Huh. That is news. “Well, good. His incessant moping was fucking with the vibe of the whole house. He needed to get back in the saddle.”
Tristian smirks. “If by ‘saddle’ you mean ‘pussy’， then consider the mission accomplished.”
I ignore that and leave him to his porn. Crossing the hall, I pause outside the room, pressing my ear to Rath’s door. I made a deal with Story that I wouldn’t violate a locked door or enter her room without invitation, but make no mistake about it, that shit does not apply to Rath’s. No sounds come from the other side of the door, and I carefully turn the knob.
From the threshold, I’m shocked to find the room spotless, cleaned to levels I haven’t seen since we moved in. Everything is tidy. Records on the shelves, instruments on their racks, the usual piles of sheet music sorted and organized. And for once, the room doesn’t smell like a corpse is rotting under a pile of dirty clothes and blunt roaches. At first, I wonder if it’s Story’s doing, but this is something that would have taken at least a whole day, possibly two. I’d consider that maybe Ms. Crane did it. Only Rath isn’t lying dead in a shallow grave out back, so I assume not.
As surprised as I am to see the tidiness of the room, that’s not what draws me deeper inside. It’s the two of them in the bed.
Story is naked, her bare ass facing the door. A flash of heat—the anger I’ve been carrying since she shut me out of the conversation with Simon—surges. One minute, I was there and involved, the next, the screen was black. I thought about it on the bus, in the locker room, and on the ride home. That kind of shit doesn’t play. I’m a Lord. Her Lord, despite what these new rules say.
Isn’t shutting me out of her room enough?
For a long moment, I imagine what it’d be like to drag her ass-first to the edge of the bed and drive my dick into her, a long, hard, rough punishment for her defiance. But she’s not alone. She’s nestled into Rath, thigh thrown over his, hand resting loosely against his stomach. He has her tucked firmly into his side, fingers knitted into her hair as they sleep.
I stand over them for a long time, feeling not just the old urges coursing through me, but new ones, too. Seeing her with Rath like this, all sweet and comfortable…
She did that with me, once.
Well, technically twice.
I remember that first time; her curling up against me, all warm, naked skin and soft curves. I remember wondering if it was something I wanted—something I even liked. It wasn’t until later, tired and wounded on a cold cabin floor, that I admitted to myself it was. There’s something about her, so small and vulnerable and trusting, that makes me wish I were in that bed. I thought I was over jealousy when it came to him and Tristian, but it swells within me now. There was a time—so fucking brief that I barely had the chance to enjoy it—when I could come home to her in my bed, all naked and pliant.
I take a reluctant step forward, but Rath’s hand appears, sliding out from beneath the pillow. A sharp, familiar blade glints in the dim light.
So do his narrow, alert eyes.
I hold up my hands, whispering, “It’s me.”
He blinks, chest caving with a long, silent exhale. “Dude,” he mutters. We stare at one another for a long beat, and as he wakes, he recognizes it for what it is—recognizes me for what I am. Story’s in his bed, naked and sleeping. It might be his room, but this is my territory, and he knows it.
He slowly extricates himself from Story’s sleeping body, pushing the pillow against her so she doesn’t miss his heat. He fusses with her like that for a minute, but then stands there, naked, staring down at her like he’s pondering if maybe he should do something else. Like he’s unsure if he should leave. Like he doesn’t want to.
Seeming to shake it off, he stalks toward the bathroom.
The light is so dim that I barely see it, but I grab his arm and hold him back, inspecting the center of his chest. The wound there is fresh, the ‘S’ raised and red and still bleeding a little beneath the sheen of ointment coated on top.
“Did you do that?”
It’s her initial, carved into his chest, just like our initials are carved into hers.
“No,” he answers, glancing over his shoulder at her still form. “She did.”
I look at his face, searching for…something. Embarrassment? Defiance? But there’s nothing like that. He stares baldly back, eyes void of that dull, frenetic hopelessness that’s been driving him around like a zombie for weeks now. “Payback?” I ask, honestly curious. Is this what it takes to get her like this? An eye for an eye? Because goddamn, I’ve only got the two, and that’s not going to be enough.