28. Phoenix
Phoenix
“We need to get upstairs before someone comes to find out what happened. We got security to ignore the gunshots for now, but someone else may have heard and reported them,” Atticus says, and I barely register it as I stare up into Storm’s ice-blue eyes.
“Now,” Maverick adds as sirens wail in the distance.
Storm’s knife is lying at my feet. I know he isn’t in a place to deal with the blood-soaked blade, but later, he’s going to want it. I grab it and shove it into my dress. Maybe I can clean it and give it to him later.
Storm gets off of me and offers his hand to help me up. As I stand, he wraps his arms around my shoulders, pressing his front to my back and walking with me.
The others don’t lead us to the front entrance—instead, we go around back to a staff entrance.
No one says a single word as we make our way back to the suite, and Storm doesn’t take his arms from around me at all.
The second the door closes behind us, Con tries to grab my arm. Storm yanks me away from him, growling like some kind of wild animal.
“Shit, come on, man, you know he needs a while to decompress,” Maverick says, stepping between them. “He needs a shower, some alone time, and then some food—and then he’ll be able to talk. Not before.”
“I know. That’s why I was getting Phoenix the fuck away from him.”
“No. She doesn’t leave my sight,” Storm says, pulling me closer to him. “Not after those men tried to hurt her. I need her safe.”
I turn in his arms and place my hand on his cheek. He nuzzles into my palm as I tilt his face down, guiding his eyes to mine .
“I need a shower. So do you. Let’s get cleaned up. Everyone else can order food, and after we eat, we’ll figure everything out, okay?”
I keep my voice low, soothing, like I’m reasoning with a hurt child.
Storm looks like he wants to argue, but then he nods. I lead him toward my room, but he pulls me into his instead.
The room is dark, but it has an almost Zen-like feel.
Not quite minimalist, but there’s a calming energy to it.
There’s even a little desk fountain in the corner and a desktop rock garden with a tiny rake.
I don’t get much time to look around before he pulls me into the bathroom—which is roughly the size of my bedroom.
I make a move toward the shower, but he pulls me toward the massive jetted tub.
He starts the water, then throws in some white rocks from a large glass jar on the counter. The smell of eucalyptus and spearmint fills the room. Bath salts.
Pulling me to my feet, he strips off the rest of my torn dress and even removes the ridiculous shoes. Then he grabs a washcloth, runs it under the water, and starts cleaning the blood off my face and hands.
“Get in the tub,” he says.
“No.” I take the washcloth from his hands and run it under warm water from the sink. I fold it gently, set it aside, and turn back to him to unbutton his shirt. I take the cloth and wipe the blood from his hands, the smears of it on his face and arms.
The shock hasn’t worn off, not fully. But it softens in the rhythm of this—warm water, slow movements, his eyes clinging to mine like they don’t know where else to go.
I’m no longer just calming him down. I’m holding something shattered together with my bare hands, pretending I don’t feel the cracks spreading inside me too.
He’s completely unmarred physically by the fight. They never even got a single hit in.
Mentally, he’s battling some serious bruises—and I’ll take care of those next.
Tears sting behind my eyes as I wonder what could have happened to make Storm lose himself in anger like that. He told me about his dad and the lessons he learned about people using him, but this feels like more.
As I gently run the washcloth over him, I see scars—old ones faded by time, perfectly circular burns. When I get to his wrists, I ignore the raised lines running across them.
I say nothing.
It’s a miracle I don’t have matching ones. But I never had the guts to cut myself. I found other ways to numb the pain.
I lean over and turn off the water, now steaming with that calming scent, and I take a deep breath before turning back to Storm and finishing undressing him.
This isn’t about sex. This isn’t about want or need. This is about taking care of a man who’s never, ever had someone care for him unconditionally.
I step into the water first, letting my calves and feet adjust to the temperature before guiding him in beside me.
He sits first, his hands roaming down my body as he does, and then I lay down on top of him, my chest pressed to his, arms around his shoulders and the small space between his lower back and the tub wall.
The tub itself is huge. I could easily sit next to him or across from him without a problem. But that’s not what I need. That’s not what he needs. He needs the closeness.
His hands caress my spine, running up and down, then playing with the ends of my hair. I’m enjoying the feeling of our bodies pressed together, the skin-on-skin contact that feels so euphoric tears burn behind my eyes.
I’ve heard people talk about being touch-starved, but I don’t think I realized it applied to me until now. The way Storm can’t stop touching me—I wonder if it applies to him, too.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Storm’s voice is barely above a whisper, and there’s a slight tremble in it that tells me he doesn’t really want to know—but he needs to.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask, keeping my ear pressed to his chest.
“I was following you… knowing Maverick pissed you off. I was going to give you time to calm down, th en I wanted to talk. I remember seeing someone else following you. I tried to find out what was going on. Then they grabbed you. Pushed you into an alley. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“They tried to rape me,” I answer. “They threatened me. One of them backhanded me hard enough to knock me down. Then they tried to rip my dress off—and you stopped them.”
“Are they still alive?”
“Yes. They ran to their car and got away. You did some damage, but with a little medical attention, they’ll be fine. You didn’t kill anyone.”
He says nothing for a minute, his head tipping back to rest against the wall. I want to think it’s relief, but I don’t think it is. I think he’s holding something back. Something terrible.
“Will you tell me who they are?”
I stop at that and think. I don’t think I have a choice. After what just happened, the men aren’t going to let me get away with any more secrets. I’m either going to tell them the whole truth and hope they don’t kill me for it, or lie—and hope they don’t see through it and kill me anyway .
“After this,” I say. “After our bath, I’ll tell you and the others everything. Please don’t make me say it twice.”
I’m not sure if that’s true or not—but I know I can’t talk about it yet.
“Okay,” Storm says, then lifts my chin from his chest, pulling me up so our faces align. “What was the song you were singing in the alley? It was pretty.”
“It’s just a lullaby,” I answer. “You seemed like you needed to calm down, and the words and melody just came to me.”
“You took care of me?” His brows scrunch like he can’t quite grasp the concept.
“Of course.” I lean in and place a soft, chaste kiss on his cheek, then rest my head on his chest again.
“Phoenix… do you regret it?”
“Regret what?” I ask, closing my eyes. There’s so much I regret. He’ll have to be more specific.
“Coming here. Signing the contract.”
“No,” I say. It’s the truth—and it surprises me a little, too .
“Maybe you should. The others want to break you. I think I do too. They want to know what makes you tick—what makes you different from the other women who come up here.”
“Did none of you consider just asking me?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, and when I look up, I catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He’s coming back to himself.
“Maybe that’s what makes me different. I don’t know the rules of the games you play.
I wasn’t born into wealth or privilege—or even a happy, middle-class life.
Nothing about this feels like real life to me.
I don’t know how to want the luxury you guys have.
The other women here—they know how to want this. ”
“Is that it? Because you don’t want our lavish lifestyle? You don’t want to use us for anything?”
“No. Con’s father is already paying me more money than I ever dreamed of. After this year, I’ll be able to take care of myself. I won’t need catered dinners or yachts on the Atlantic.”
“You’re telling me you have no interest in my money? ”
“None,” I answer, shrugging. “I’d rather provide for myself.”
“And why is that?”
“Because if you rely on other people, they have power over you. They can disappoint you. Break your heart. Force you to do things against your will. If someone has that power over you, they own you—body and soul.” I grab the loofah on the side of the bath and squeeze a little minty gel into it, working it into a thick, luscious lather that smells like desire and restraint.
“Isn’t that exactly what the contract you signed does?”
“No. The contract I signed willingly. I know the terms. There’s an end date. That contract might give you free rein over my body—but my soul is still my own.”
His tongue runs over his lips as he considers my words.
I start rubbing the loofah over his shoulders and chest, loving the feel of the firm muscle packed into his lean frame.
“What are you doing? ”
“I’m doing something I don’t think anyone’s done for you in a very long time. I’m going to take care of you.”
He’s silent as he watches me work the soap over his body.
Even when I move around to reach his back, he sits up for me, giving me all the access I need.
I spend a good amount of time on his shoulders, then drop the loofah and use my hands to massage away the tension, digging my thumbs into his shoulder blades.