Page 119 of House Rules

The men move in perfect rhythm, surrounding me, touching, tasting, filling. Their hands are everywhere, their mouths everywhere, until I can’t keep track of who’s where—who’s inside me, who’s on my tongue, whose fingers are coaxing another climax from me.

It doesn’t matter.

The only thing that matters is that we are together, we are safe, and for the next nine months while I serve them under my contract, I will do everything in my power to keep it that way.

By the time we finally stop, the sun is high and my skin is flushed pink from heat and salt air. My body hums with exhaustion, satisfaction, and something dangerously close to contentment.

We head back to the resort, all of us in need of another shower, food, and—God—sleep. I’ve neverbeen this wrung out, this satisfied, and this tired in my life.

That’s exactly what I intend to do.

When we walk into the suite, the air feels…wrong.

The maids have cleaned—fresh linens, polished surfaces, every glass and plate replaced. But the energy has shifted.

“Do you guys smell that?” Maverick asks, his tone suddenly sharp.

I catch it then—the faint, metallic tang beneath the scent of lemon cleaner and lillies. Blood. It slithers into my nose, coats the back of my throat.

We move farther in, each step heavier than the last, like we’re walking into a storm we can’t see yet. And then I see it—blonde hair spilling over the edge of the dining table.

Another step, and the face reveals itself.

Sarah.

My breath catches. This is the same table they fucked me on yesterday. Yesterday it was heat and mouths and hands and bodies. Today it’s cold and still and…wrong.

For half a second, jealousy spikes—did one of them invite her here? Is this my punishment? Am I even allowed to feel jealous? Can this be exclusive when there’s one of me and four of them?

“What the fuck?” Maverick’s voice cracks like a whip. It’s sharp, but there’s something under it—panic, maybe. Anger, certainly. He strides to her, reaches for her shoulder?—

—and her body lolls sideways, boneless. Her arm swings limply off the edge of the table, her nails painted a cheerful pink that makes my stomach twist. I remember looking at her nails, admiring them in that way of knowing I could never maintain such a cute manicure.

I’d never have the patience to paint my nails in the first place.

God, why am I thinking about nail polish? Sarah…she’s…is she?—?

No one speaks. The silence is a living thing, pressing in, thick and suffocating.

My lungs lock. My ears ring. Every inch of me wants to back away, but my feet are anchored to the carpet.

“She’s dead?” The words scrape out of me, small and foreign, like they don’t belong to my mouth.

Maverick stares down at her, then at us. He gives me a single clipped nod. His jaw ticks. “Why is she dead? Why is she here?”

Storm’s breathing changes—shallow, almost amused—and it makes the hair on my arms rise. Con’s hand flexes at his side, a slow, deliberate curl into a fist. Atticus doesn’t move, but his eyes…his eyes are calculating.

Something shifts in my gut. This isn’t random.

The smell hits harder now—blood, faint perfume, and something sour, like fear that’s gone stale.

“She’s the message,” I whisper, dread curling low in my gut.

“What message?” Con’s voice is cold steel.

“When the men on the side of the road cornered me, they told me they’d be sending you a message. I thought—” I swallow. “I thought I was the message. That they were going to kill me. They wanted you to know you weren’t untouchable.”

My gaze locks on Sarah’s vacant eyes then slides to the arrangement of lilies beside her. “I think she’s your message.”

No one moves. No one breathes.

“This isn’t over,” I say.