26. Storm
Storm
“Fuck you,” Phoenix snaps, and the door slams like a gunshot in her wake.
I blink once, then twice.
She’s pissed. At Maverick, I assume. Probably said some shit she couldn’t choke down. He has a talent for getting under skin that doesn’t even flinch for anyone else.
But it’s not the door or the anger that lingers—it’s her.
Messy hair clinging to the side of her face. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips swollen like maybe she bit them trying not to cry. And those tears… Go d, those fucking tears. Most people look pathetic when they cry. Weak. Desperate.
But not her.
Her pain isn't performative. She doesn’t cry for attention, or to manipulate, or because she wants someone to fix her. Phoenix cries when she’s overloaded. When the dam breaks and she can’t shove everything down anymore. And that? That’s when I finally get to see what’s real.
Not the walls. Not the silence. Not the mouthy deflections or cold little smiles.
Her.
Some people think tears are all the same. That you can’t tell the difference between pain and fear and rage once they start falling. But they’re wrong. I know the difference. I feel it. Like static under my skin. Like blood changing direction in my veins.
Phoenix isn’t afraid.
She’s furious. And hurt. And maybe a little helpless, even if she'd cut her own tongue out before admitting it.
That’s what makes it beautiful .
Not the crying itself, but the fact that she lets herself feel at all. Even after everything.
Even now.
I should let her go. Should leave her alone. But I don’t. I follow.
She’s wearing that fucking ‘uniform’—the clothes that Con and Maverick picked out, the ones that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
It’s fine up here, when it’s just us, just our eyes on her, our eyes sliding over every inch of that pale skin, our eyes touching her with looks that linger.
It’s fine in the casino, even, because we’re right there, with our hands ready to break anyone who gets to close.
Phoenix is ours. Not everyone realizes that yet.
Down there, on the street, creepers gonna be creeping, and I’m going to be right behind the fuckers, ready to help them understand who she belongs to.
Not close. Not yet. Just enough to keep her in my line of sight. I give her a little room to breathe before I crowd her again, because even I know she needs that space right now—needs something that’s hers, unobserved and unclaimed.
The others don’t see it.
Not really.
They’re too wrapped up in the bet. Each of them playing their role, spinning their web, waiting for her to fall in.
Atticus trying to command her. Con trying to outmaneuver her. Maverick just trying to break her spirit for the sheer pleasure of it.
But me?
I know I’m not winning shit. I never do.
I’m not the one they hand trophies to. Not the one they choose when it matters. I’m the fallback. The weapon. The last resort when the rest of the world burns to ash and someone needs to bleed for it.
And I’m fine with that.
Because I don’t want her to beg for my cock. I don’t want her to plead or whimper or offer herself up like some goddamn sacrificial lamb.
I’ve had that. I’ve had more than enough of that .
Women beg me for other things.
They beg me to hurt them. To use them. To find the place where pleasure and punishment overlap, and make them forget the rest of the world exists. They want me to break them. And when they can’t take it anymore, they beg me to let them go.
But Phoenix?
She’s not like that.
She’s not made to be broken. Not by me. Not by anyone.
She’s made of scar tissue and survival. Of fire that never got put out. Of lessons written in bruises and betrayals.
She doesn’t just carry her pain—she’s built from it.
And that makes her... untouchable. Sacred.
They’re all going to miss it. Every last one of them. They’re going to screw it up chasing some fantasy of control, and when they realize what they lost, it’ll already be too late.
I’ve thought about telling them. Explaining.
But what’s the point ?
They don’t listen. They don’t understand what it’s like to be used like that. To be raised by people who turn love into a fucking weapon and punish you for trying to hold on to it.
They don’t know what it’s like to hate yourself for still wanting connection. For still hoping someone will choose you for something more than what you can offer. More than what you can endure.
But I do. I know.
That’s why she makes sense to me. Why I see her so clearly, even when she hides.
She obeys sometimes, sure. She plays their games. She gives Con the chase he craves, follows Atticus’s orders when it suits her, matches Maverick beat for beat. But it’s all strategy. Survival.
She doesn’t kneel because she trusts us. She kneels because it keeps her alive.
She’ll never beg to be fucked.
And if she did?
She’d stop being who we need.
She’s the only one who forces us to evolve. The only one who doesn’t bend or break. She’ll make us work for every inch of her. And it won’t be because she’s playing hard to get—it’ll be because she’s protecting the only part of herself that hasn’t already been stolen.
Trust.
God, it’ll take so much to earn it. Blood and time and patience most of us don’t have. And if the others give up?
Fine.
I’ll keep her for myself.
She listens to me. Not like the others. She doesn’t flinch or recoil. She doesn’t ask questions and tune out the answers. She listens like she means it. Like she gives a shit about what I say—even when I don’t know how to say it right.
If she were anyone else, I’d already have her up against a wall, hands fisted in her hair, mouth devouring her until she forgot her own name.
I’d take her to the edge of pleasure and pain until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
But not Phoenix .
With her… I want more. I want her trust. I want her surrender not because she’s scared of what I’ll do, but because she knows I won’t push her further than she can take.
I want her to feel safe with me—so when she finally gives in, it means something.
I trail her through the lobby, watching her push through the glass doors into the late afternoon heat.
The sun lights her up like fire. That ridiculous little dress clings to her hips and sways when she walks, making me want to bite the curve of her ass just to see if she’d yelp.
I hang back.
Not just because I don’t want to spook her—but because watching her like this, storming off with fire in her veins and hurt on her tongue, does something to me.
And then I see the car. My step stutters.
She has another tail.
I slow, fall back.
I don’t think they’re local. Something about the blacked-out windows, the slow crawl, and the too- smooth stop a few feet behind her tells me otherwise. They stick out.
Despite that, Phoenix doesn’t notice. She’s too wrapped up in her own head, fist clenched, spine locked like she’s daring the universe to fuck with her again.
It obliges.
Two men get out. One circles wide. The other grabs her hair and yanks her into the alley so fast it steals my breath.
I don’t move, even though everything in me screams to spill blood. Not yet. I press back into the shadow of the building, blade already in my palm. Damascus steel, familiar and cold. My fingers wrap around the handle like I was born with it.
These guys aren’t professionals. Not by a long shot,which means they’re either desperate… or stupid.
But I’m not.
And they just laid hands on something that belongs to me.
Craning my neck just a little, I listen .
“We’re running out of patience, you stupid bitch,” one of them snarls, his hand on her throat like he’s got the right to put it there.
“I don’t have anything, I don’t think they’re part of?—”
He cuts her off with the back of his hand, and the sound of her hitting the pavement punches straight through my chest.
My grip tightens around the blade, the knuckles going bone white, but I hold still. Not yet. Phoenix is tough. She can handle that. And I’ll make them pay for it.
She’s already pushing herself up, one hand bracing against the brick, blood smearing down her cheek.
I’ll let him think he’s in control for another breath.
Because when I end him, it won’t be fast.
“We’ve given you enough time to get evidence,” the fat one says, his voice slick with satisfaction. “The boss is inclined to give you more time, but I don’t think I’m going to do that. I think I’m going to take a down payment on his investment.”
What the fuck does that mean ?
What investment?
My skin itches like something’s crawling beneath it. These aren’t random thugs. They know something—know her.
“Yeah,” the tall one grunts. “Maybe that’s what we need to do. Take a down payment. That way, we can also tell our boss exactly how long it’s going to take to pay off your father’s debt with your body.”
He grabs her by the hair, jerking her upright. She fights. Of course she fights. Her fists come up. Her knees snap out. But they’re two, and she’s one, and they don’t care that she’s scared. That she’s crying now.
Tears of fear. Not frustration. Not defiance. Real fear.
That’s enough.
I step out of the shadows, the knife hanging low at my side, glinting in the sun.
“Put her down.”
My voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shake. It’s low, cold, laced with something feral. Something unhinged .
“This doesn’t concern you,” the fat one says, barely glancing over.
But the tall one does look—and freezes. Recognition hits like a slap. I see it in both of them.
Good. I want them to know exactly who they're dealing with.
The tall one fumbles for a revolver, pulling it from his waistband like that’s going to save him. His hand’s trembling. He’s not a killer. Just a man playing pretend.
“Stop right there,” he says.
I don’t stop. I smile.
It’s too late to stop. The darkness creeps in around my vision, and all I can see is this ugly man with a bad mustache and his fat fucking friend and their hands on my angel.
He thinks the gun is power. He has no idea what power is.
My blade is already warm in my hand, my fingers molded to the hilt like it was made for this moment.
My heart pounds once—then slows. I’m in it now.
This is the place where nothing else matters.
Not the crowd. Not the cameras. Not the Titans.
Just the blood and the blade and the slow, burning thrill of release.
He pulls the hammer back.
“I’m warning you?—”
He is pathetic, not worthy of the air he breathes, let alone of touching my angel. I take several more steps towards him. I’m almost in front of him. He is still shaking, the astringent smell of piss filling the air. I could easily reach out and take the gun, but where’s the fun in that?
“I don’t care.”
The shot cracks off, wild and stupid, slamming into brick above my shoulder.
His mistake. His only one.
And his last.
I lunge.
One slice and his elbow tendon gives. The revolver hits the pavement with a dull clatter, fingers no longer working. He screams like a kicked dog .
The fat one panics and grabs Phoenix, yanking her backward by the arm. She kicks. Fights. Tries to twist free.
He raises his hand to strike her again.
I’m already moving.
The knife flashes once—shoulder to chest. A red line blooms across his shirt. He bellows, clutching himself, but I sidestep cleanly. He’s clumsy. Slow. An insult to the fight.
He stumbles back, crashing into his friend. The two of them fall in a heap like a bad joke, and I laugh.
I give them a second. Maybe two. Let them try again. It's only fair.
The tall one still has the gun, fumbling it into his left hand—he’s not left-handed. It shows. I slash at the fat one again, using his bulk to shove the shot wide. The bullet pings off brick. Far from Phoenix.
I check on her. She’s crouched behind the dumpster, tucked low, watching with wide eyes. Smart girl. Good girl. She’s learning. She knows what I need now.
Room to play .
“If you don’t fuck off, I swear to God I’ll—” the fat one starts, voice cracking.
“You’ll what?” I ask, spinning the knife lazily between my fingers. My grin stretches slow and sharp.
“I’ll kill the girl,” the tall one chokes out, gun pointed at her again.
Wrong move.
I flick the blade. Hard. It sinks into his shoulder like it was meant to live there.
He drops the gun and screams. Can’t even lift his other arm to pull the blade out.
“Let me help you with that,” I murmur.
Four steps. Maybe five. That’s all it takes.
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 because I’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.