Page 70 of House Rules

Nothing.

No heat. No ache. Just skin against skin with a girl I don’t want, trying too hard for a reaction that isn’t coming.

She isn’t Phoenix.

And suddenly, I’m furious all over again—at her, at Phoenix, at myself.

“Come here,” I snap, pulling her up. I can’t throw her out. If I do, she’ll talk. That kind of talk spreads.

Instead, I grab a vial someone left here during a wilder night. “Here,” I say, handing her the rolled bill and the line. “You want a reward? Knock yourself out.”

She does a long line without hesitation, then slumps against the wall. Thirty seconds later, she’s out cold.

Shit. I bend and check her pulse, mildly relieved when it beats strong against my fingers. I lift her eyelids, unsure of what I’m looking for. They always do it on TV, though.

She’s breathing fine. Probably just mixing too many things at once.

I lift her and set her down in the corner by the couch. Let her sleep it off.

Then I crawl into bed alone, eyes fixed on the ceiling while the sound of moaning and music filters through the walls.

I can’t go back out there. Not when I can’t stop wanting her—even when she’s the reason I feel like I’m unraveling from the inside out.

Fuck that.

22

Phoenix

I don’t knowhow it happened, but I’m back against the wall, like a painting someone hung just to fill empty space. They don’t look at me, not really. They don’t speak to me. They don’t include me. I’m on the outside again, watching them live the kind of reckless, glitter-drenched chaos that once felt like danger and now just feels like distance.

Even Storm, who had been so devastatingly gentle with me last night—who held my wrist like it mattered, who calmed me down without ever raising his voice—won’t meet my eyes. He flips his knife in the air, catches it without looking. Again. And again. The blade flashes each time, catching the overhead light, like it’s warning me notto speak.

His lip curls when he glances my way. Not a snarl, exactly, but close. Enough to make something inside me wither.

What did I do?

Did I misstep? Cross some invisible line I didn’t even know existed? Are they mad about the poker game? About me winning? Or is this about last night—on the boat, under the stars, when everything cracked open a little?

They shared pieces of themselves. Real stories. Real pain. And for a moment, I let myself believe I was part of it.

It’s not like it was even my idea to go out there, but now they won’t even look at me.

The reasons spiral in their own mental hurricane of overthinking everything. Was I too bold? Too trusting? Did they wake up this morning and regret letting their guard down? Am I just a reminder of everything they try to forget?

I thought we were connecting. I thought I was beginning to understand them. And worse—I thought they were beginning to see me.

The only thing I know now is that they’re angry with me for some reason, and it’s incredibly frustrating. We’re right back to where we started, with me being the girl pressed against the wall, watching other women get the things I ache for.

It’s worse this time. Now what once was a grain of jealousy has grown into a softball-sized lump that sits heavy in my gut, because now I know what it feels like to be touched like I matter. Now I know what it feels like to be claimed.

That moment on the casino floor—when Maverick touched me in front of everyone—wasn’t just a game. At least, not to me. I should have been humiliated, exposed. Instead, I felt wanted. Possessed. Like I belonged to someone, and everyone else could see it.

Those men looked on with lust in their eyes—not because I was pretty or sexy or a thing they could use and abuse without repercussion. I was accustomed to those looks.

This was different.

They looked at me like I was something special, something worth having, all because Maverick hadclaimed me. I belonged to a Titan, and they could look but not touch.