Page 111 of House Rules

“Is it about the staff?” Maverick asks as he walks in with a ham sandwich in hand. Is he evernoteating?

“Or is it about the asshole I stabbed?” Storm drops into a recliner, eyes narrowing. He’s looser than usual. Not relaxed exactly, but less coiled. It’s unsettling.

“I’ve heard nothing from the hospitals,” I say, answering Storm first. “If he bled out, he’s someone else’s problem. More likely, his boss cleaned it up for us. There’s no world where it comes back to you. Or he’s walking around, and you can try again later.”

Storm narrows his eyes but stays quiet.

I scrub the back of my neck with my palm. “There is something happening with the staff, but I still think most of them are just quitting. The only thing I’ve found are wild conspiracy theories about us fucking them and murdering them. Apparently, some think Storm keeps a collection of their heads in a walk-in freezer, or Maverick fucks them so hard they slam their skulls into the headboard until they get concussions and die.”

Storm looks unamused. Maverick looks like he’s about to choke on his sandwich from laughing.

Con smirks but keeps quiet, probably so he doesn’t wake Phoenix.

“So what’s the problem?” Con asks.

“The staff gossip is a problem, but I’m more concerned about Phoenix’s debt.”

That gets their attention. Storm straightens slightly. Maverick stops chewing.

I lean against the back of a chair. “I looked into the men her father owes. It’s not as low-rent an operation as I’d hoped.”

“So what?” Con rolls his eyes. “We’ll pay it and set her free. It’s not that big?—”

I hold up a hand, my jaw tightening. “Don’t you think if it were that easy, I’d have done it already? I called them. Offered double to erase her debt and walk away. They refused.”

“What do you mean, they refused?” Maverick’s voice sharpens, sandwich forgotten on the table.

“They don’t want money anymore.”

“What else could they possibly want?” Con asks, sitting up a little, careful not to jostle Phoenix.

I meet Storm’s gaze. “Thanks to your ‘enthusiasm,’ they want blood.”

Storm doesn’t flinch. “Whose?”

“They want blood,” I repeat, dragging my fingers through my hair and ruining the slicked-back strands. “Specifically…her blood.”

The room goes still. Con’s arm tightens reflexively around Phoenix. Maverick’s jaw ticks. Storm’s fingers drum once on the arm of the chair, slow and deliberate.

“Over a lot of their dead bodies,” Storm whispers.

34

Con

The suite is quieterthan it has any right to be.

Dim gold light spills from the lamps, pooling across dark leather and glass. Outside, the Savannah River glimmers through floor-to-ceiling windows. The muted hum of the city slips in under the faint scent of whiskey, Maverick’s cologne, and something softer—Phoenix’s skin, warm and clean from the bath.

She’s curled against my chest, towel wrapped loosely around her, head tucked under my chin. Her breathing is slow, deep. Every time her chest rises, I feel it in my ribs. The weight of her in myarms should be grounding. It isn’t. It’s a reminder that everything we’re talking about tonight could take her away from here.

“Okay,” I whisper, not wanting to wake her. “That’s what they want. What will they take?”

“I don’t know what they’ll take,” Storm says from across the coffee table, voice pitched low. “But I’m sure I could take my blade and just drag it across their throat and be done with all of this.”

He says it like he’s ordering coffee. And I believe him.

“See, I like that option,” Maverick says from his armchair, leaning back, one ankle resting casually on his knee. “Simple, direct, easy to remember. What more could we possibly want in a plan?”