37. Phoenix
Phoenix
All of them are completely naked, glaring at me.
I don’t blame them for being mad. I’m mad at myself.
How could I have been so stupid? How can I tell them I’m sorry—that I will never do something that reckless again—that anytime I have some harebrained idea about trying to save them, I’ll run it by Atticus first so he can tell me no?
I open my mouth, ready to say something, when Storm reaches out for me, tangling his hands in my wet hair and pulling me to him in a fierce, crushing hug.
“Thank God you’re okay,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly before he seals his mouth over mine. His lips taste like salt and adrenaline, like relief so raw it almost shakes.
Then suddenly Con is there too, pulling me from Storm’s arms so he can kiss me himself, his big hands skimming over my body like he’s checking for damage, cataloging every inch.
“Don’t you ever scare us like that again, Firebird,” Maverick murmurs against my shoulder, his mouth warm, his tone sharp. Atticus is watching, a look of contemplation painted across his features.
He pushes Con back just enough to claim me himself.
“You will be punished for this later. But right now, I’m just so fucking grateful you’re okay and the threat is gone,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. Relief crashes through me, and I push up onto my tiptoes to kiss him.
Con doesn’t wait. He scoops me up, carrying me toward the top deck.
For a moment, I’m afraid I’m going to see blood, bodies—proof of the violence that brought us here—but there’s nothing. Nothing out of place .
It looks like a party yacht for a few rich college guys. The only thing remotely disturbing is the ripple of dorsal fins far in the distance. I know exactly what’s circling out there, and why, and the knowledge prickles cold along my spine.
Con carries me to the observation deck where Atticus once traced constellations for me. He lays me down on a thick quilt.
“Don’t you ever do something that dumb again,” he says, kissing my neck, moving lower until his mouth closes over one taut nipple.
I bury my fingers in his hair, needing to feel him as desperately as he needs to feel me. Storm takes the other side of me, and I reach for him, pulling him into a kiss that starts as relief and quickly turns hungry as his hand cups my other breast.
Atticus kneels at my head and devours my mouth while hands—Maverick’s—spread my legs and push them over broad shoulders.
“We’re going to go easy on you right now, little Firebird,” Maverick murmurs, his voice wicked and tender all at once. “This won’t be about pain. This is about pleasure…and about reminding you you’re alive. ”
His thumbs part me, and then his tongue slides inside, dragging a broken moan from my throat into Atticus’s kiss.
“You have permission to come as many times as you want,” Con says, his teeth catching lightly on my nipple, just enough sting to make me jolt.
The men move in perfect rhythm, surrounding me, touching, tasting, filling. Their hands are everywhere, their mouths everywhere, until I can’t keep track of who’s where—who’s inside me, who’s on my tongue, whose fingers are coaxing another climax from me.
It doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matters is that we are together, we are safe, and for the next nine months while I serve them under my contract, I will do everything in my power to keep it that way.
By the time we finally stop, the sun is high and my skin is flushed pink from heat and salt air. My body hums with exhaustion, satisfaction, and something dangerously close to contentment.
We head back to the resort, all of us in need of another shower, food, and—God—sleep. I’ve never been this wrung out, this satisfied, and this tired in my life.
That’s exactly what I intend to do.
When we walk into the suite, the air feels…wrong.
The maids have cleaned—fresh linens, polished surfaces, every glass and plate replaced. But the energy has shifted.
“Do you guys smell that?” Maverick asks, his tone suddenly sharp.
I catch it then—the faint, metallic tang beneath the scent of lemon cleaner and lillies. Blood. It slithers into my nose, coats the back of my throat.
We move farther in, each step heavier than the last, like we’re walking into a storm we can’t see yet. And then I see it—blonde hair spilling over the edge of the dining table.
Another step, and the face reveals itself.
Sarah.
My breath catches. This is the same table they fucked me on yesterday. Yesterday it was heat and mouths and hands and bodies. Today it’s cold and still and…wrong .
For half a second, jealousy spikes—did one of them invite her here? Is this my punishment? Am I even allowed to feel jealous? Can this be exclusive when there’s one of me and four of them?
“What the fuck?” Maverick’s voice cracks like a whip. It’s sharp, but there’s something under it—panic, maybe. Anger, certainly. He strides to her, reaches for her shoulder?—
—and her body lolls sideways, boneless. Her arm swings limply off the edge of the table, her nails painted a cheerful pink that makes my stomach twist. I remember looking at her nails, admiring them in that way of knowing I could never maintain such a cute manicure.
I’d never have the patience to paint my nails in the first place.
God, why am I thinking about nail polish? Sarah…she’s…is she?—?
No one speaks. The silence is a living thing, pressing in, thick and suffocating.
My lungs lock. My ears ring. Every inch of me wants to back away, but my feet are anchored to the carpet .
“She’s dead?” The words scrape out of me, small and foreign, like they don’t belong to my mouth.
Maverick stares down at her, then at us. He gives me a single clipped nod. His jaw ticks. “Why is she dead? Why is she here?”
Storm’s breathing changes—shallow, almost amused—and it makes the hair on my arms rise. Con’s hand flexes at his side, a slow, deliberate curl into a fist. Atticus doesn’t move, but his eyes…his eyes are calculating.
Something shifts in my gut. This isn’t random.
The smell hits harder now—blood, faint perfume, and something sour, like fear that’s gone stale.
“She’s the message,” I whisper, dread curling low in my gut.
“What message?” Con’s voice is cold steel.
“When the men on the side of the road cornered me, they told me they’d be sending you a message. I thought—” I swallow. “I thought I was the message. That they were going to kill me. They wanted you to know you weren’t untouchable. ”
My gaze locks on Sarah’s vacant eyes then slides to the arrangement of lilies beside her. “I think she’s your message.”
No one moves. No one breathes.
“This isn’t over,” I say.
(You know it. I know it. They know it. And in Book 2, we’re going to burn the world down together. Go ahead—preorder DOUBLE DOWN now. You’re already in too deep.)
Double Down
The stakes are higher. The Titans want more. And this time, she’s all in.