, the smears of it on his face and arms.
The shock hasn’t worn off, not fully. But it softens in the rhythm of this—warm water, slow movements, his eyes clinging to mine like they don’t know where else to go. I’m no longer just calming him down. I’m holding something shattered together with my bare hands, pretending I don’t feel the cracks spreading inside me too.
He’s completely unmarred physically by the fight. They never even got a single hit in.
Mentally, he’s battling some serious bruises—and I’ll take care of those next.
Tears sting behind my eyes as I wonder what could have happened to make Storm lose himself in anger like that. He told me about his dad and thelessons he learned about people using him, but this feels like more.
As I gently run the washcloth over him, I see scars—old ones faded by time, perfectly circular burns. When I get to his wrists, I ignore the raised lines running across them.
I say nothing.
It’s a miracle I don’t have matching ones. But I never had the guts to cut myself. I found other ways to numb the pain.
I lean over and turn off the water, now steaming with that calming scent, and I take a deep breath before turning back to Storm and finishing undressing him.
This isn’t about sex. This isn’t about want or need. This is about taking care of a man who’s never, ever had someone care for him unconditionally.
I step into the water first, letting my calves and feet adjust to the temperature before guiding him in beside me. He sits first, his hands roaming down my body as he does, and then I lay down on top of him, my chest pressed to his, arms around his shouldersand the small space between his lower back and the tub wall.
The tub itself is huge. I could easily sit next to him or across from him without a problem. But that’s not what I need. That’s not what he needs. He needs the closeness.
His hands caress my spine, running up and down, then playing with the ends of my hair. I’m enjoying the feeling of our bodies pressed together, the skin-on-skin contact that feels so euphoric tears burn behind my eyes.
I’ve heard people talk about being touch-starved, but I don’t think I realized it applied to me until now. The way Storm can’t stop touching me—I wonder if it applies to him, too.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Storm’s voice is barely above a whisper, and there’s a slight tremble in it that tells me he doesn’t really want to know—but he needs to.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask, keeping my ear pressed to his chest.
“I was following you… knowing Maverick pissed you off. I was going to give you time to calm down, then I wanted to talk. I remember seeing someone else following you. I tried to find out what was going on. Then they grabbed you. Pushed you into an alley. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“They tried to rape me,” I answer. “They threatened me. One of them backhanded me hard enough to knock me down. Then they tried to rip my dress off—and you stopped them.”
