"Every time you scare me," he murmurs against my ear, "that's another hour you're spending on my cock."
The old voice, the one that whispers you don't deserve this, is quieter this morning. Drowned out by heat and the way he's looking at me like I hung the moon and set his house on fire in the same breath.
I lift a shoulder, aiming for blasé and overshooting into breathless. "Doesn't sound like much of a punishment."
His control frays. His thumb strokes under my jaw, tilting my face up until I'm forced to meet those storm-dark eyes. For a second, his expression softens. A bright, dangerous look flickers there. As if he almost says it and stops himself.
He catches it. Bites it back. I see the moment he swallows whatever word almost escaped.
"Careful, sweetheart," he says instead. "You start enjoying this too much, and I'm never letting you get away with anything again." He's lying. We both know it.
I pat his chest lightly, like I'm soothing a large, offended dog. "Go shower, Vice. I'll make sure your new roommate doesn't follow you in there."
He leans in, presses a quick, hard kiss to my mouth, a promise and warning, then pushes off the counter, stalking back down the hall. He mutters something about "ending its bloodline"and slams the bathroom door. The shower comes on, water pounding tile.
I wait until the pipes settle into a steady roar, then pad down the hall on quiet feet. Steam curls under the door. I crack it open enough to see his shadow behind the curtain, big and solid and completely distracted.
The clown doll still lies where he left it, facedown in the tub. Biting my lip, I slip inside, grab it by its stupid plastic arm, and set it on the closed toilet lid, turning its painted grin to face the shower.
"Menace," I whisper to it, then dart out and ease the door shut.
Ten seconds later, his voice echoes down the corridor, incredulous and offended. "Why the fuck is it on the toilet now?"
I lose it. Full-body laughter shakes out of me, bright and sharp. The kind that leaves you breathless and lightheaded. I brace a hand on the counter, tears stinging my eyes.
I feel good. That realization scares the hell out of me.
That night, the clubhouse hums. Different energy than we've had lately. Less edge, more crackling chaos. Voices tumbling over each other. A playlist that can't decide if it wants to be classic rock or unhinged pop. Pizza boxes stacked on the bar, half-empty bottles, the comfort of too many bodies in one shared space.
The girls commandeered one of the couches. Ruby is draped like a feral cat, Frankie tucked into the corner with bare feet on the cushion, Candace perched on the arm, Darla sprawled on the rug in front of us. I'm wedged between Frankie and Ruby with a plate of fries in my lap.
East is across the room with the guys, but Darla's eyes track him every time he moves. We all look perfectly innocent. We are not innocent. Across the room, the boys are unraveling.
Malachi stands near the pool table, arms crossed, staring at the air vent like it insulted his mother. A tinny, distant giggleis the offender. A child's laugh track Ruby found and Frankie rigged into the ductwork. Every time it plays, his jaw flexes.
Nash sits at a high-top, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on his phone. Looks like he hasn't slept in two nights. Also smells faintly of sage, which means Frankie absolutely convinced him to smudge his room to "remove negative energy."
James is at the bar, talking to Kyle, increasingly disturbed as he explains how his milk mysteriously turned to mayonnaise.
East limps past, rubbing his ankle. Someone swapped the insoles in his boots for something lumpy and unforgiving; he'd spent fifteen minutes ranting about "slipper sabotage" before anyone admitted nothing.
And Knox? Knox is pacing. Back and forth in front of the TV, hands on his hips. His gaze sweeps the room like he expects a clown to drop from the ceiling. Every third pass, his eyes snag on me.
Every time, my body goes hot and tight. I pretend to listen to Ruby rant about eyebrow hexes. I'm mostly counting Knox's steps.
Ruby leans in, eyes forward. "Who do you think breaks first?"
"Knox," Darla says immediately from the floor. "He's already halfway to a TED Talk about clown-induced trauma."
Frankie sips her drink, deadpan. "My money's on Malachi. Men that controlled usually crumble spectacularly. He's one jump scare away from a Latin exorcism."
I picture it. Six-foot-something Malachi Latin-praying at the air vent while Candace quietly takes video. A giggle bubbles up.
Ruby nudges my knee. "What about you, Nurse Chaos? Place your bets."
I chew a fry, eyes drifting to Knox just as he snaps at Nash about cameras in the bedroom. "I think they're all gonna break. Just in different ways."
Ruby grins, wicked and delighted. "God, I love us."
