Chapter 23 - Phoenix
Phoenix
Orgasms from Storm and Conrad together should come with a warning label.
The shrill tone of Conrad’s phone pulls me out of the blissful haze I’ve slipped into.
I want it to stop. Whatever’s waiting on the other end of that call is going to end with both men getting up and leaving me, and I don’t want them to move.
For what feels like the first time in days, I’m finally relaxed.
I don’t know if it’s because of what Storm whispered to me—how he gave my insecurities a voice and purged them from my body—or because of how hard he made me come apart for him.
It felt like my cells split open and rewove. It was incredible. Cathartic.
Cathartic—and exhausting. I’m stretched across both of them now, and I don’t want to move.
Con answers the phone, and I feel Storm tense under me. He doesn’t like it any more than I do. This should be our time together. A way to find just a sliver of peace.
My first instinct is to burrow into the cushions and keep my eyes closed. My head rests in Con’s lap, his hand working absentmindedly through my hair. I refuse to move, or even look up, not when his fingers curl just enough to make me feel tethered to something steady.
Con used to be kind, gentle, loving. I miss that sweet boy. He was still a Titan, but there was this worshipful softness reserved for me that made me feel special. At least until I ran away from him and found out there’s no getting over how I felt. How I’ll always feel.
I don’t deserve his kindness anymore. And there’s something strangely gratifying about having the meaner, tougher version of Con wrapping his body around mine. It lets me separate myself from the people we were and the monster I’ve turned into. Getting a small glimpse of his kindness does its job.
Even in the post-orgasm haze, it drags me back to reality.
After all, I’m just the minder, the girl who’s here for the paycheck, the ex-girlfriend who’ll do anything for the almighty dollar…and I deserve Con’s scorn, not his tenderness.
That doesn’t mean I won’t savor every fucking second of the tenderness he offers.
It’s now, in moments like this, when I can pretend that I didn’t walk away.
That I could be the woman who deserves Conrad, or Maverick, or Storm, or Atticus.
But I’m not. I’m not good enough for any of them, let alone all of them.
So I’ll be greedy and steal this time for myself. This memory I can wrap around myself for the rest of my life. I’m not ready for this moment to end. I’m not ready to think about the end.
I keep my eyes closed and figuratively plug my ears, telling myself not to listen. His call is his business. If he wants me to know, he’ll tell me.
Except my head is literally in his lap and his voice rumbles over me.
His tone shifts the second he answers. “Yeah?”
He listens. His muscles tighten beneath me until the couch isn’t comfortable anymore. I consider rolling to rest only on Storm, but he’s tensing, too. This pocket of peace is about to rip like every other good thing.
“Who the hell is this?” Conrad demands, his fingers tightening and tangling in my hair.
The voice on the other end isn’t loud enough to catch every word, but I grasp the shape of the speaker. It’s a man, confident to the edge of cocky. Mean without needing to shout.
I hear my name, then drugs, Titans, and then a phrase that freezes my blood in my veins—Blackvine Syndicate.
That’s not some local crew sniffing around. The locals don’t even have a real name, at least not one I’ve heard.
But the Blackvine Syndicate is notorious. Not even my father would go near them for a loan.
They don’t operate like street gangs. They’re bigger, older, calculated in ways that never make the news until bodies turn up where no one wants to find them. They’re not based strictly out of Savannah or even Georgia, but are spread across the South, with ties to mob crews all over.
They’re the real shit, and they’re fucking scary.
Why the hell would they be calling Conrad?
“We have nothing to do with that,” Conrad says flatly. “We don’t sell anything, so whatever—”
The voice cuts him off so hard he goes silent. I glance at Storm. He’s watching Conrad with a focus that prickles my skin.
He’s scared.
Con puts the call on speaker. The voice fills the room—gravel dragged over metal.
Then, more words that stop my breath: drugs. Not just any drugs—the same ones showing up at the casino resort, killing these stupid fucking college kids.
“They were stolen from us,” the voice says, clearer now. “And we want them back. You’ve got two days to figure out where they are—and provide an offer to pay us back for the ones you already moved.”
Moved. As in sold.
They think the Titans stole from them and are running product, selling their drugs and pocketing the money. The words are scattershot in my head. I can’t make them make sense.
Conrad’s jaw flexes. His fist tightens in my hair. “We didn’t steal anything. I don’t know who told you—”
The line goes dead.
He stares at the black screen a beat too long. Heat rolls off him. Conrad’s anger runs hot and deep, and only his obsessive need for control tempers it. Control is the last thing he’s feeling now.
Storm breaks the choke of silence. “This just got so much fucking worse.”
No shit.
“Get up,” Conrad says. His voice is sharp enough to slice through and silence any building question in my throat.
The tenderness he showed me is already gone, erased like never before.
Storm leans and pulls me into his lap, pressing my cheek to his chest quick and hard. His heart hammers in my ear.
Conrad’s already standing, already moving.
“I need to get you cleaned up,” Storm says, low and urgent. “We have to talk to Mav and Atticus. This changes things.”
I slide off his lap and take a step toward the door. “Then let me come with you—”
“Not this time, Phoenix.” Conrad doesn’t even look at me. The office door shuts behind him.
And I’m locked out. Again.
I stand there a few seconds, pulse pounding.
I hate this—being outside the walls of whatever bullshit is coming. Tears burn behind my eyes. I don’t let them fall. I can’t.
I pace. Options. I could slip in with coffee. I could listen from the hall. He’ll head to the suite, probably text Mav to meet him there after he showers.
Storm pulls my shirt over my head.
“This changes things, Angel. I know it pisses you off when Con shuts you out, but it’s for your own good. These are dangerous people. Let’s get you upstairs. I’ll run a bath and we’ll do more aftercare when I get back.”
“Go,” I tell him, choking back the fear rising in my throat. “We can cuddle later. They need you more than I do right now.”
“Phoenix—” he starts, but I set my palm on his chest, stopping him.
“I’m good.” I rise on my toes and kiss his cheek. He nods and goes. I pull on my jeans and begin to move.
Every step reminds me of what we just did. I ignore the ache between my thighs as I head for the suite, already mapping the best place to overhear.
I’m close to the elevator when a text notification buzzes through.
Unknown number
Maybe it’s time to up the stakes.
There’s a link. Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing it’s a bad idea, I tap it. The video opens dark and grainy, but shapes sharpen fast: a knot of men, blows landing. Then Storm’s white-blond hair, Maverick’s shoulders.
I should be in this recording but I’m not. The camera is zoomed in too far, or they’ve adjusted the framing before sending the recording.
The morning they saved me—when the Titans killed for me. Because of me.
The camera catches Storm and Maverick’s faces, clear enough to recognize. Both of them beating the same man. I flinch with every hit, the wet thud loud in my ears.
I remember being there, hearing the way his body absorbed his rage. When Storm’s chaos unraveled and there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I wanted to.
The yelling stops. Only the sick, wet sounds remain as the man stops moving.
The camera records everything—their fists, the way the body jerks. The sound of breathless gasps turning into nothing.
Then the stillness.
It takes a long time to beat someone to death. In the moment it felt like it was over in a flash. But here on the camera, the seconds drag on. The panic builds until it’s threatening to spill out all over the floor.
On the recording, Storm steps back, breathing hard. Maverick doesn’t.
My stomach turns. I grip the phone until my knuckles go white, dashing a tear from the corner of my eye.
I’m not upset at their actions—I’m upset at what this means. I’m reminded of what they’ll do to keep what’s theirs.
They were willing to destroy their lives for me. And here I am putting them in more danger by not being strong enough to tell them what’s happening.
Another message.
Unknown number
make them return what is ours, kitten, or this video will be the least of their problems.
The mob isn’t just watching me. They’re watching everything. They now have video of at least two of my Titans committing murder.
Another buzz.
Unknown number
Because I’m a nice guy…a reasonable one…I’m giving you two days to convince them to do the right thing. After that, firebird, the gloves come off.
Don’t disappoint, princess.