Page 94 of House Rules
He won’t even look at me. That stings more than it should. I don’t need his protection—but I hate that I wanted it.
He strips off the robe and pulls on dark gray sweatpants and a ribbed white undershirt like this is just another Tuesday.
Men should not be allowed to look that hot with that little effort. It’s unfair.
“I think your uniform is going to raise more suspicion,” he says without looking at me. “Better to stay in the robe.”
Dismissed. Just like that.
“Fuck you,” I whisper. I wrap the robe tighter around myself and step out into the main room, every inch of me feeling exposed.
“Ms. Phoenix Jones?” a female police officer asks, looking down her nose at me.
“That’s me, officer,” I say with a polite smile, allowing the same neutral, don’t-poke-the-bear expression I’ve used with every cop I’ve ever dealt with to snap into place. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“You can tell us where you were about two hours ago,” she barks.
She’s already made up her mind about me. I know that tone. There’s no changing it. But I can at least keep this as professional as possible to avoid provoking her.
“I was here. I’m staying in the suite for a while, and I haven’t left today.”
“Is there anyone who can corroborate that story?”
I glance around and gesture to Maverick and Atticus on the couch—and Storm, who’s now emerging from his room. His hair is combed back, still damp, and styled like a fucking Backstreet Boy. The man might be deadly, but Jesus, he looks good.
The officer must agree, because she stumbles over her next few questions.
I stay quiet, answering when spoken to in clipped, respectful phrases. Storm is less polite—curt, but not rude. Just enough to stay on the right side of the line.
Eventually, the officer leaves her card and tells Storm to call if he ever needs anything. Her smile lingers longer than it should before she heads for the elevator.
“Do you guys always flirt your way out of trouble?” I ask.
“No,” Maverick says. “If the cop’s a dude, we pay them. Unless it’s that one that was really into Atticus.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Atticus mutters, rolling his eyes.He heads toward the dining room table, which is now covered in food.
Storm grabs a plate and starts to load it up with pasta and steak, then pauses. He looks at me, then dials it back—smaller portions, mostly protein and simple carbs. Atticus gives him a weird look but doesn’t say anything.
“Sit down, angel,” Storm says. I take the nearest seat, and he places the plate in front of me, handing me a fork.
“Eat.”
It’s not a request. After a brief, truculent pause, I dig in. I’m starving.
The bath helped. But everything else—Storm’s mood, Con’s hands around my throat, the looming consequences—have left me feeling wrung out. Bone-weary. Unsteady.
The others fill their plates and settle in around me. No one speaks. Not until they finish their first round and go back for seconds.
Then Con starts talking.
“What the fuck happened?”
“Dude, it’s—” Storm begins, but Con holds up a hand to silence him.
“I want to hear it from her. The one who doesn’t get blackout drunk on violence.”
“I just went for a walk, but because of the dresses you make me wear?—”
