Chapter 20 Phoenix
Phoenix
I feel him—his hands around my neck, squeezing the life from me. I choke and gasp, unable to breathe. His fingers, thick and cruel, clamp tighter at my throat.
“Did you really think they could save you?” A familiar voice laughs. It’s southern, but not the sultry, polished drawl of my Titans, with its drawn-out, liquid vowels. Not like the one that always reminded me of Matthew McConaughey in that movie A Time to Kill, all butter and sex and slow sin.
This one is a harsh, nasal twang that scrapes my nerves raw, the laugh rasping cruel in my ears like crawdads and cheap beer.
My heart hammers in my ears as I fight for air.
“How long do you think they’ll look for you? How long until they replace you with another girl? A pretty, refined woman who’s good enough for them. One who won’t lie to them or drag death and bad men to their door.”
“Please,” I try to whisper, but the man’s grip tightens, cutting off the word and everything else.
“You’re going to pay your daddy’s debt, the only way a little whore like you can.”
There’s a BANG and the hands around my throat vanish, and instead all I see is my dad’s face—the awful, empty, carved-out cavity of his head—stuffed with bloody dollar bills.
Blood money.
One of the bills floats to the ground, propelled by the force of his tongue as he whispers, “rent’s due, little girl. Time to pay the rent.”
But wait—that’s not my dad’s voice. It’s Sarah’s. “Pay them, Phoenix. Time to pay the piper. Pay them with your body, pay them with your blood…”
A bark sounds, sharp and insistent, and the fingers on my throat squeeze once again. Zeus. My gaze finds the little dog growling and trembling in the corner as invisible hands choke me—
—I bolt upright, clawing at my neck, my fingers tangling in the fingers—no. No, in the necklace Atticus gave me. Nothing else is there. No hands. No bruising grip.
I sink back against the pillow, panting.
It takes a few long minutes before I can breathe normally again.
A low whine sounds, and a cold nose snuffles against my hand.
I lift my head a few inches to see Zeus at my side, nuzzling into my palm as his limpid brown eyes peer up at me with far too much awareness.
Sighing out a shaky breath, I roll my hand over and scratch his head. It’s funny how animals just know when something’s wrong. Sometimes before you, even.
But I’m safe. All is well. I’m in the penthouse, in Atticus’s bed.
I reach out and run my other hand across the sheets, but his side is cool. Empty. I don’t know when he left, but it’s been a while.
Paper crinkles as I rise, pulling my attention to a piece of paper on his pillow.
Emergency. Stay put, or else. Do not leave this suite.
I roll my eyes. Who knows how long he’ll be gone?
He has until I’m out of the shower, and then I’m finding my own coffee and apple fritters.
Zeus needs to do his business, and I need the caffeine to settle my nerves after that nightmare.
The man after me, Dad, Sarah…even Zeus. It’s all twisted together in an awful, tangled mess that I can’t sort and I can’t escape from.
My chest burns with acid just thinking about it.
So I won’t think about it.
When I step out of the shower, clean and smelling of Atticus’s body wash, I consider dressing for the day for all of thirty seconds before pulling on one of Atticus’s shirts instead. It smells like him—clean, woodsy, intoxicating.
I love wearing all of the guys’ shirts.
Semi-dressed, I head into the penthouse to find the others.
The silence is wrong. Not empty—weighted. Charged. Like a storm holding its breath.
Conrad’s room is empty. It’s already nine, though, so he’s probably in his office he’s now claimed for his own, dominating the Titan-Wynn universe. Storm’s door is shut, with no movement from beyond. Which leaves—
Maverick in the living room.
He stands at the window, his shoulders tight enough to snap, staring down at the city below like he could burn holes through glass. His jaw is set, a vein jumping in his neck. One hand is fisted against his thigh; the other taps his phone like he’s threatening it.
“Mav?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me.
“Maverick?”
When he finally turns, tightness pulls at the corners of his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s a second from breaking something—or just breaking.
“Hey.” His voice is gravel.
I go to him, catching the faint smell of whiskey even though it’s barely morning. “You look like you need to sit down before you put a fist through the window.”
“Can’t sit,” he mutters, but he lets me guide him to the couch. He’s a stubborn, muscle-bound mountain, but gravity wins; he drops onto the cushions, still coiled. “It’s been a fucking morning, and it’s just getting started.”
I slide behind him on the couch back and dig my fingers into the knots in his shoulders. He’s rock hard—and not the fun kind. He’s the I’ve-been-clenching-for-six-hours and I’m carrying the world kind of hard.
“Talk to me?”
He exhales through his nose, eyes on the dark TV. “The student promo I set up—the university discount for suites?”
“Yeah, the party bundle. It was brilliant. The first one was last night, right?”
“It was supposed to be.” His tone is bitter enough to cut diamonds. “The first group? Their card was declined. The night manager let them up anyway—figured I’d comped it.”
My hands pause. “Did you?”
“Hell no.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “We’re trying to make money, not wash it down the fucking drain.
That doesn’t matter, though. Losing the room rate is the least of it.
They throw a party and now four are dead.
Two are in the ICU. They brought drugs—a shit ton of drugs—and some OD’d.
Then one of those little assholes tells the cops they got the pills from our staff. ”
I come around to face him. “Please tell me that’s bullshit.”
“Of course, it’s bullshit.” His gaze tracks me in the TV’s reflection, jaw ticking.
“But it’s easier to blame us than admit they smuggled the poison in themselves.
They’ll do anything to dodge the consequences of their own actions.
It wouldn’t surprise me if they try to sue for ‘emotional distress.’”
“Any idea who supplied them?”
“No, but I doubt it was one of ours. The description doesn’t match anybody on payroll. And conveniently—” He tips his head back into my lap, and my hands go to the tops of his shoulders. “There’s no CCTV footage. Another goddamn hole.”
“Like the other ones?” My stomach twists. That’s why Atticus wasn’t in bed.
“Exactly like the other ones.” His voice goes lower. Meaner. “So my promo blows up, costs us money, gets people killed—and sets the stage for whoever’s playing ghost in our cameras.”
“Ghost?”
“It’s what Atticus is calling the hacker. The name doesn’t matter. This still feels like my fault.”
I slide down beside him until we’re thigh to thigh. “This is not on you.”
“It sure as hell feels like it is.”
“Of course it does.” I grip his hand. “Because you care. But you didn’t hand them the drugs. You didn’t hire someone to sell them. You didn’t cut the cameras.”
He studies me like he’s testing the truth of it.
“I can’t be the reason we fail, Phoenix.” Barely above a whisper. “I can’t be the weak link.”
“You’re not.” I mean it. He doesn’t quite believe it. Maverick can’t just let go, though. He needs something to do. “So take action. Just because you didn’t break it doesn’t mean you can’t fix it. How can I help?”
It takes coaxing, but he leans forward, elbows on knees, while I pull his laptop over.
“Vegas,” I say, typing fast. “Let’s see what their packages look like. We steal shamelessly and add a Southern twist that makes our clients drool.”
He watches the screen over my shoulder, anger cooling into focus. “They do VIP weekend bundles.”
“Mm-hmm.” Click. “Group discounts tied to minimum spend. Suite upgrades for bachelor/bachelorette groups. Casino credit is baked into the package so the money stays in-house. Maybe we shift to an older demographic—fewer drugs, more disposable income?”
“And pre-approve their credit cards before anyone sets foot upstairs,” he mutters.
“Exactly. And no more night managers guessing what you comped. Explicit instructions. If anyone ‘guesses’ again, we send them to Storm.”
We brainstorm for nearly an hour—his marketing and operations; my insider knowledge of who spends and where.
By the end, he has a short list of tweaks that might actually save it: pre-auth every card for full stay and incidentals; staff chaperone the first hour of big suites—not to babysit, but to “ensure satisfaction” while logging faces; mandatory ID checks and a log for all guests; partner with a reputable caterer so outside food and drink create a paper trail.
The more we talk, the more the iron bands around his shoulders loosen.
At some point, his hand settles on my knee. It’s a small thing, but possessive—like he’s reminding me who I belong to. “You’re good at this.”
“I’m good at a lot of things.” I grin. For the first time this morning, he almost smiles. “Getting you out of your head is one of my specialties.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice dropping, “and you’re going to show me every other gift tonight. No interruptions. No bullshit. Just you and me, and—”
The front door slams.
Atticus strides in like one of the four horsemen—eyes hard, sharp, bloodshot.
The air changes as soon as he steps over the threshold a fine crackle before lightning hits.
He takes in me on the couch beside Maverick, Mav’s hand still on my knee, and something in his expression slides from pissed to enraged.
“Phoenix,” he says, low enough to raise goosebumps. “With me. Now.”
Maverick’s jaw tightens. His hand stays on me a beat too long, then lifts, allowing me to choose.
I stand. I don’t know what to do. I’m caught between them—the one who needs me, and the one who won’t accept a refusal.
I don’t choose. I just walk out of the room.
I refuse to choose between them.