Page 36 of House Rules

There to hold her where no one else can touch her.

To claim her the way I’ve wanted to for more time than I care to admit.

I brush the party girl off of me and stand up, then walk slowly across the floor. When I’m a pace away from Phoenix, my knives still humming in the wall like tuning forks, I crouch so I’m level with her eyes, palms loose over my knees, the blade-callus at my index finger dragging slow across denim.

“You catch on fast,” I say, voice even. “Good.”

Her mouth tightens. She tips her chin up that fraction that saysno, even when her body has already chosenyes. Brave girl. Stupid girl.

Behind me, someone laughs—Maverick, probably—low and incredulous, the kind of sound that meanswhat the hell are you doing, Storm, but he already knows the answer. I lift my hand, and for a second she thinks I’ll touch her face. I don’t. I grip the buried knife, instead, and draw it free with a whisper of wood, then the other, and step back.

“Stay,” I tell her, my voice quiet but filled with authority.

She doesn’t move. Not a muscle.

I should want her to plead. Isn’t that the point of the game? I should want her on her knees. That’s the trajectory we agreed to. But as I roll the knivesinto my palm and feel the familiar weight settle, what I want is simpler and so much worse. I want to hear that first new sound she makes when she realizes falling can feel like flying if you do it right.

And I want to be the one she makes it for.

She draws a breath. Holds it. Lets it out. The freckles along her cheekbone look like a constellation I haven’t learned the name of yet.

And then the very faintest of nods.

“Good girl,” I say, and I don’t bother with the ghost of a smile this time.

The world outside our floor can keep its kindness. It never did anything for either of us. In here, there are only rules, and sharp edges, and the promise of a plunge. She’s already at the ledge.

All she has to do is lean.

12

Phoenix

It’s been a week.

An entire week, and none of them have touched me.

I don’t understand. Why make me dress like this, why make me so easily accessible and make me sign away my right to refuse…and then not actually take advantage of it?

Is this some twisted little game? One where they don’t really want me—just want the power of knowing they could have me if they did?

I suppose I should be grateful. They’re not forcing me to do anything I don’t want to do other than dressing in clothes that make me uncomfortable.And I got used to that within days, so it’s not that big a deal now.

But the other—the waiting…the wondering—has been unbelievably frustrating.

In more ways than one.

Maybe I should just break the rule about masturbating, give my body some relief? They have touched me but never made me come. They’ve done nothing more than tease me, while I have to watch as they get off constantly. The line of women here to serve them seems endless. They show up every night, sometimes the same ones, sometimes different.

It’s a staggering number.

Every time I see Maverick pick up his girl of the night, or sometimes girls, and throw them over his shoulders, I wish it were me. I can’t help but wonder what he does to have those women looking so satisfied in the morning.

When Atticus has a woman act like a footstool or has them kneeling at his feet, I ache to be in her place. Part of me knows how messed up that is. I am a woman, not a thing.

But a much louder part of me wants to know what it’s like. Why are these women so willing to shed their independence? I want to show him I can serve him better than they can. I want to know what it feels like to be of use to him, and savor the rewards that come after. The women who hobble out of his room in the morning look…exhausted. Bone tired, and yet with a deep look of contentment. Like it didn’t matter what happened to them after they left his room, because whatever happened behind that closed door made everything worth it.

Storm is different. He doesn’t play with the women in the main room. He just chooses one, one lucky girl who is brought to his room. The next morning, she looks shaken, with the same wild-eyed wonderment that most people have after a rollercoaster.