Page 96 of House Rules

“I know. They thought so too. But whoever they work for has it out for you four, so... here I am.”

I stare at my plate. Can’t look up. Can’t see their faces. Not that it matters. I know what I just told them seals my fate.

I just don’t know what that fate’s going to be.

The crash of shattering glass makes me flinch.

“How the fuck could you?” Con roars. “I thought—I thought—fuck, it doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters now is what the fuck are we going to do with you?”

I look up to see Maverick holding Con back. Atticus gives me an appraising look. Storm’s eyes bounce between me and Con like he’s calculating risk.

“What happened in the alley?” Atticus asks, his voice calm. Almost clinical.

“The two men grabbed me. Dragged me into the alley. Apparently, they were tired of waiting. Since I didn’t have any information, they figured they’d take their first payment.”

Atticus’s gaze narrows. Sharpens. “They’re responsible for the other bruises. For your wrist.”

It’s not a question, but I nod, anyway, my gaze faltering. “I—yes. They were waiting for me one night. They wanted to make sure I understood what would happen if I didn’t pay Dad’s debt.”

“You should have fucking told me—” Con starts. I can’t tell who he’s angry at—me, the men who assaulted me, or himself. Maybe all of us.

“Then what happened?” Atticus asks, cutting him off. “In the alley?”

“One of them backhanded me. Threw me to the ground.” I raise my hand and gently touch the bruise, still tender on my face. “That’s when Storm saw them, and he?—”

I don’t know how to describe what happened. How do I say he dissolved into a rage monster? That he turned into something cold and unrecognizable—something more terrifying than anyone I’ve ever met?

“Did he kill them?” Atticus asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “You guys got there pretty quickly. I think the one with the mustache mighthave trouble using one of his hands from now on. Storm sliced him pretty deep at the elbow—he couldn’t move his fingers. Then Storm threw his knife and hit the guy through the shoulder socket... I think. It all happened fast.”

“And the other one?”

“Will probably need stitches,” I say with a shrug.

Atticus nods and walks into the next room, already dialing his phone.

Maverick gets Con seated again. His fists are planted on either side of his plate, knuckles white. But I don’t think he’s going to lunge.

“Is there anything else you need to tell us?” Maverick asks, hands still on Con’s shoulders.

I shake my head.

Then stop.

“The staff that’s missing. Or dead?—”

“Jesus fuck, not this again,” Con spits. “How do you even come up with that crazy conspiracy theory?”

“That’s what I’m trying to say. I didn’t come up with it. I overheard it in the bathroom. Some of theother staff are already putting things together, and they’re talking.”

Con and Maverick lean in to whisper, too low for me to hear. I keep my hands folded in my lap, my fingers stroking the soft edge of the robe.

“Anything else to add?” Maverick asks.

No one moves. No one speaks. They’re deciding. Calculating risk, reward, control.

I lift my head. Breathe deep. And ask the only question that matters.