Page 88 of House Rules

I reach him, yank the blade free, and start carving. Not deep. Not yet. I want them to remember this every time they breathe.

Behind me, someone yells my name. “Storm!”

Maverick. Always too late to the party.

The two men scramble up, bleeding and broken, and take off running. I don’t chase. Not becauseI’m done—but because Phoenix isn’t looking at them anymore.

She’s looking at me. She’s still crouched, still wide-eyed, but watching me like I’m the only thing in the alley.

My chest rises and falls. Too fast. Too hard.

I’m not ready to stop.

I pivot toward the voice that interrupted me.

“Storm!” someone else shouts. Atticus, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care.

They took my fun. They stole my high. My hands are shaking. My head is full of blood and teeth and the sound of Phoenix whimpering in the dark.

I spin toward them, feral and half gone.

Somebody’s going to bleed for that.

27

Phoenix

There’sblood on the dumpster. Spattered. Chunked. I’m still huddled against it, my legs locked in a corner I didn’t realize I’d backed myself into until I see the streak of crimson pooling beside my sneaker. Storm is breathing like an animal.

I have never seen anything so unbelievably terrifying. It’s as though right before my eyes, Storm has disappeared and been replaced by a being of pure rage and pain. His eyes are wild, the light blue almost completely enveloping the tiny black dots of his pupils.

His mouth is twisted into a snarl, his hand still gripping his blade, blood dripping off of it as he staresat the other Titans coming down the alley. He stares, but I don’t think he sees them.

“Storm?” I call as he turns his body toward the other Titans, putting himself between me and them. They slow down, looking nervously at each other.

“Storm?” I call again. The only response he gives is a low growl as he holds his hand behind him, as if to tell me to stay back. Now I know he doesn’t see the Titans—he only sees threats coming for me.

“Storm, please?” I say, my voice shaking with fear. “I need you.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the fear in my voice. Not the blood. It’s the need.

He turns to me and sees me huddled into a ball, shaking, in the corner between the wall and a dumpster.

His blade hits the pavement with a sharp metallic clatter.

Then he’s moving—fast—dropping to his knees in front of me, his hands catching my face too roughly, smearing blood across my cheeks. His voice iswrong when he speaks. Thinner. Younger. “Are you hurt? Angel, are you hurt? You’re?—”

“I’m okay,” I say, even though I’m not. “It’s not mine. You protected me.” I sit back, trying to untuck my body and stop the trembling radiating down my limbs. I don’t want him to know that I’m scared. I want him to know the danger is gone—that he protected me.

But he’s not listening. Not really. His eyes are darting everywhere. His fingers run over my arms, my legs, down my ribs, up my spine. He’s trying to find the damage.

When he looks down at his hands and sees the blood, his face pales. Then he looks back to my face, no doubt seeing the red handprints I can feel on my cheeks.

“What did I do?” he asks. This time, the fear is in his voice, not mine. “Oh dear God, I don’t remember what happened. What did I do?”

And that’s when I see him fall.

I pull him in without thinking.