Page 84 of House Rules

That’s what makes it beautiful.

Not the crying itself, but the fact that she lets herself feel at all. Even after everything.

Even now.

I should let her go. Should leave her alone. But I don’t. I follow.

She’s wearing that fucking ‘uniform’—the clothes that Con and Maverick picked out, the ones that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

It’s fine up here, when it’s just us, just our eyes on her, our eyes sliding over every inch of that pale skin, our eyes touching her with looks that linger.

It’s fine in the casino, even, because we’re right there, with our hands ready to break anyone who gets to close.

Phoenix is ours. Not everyone realizes that yet.

Down there, on the street, creepers gonna be creeping, and I’m going to be right behind the fuckers, ready to help them understand who she belongs to.

Not close. Not yet. Just enough to keep her in my line of sight. I give her a little room to breathe before I crowd her again, because even I know sheneeds that space right now—needs something that’s hers, unobserved and unclaimed.

The others don’t see it.

Not really.

They’re too wrapped up in the bet. Each of them playing their role, spinning their web, waiting for her to fall in.

Atticus trying to command her. Con trying to outmaneuver her. Maverick just trying to break her spirit for the sheer pleasure of it.

But me?

I know I’m not winning shit. I never do.

I’m not the one they hand trophies to. Not the one they choose when it matters. I’m the fallback. The weapon. The last resort when the rest of the world burns to ash and someone needs to bleed for it.

And I’m fine with that.

Because I don’t want her to beg for my cock. I don’t want her to plead or whimper or offer herself up like some goddamn sacrificial lamb.

I’ve had that. I’ve had more than enough of that.

Women beg me for other things.

They beg me to hurt them. To use them. To find the place where pleasure and punishment overlap, and make them forget the rest of the world exists. They want me to break them. And when they can’t take it anymore, they beg me to let them go.

But Phoenix?

She’s not like that.

She’s not made to be broken. Not by me. Not by anyone.

She’s made of scar tissue and survival. Of fire that never got put out. Of lessons written in bruises and betrayals.

She doesn’t just carry her pain—she’s built from it.

And that makes her... untouchable. Sacred.

They’re all going to miss it. Every last one of them. They’re going to screw it up chasing some fantasy of control, and when they realize what they lost, it’ll already be too late.

I’ve thought about telling them. Explaining.