22. Phoenix
Phoenix
I don’t know how it happened, but I’m back against the wall, like a painting someone hung just to fill empty space.
They don’t look at me, not really. They don’t speak to me.
They don’t include me. I’m on the outside again, watching them live the kind of reckless, glitter-drenched chaos that once felt like danger and now just feels like distance.
Even Storm, who had been so devastatingly gentle with me last night—who held my wrist like it mattered, who calmed me down without ever raising his voice—won’t meet my eyes.
He flips his knife in the air, catches it without looking.
Again. And again. The blade flashes each time, catching the overhead light, like it’s warning me not to speak.
His lip curls when he glances my way. Not a snarl, exactly, but close. Enough to make something inside me wither.
What did I do?
Did I misstep? Cross some invisible line I didn’t even know existed? Are they mad about the poker game? About me winning? Or is this about last night—on the boat, under the stars, when everything cracked open a little?
They shared pieces of themselves. Real stories. Real pain. And for a moment, I let myself believe I was part of it.
It’s not like it was even my idea to go out there, but now they won’t even look at me.
The reasons spiral in their own mental hurricane of overthinking everything. Was I too bold? Too trusting? Did they wake up this morning and regret letting their guard down? Am I just a reminder of everything they try to forget?
I thought we were connecting. I thought I was beginning to understand them. And worse—I thought they were beginning to see me .
The only thing I know now is that they’re angry with me for some reason, and it’s incredibly frustrating. We’re right back to where we started, with me being the girl pressed against the wall, watching other women get the things I ache for.
It’s worse this time. Now what once was a grain of jealousy has grown into a softball-sized lump that sits heavy in my gut, because now I know what it feels like to be touched like I matter. Now I know what it feels like to be claimed.
That moment on the casino floor—when Maverick touched me in front of everyone—wasn’t just a game. At least, not to me. I should have been humiliated, exposed. Instead, I felt wanted. Possessed. Like I belonged to someone, and everyone else could see it.
Those men looked on with lust in their eyes—not because I was pretty or sexy or a thing they could use and abuse without repercussion. I was accustomed to those looks.
This was different.
They looked at me like I was something special, something worth having, all because Maverick had claimed me. I belonged to a Titan, and they could look but not touch.
And then he dragged me off that floor and knelt between my legs like he was starving for me. Like I was something he needed. It was the single-most erotic, consuming experience of my entire life.
I thought it would satisfy me. But the near-orgasm didn’t quench anything; it just made things worse. Made me ravenous. I wanted more—of him, of them, of whatever this twisted, glittering world was becoming to me.
But afterward... he left me. Cold. Detached. Like none of it mattered. Like I was nothing.
He looked at me with disgust. Real, burning disgust. And I don’t know what I did to earn it.
I still feel the shame clawing up my throat as I think about how close I was to begging him to fuck me, to just take me right there in that conference room. He had to have seen it in my eyes.
I don’t understand why he didn’t just do it.
Why any of them don’t just do it .
I cleaned myself up slowly in the staff locker room. By the time I returned to the suite, the party was already underway. Hookers. Champagne. Music so loud I felt it in my teeth. The usual chaos.
I asked Maverick what the night’s plans were. He didn’t answer. Just handed me a dress made of delicate chains—silver and gold, whisper-thin, barely covering anything.
It clung to my body like a second skin. It was bold. Daring. Beautiful.
But even draped in gold, I’m still on the wall. Still just a decoration. Still excluded.
Con disappears into his room with one of the girls. I’m done pretending this doesn’t affect me.
I push off the wall and start walking toward the bar.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Atticus’s voice slices through the noise.
I don’t flinch. I don’t slow down.
“This is a party, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I have fun, too? It’s not like I have anything better to do,” I say, shrugging as I walk over to the bar and pour myself a double shot of some tequila I can’t even pronounce.
I don’t know where this bravado comes from, but I am going to roll with it. What’s the worst they can do to me? Kill me? Better dead than a prostitute for some gangsters.
“Who gave you permission to play with us?”
“No one, because I didn’t ask,” I say, smiling at him sweetly over my shoulder as I pour a second shot of liquid courage, or maybe in this case it’s liquid ‘I don’t give a fuck.’
“Let her stay. I want to see what she thinks partying is,” Storm says, giving me an intense look that I can’t really read, but I find both sexy and a little terrifying. “She thinks she can keep up with us. Let’s see exactly how wrong she is.”
As if I haven’t been keeping up with them every night. Although, I guess I haven’t been because I haven’t been drinking nearly as much as they have, and I haven’t done any recreational drugs.
The guys, meanwhile, haven’t been doing anything more illegal than usual. There’s been no weapons, no brawling, no theft, and nobody up here other than hookers or strippers or wayward members of the staff.
From what I can tell, there hasn’t been a single cartel member around to launder money or ship people, so why not? What are they going to do? Fire me? No one else is ever going to sign that fucking contract.
Besides, the contract says I am supposed to be drinking, doing drugs when asked and even giving them full access to my body, even if they have apparently chosen not to use it.
I don’t know why that idea makes me feel some kinda way, but I shove the thought aside and scan the bottles of liquor. I think I have some catching up to do.
Emboldened by the tequila burning in my gut, I pour a third shot.
Instead of just drinking it down, I pour it down the throat of the nearest girl, letting it spill over her lips and chin. I lean in and lick the rest from her skin.
"Fuck me," I hear Maverick mutter.
The girl wraps an arm around my waist, giggling. She smells like cinnamon and rum. Her pupils are huge.
I let her guide me to the dance floor. We move together easily, like we’ve done this a hundred times. Her hands roam freely. Mine do too. When I turn in her arms, she slides her fingers beneath the chains of my dress, brushing against my nipples.
My head tips back. I let myself feel it. The music. The alcohol. The freedom.
For once, I don’t think about what comes next.
When I open my eyes, the Titans aren’t watching.
Atticus is stroking the hair of a girl kneeling at his feet.
Maverick’s being straddled by someone who looks like she wants to swallow him whole.
Storm’s tracing a blade down a woman’s chest, slicing through fabric like it’s nothing.
They don’t see me at all.
My eyes slide closed as I tip my head back and enjoy the way the girl’s touching me. The way it feels to move and sway to the music and just do whatever I want to do without worrying about judgment or repercussions.
I think I can feel the men’s eyes on my body, but when I open them again, none of them are paying attention.
Atticus is focused on the girl kneeling at his feet, petting her head while she nuzzles his crotch and begs to blow him.
Maverick is focused on the woman dry humping him in the couch, her hands everywhere and looks like her tongue is shoved so far down his throat he might choke.
Storm is focused on the girl in his arms as he traces one of the smaller knives from the dip in her clavicle down her sternum between her breasts, cutting the shirt she was wearing completely off.
“Oh well, honey, it looks like the boys are otherwise engaged,” the other girl whispers in my ear. “and unfortunately, although you are absolutely edible in that tiny little dress, I do prefer men.”
“I do, too,” I say, giving her a polite smile. “But thanks for playing.”
She winks. “Anytime. ”
My head is buzzing. My limbs are loose. Giving up on trying to seduce them, I head toward my room, wanting to get out of this ridiculous dress before I’m too drunk to figure out how to get it off without making it one massive tangled mess.
I don’t want to fall apart in front of them, so I slip into my room and shut the door behind me.
The dress snags in my hair as I strip it off. I curse softly, untangling the links. I want a bath. I want to soak in silence. I want to forget how pathetic I must look—throwing myself into their world only to be left behind.
The tequila has gone to my head, and I need to sleep it off.
Or maybe I will finally take that bath, I promised myself earlier. Relive the way Maverick’s tongue explored my pussy and made me come with my fingers rubbing my clit.
As I walk into my room, though, I realize something is very wrong. The air feels off.
I don’t know how I know it. The room looks untouched. But there’s a stillness that wasn’t here before. A chill in the air. Like someone breathed secrets into the space and left them hanging there, invisible and undeniable.
I step onto the bed and reach up into the ceiling panel. My papers are there—but not where I left them. They’ve been shuffled. Shifted.
Someone’s been here.
While I was on the boat with Maverick, in broad daylight, surrounded by staff and strangers, someone got into this room.
The mobsters are watching. Waiting.
And I have nothing to give them.
They went through my notes, so they know I don’t have anything concrete. And if they know that—if they know I’ve been pretending—I can’t imagine they’ll wait much longer.
Their patience is running out.
And so is my time.