Chapter 2- House rules

Dinner was a special kind of torture.

The dining room could comfortably seat twenty people, but tonight it was just the four of us, spread out around an obscenely long marble table. Richard sat at the head, my mother to his right, looking perfectly at home in this palace. I sat across from her, which meant Marcus was directly across from me.

Perfect.

He'd been staring at his phone for the past five minutes while Richard asked me polite questions about my plans for college. I was starting my sophomore year at Crestwood University—conveniently only thirty minutes from the mansion—studying business administration. Boring, practical, safe.

Everything Marcus clearly wasn't.

"—and of course, Marcus can show you around campus," Richard was saying. "He graduated from Crestwood just two years ago."

My fork clattered against my plate. "What?"

"Didn't I mention?" Mom smiled, oblivious to my panic. "Marcus is very involved with the business school there. He gives guest lectures sometimes."

Of course he did. Because it wasn't enough that I had to live with him—now he'd be invading my school too.

"I'm sure Aria can find her way around just fine." Marcus finally looked up from his phone, his gaze locking with mine. "She seems like the independent type."

"Too independent sometimes," Mom said with a laugh that made me want to sink through the floor. "She never asks for help, even when she needs it."

"Mom—"

"It's admirable," Richard interjected smoothly. "Self-sufficiency is important. Though there's no shame in accepting help from family."

Family. That word again.

"Speaking of which," Marcus said, setting down his phone with deliberate precision, "we should probably establish some ground rules. For living together."

"Rules?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.

"Marcus, that's really not—" Richard started.

"No, he's right." Marcus cut him off, still looking at me. "Aria and I are adults. We should be clear about boundaries. Don't you think?"

It sounded reasonable, but something in his tone made my stomach twist.

"Fine," I said. "You want boundaries? Stay out of my room. Don't touch my things. And give me advance warning if you're bringing home any more of your rotating door of dates."

Mom choked slightly on her wine. Richard looked pained.

Marcus just smiled. "Fair enough. My turn. Don't blast music after midnight. Don't eat my food—it's labeled in the fridge. And when I have company over, make yourself scarce."

"When you have company?" I repeated incredulously. "You mean your parade of one-night stands?"

"Aria!" Mom's face had gone pink.

"What? Everyone knows his reputation." I turned to Marcus. "How many girls did you bring to the wedding, by the way? I lost count after the champagne tower incident."

"One," Marcus said, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "I brought one date. Who, for the record, knocked over the tower because she was drunk. But I'm the one who owned up to it."

"How noble."

"More noble than hiding behind righteous indignation."

"I'm not hiding behind anything!"

"Really?" He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've had a problem with me since the moment we met. Which is interesting, considering you don't actually know anything about me."

He was right, and I hated it. The truth was, I'd disliked Marcus on principle from the first time Mom showed me his photo. The arrogant tilt of his head, the way he'd barely acknowledged me at our first family dinner, the stories I'd heard from friends at Crestwood about his reputation with women—it all painted a picture I'd decided was complete.

But admitting that felt like losing.

"Maybe I know enough," I said quietly.

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt? anger?—before his expression smoothed into indifference. "Maybe you do."

The rest of dinner passed in awkward silence.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the whole situation too surreal. Around eleven, I gave up and decided to raid the kitchen. If I was going to have insomnia, I might as well have a snack.

The mansion was eerily quiet as I padded downstairs in my pajamas—silk shorts and a matching camisole that Jules had given me as a joke. They were ridiculously impractical, but they were comfortable and it was just me.

Or so I thought.

The kitchen lights were already on when I rounded the corner. And there, leaning against the counter in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, was Marcus.

Of course.

I should have turned around and gone back upstairs. Should have pretended I hadn't seen him. But my traitorous brain had apparently short-circuited at the sight of his bare chest—because holy hell, the man looked like he'd been carved from marble. Tattoos wrapped around his ribs and over one shoulder in intricate patterns I couldn't quite make out from here.

"Lost?" His voice snapped me back to reality.

"I couldn't sleep." I forced myself to move into the kitchen, heading for the massive refrigerator. "I'm getting a snack."

"Help yourself."

I could feel his eyes on me as I searched for something—anything—to justify this trip. I grabbed a container of strawberries, hyperaware of every movement I made.

"Those are mine," Marcus said.

I paused. "You label your strawberries?"

"Check the container."

Sure enough, there was a piece of tape with "MARCUS - DO NOT TOUCH" written in sharp handwriting.

"Are you serious right now?" I held up the container. "They're strawberries."

"And they're mine." He pushed off the counter, moving toward me with predatory grace. "Rule number two, remember? Don't eat my food."

He was close now. Too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could smell whatever soap he'd used in the shower earlier—something clean and masculine that made my head spin.

"It's fruit," I managed. "I'll buy you more strawberries tomorrow."

"That's not the point." His gaze dropped, traveling down my body in a slow perusal that made heat explode across my skin. When his eyes met mine again, they'd darkened. "Go back upstairs, Aria."

"I'm getting food first."

"No." His voice had gone rough. "You're going back upstairs. Right now."

"You don't get to order me around."

"And you don't get to walk around my kitchen dressed like that." The words came out harsh, almost angry.

I looked down at my pajamas, then back up at him. "Like what? I'm completely covered!"

"Barely." He stepped even closer, boxing me against the refrigerator. His bare chest was inches from me now, his heat radiating through the thin silk of my camisole. "Do you know what you look like right now?"

My breath caught. "Marcus—"

"Do you understand what game you're playing?" His hand came up, bracing against the fridge beside my head. Not touching me, but close enough that I felt trapped. Cornered. And God help me, more alive than I'd felt in years.

"I'm not playing anything," I whispered.

His jaw tightened. For a long moment, neither of us moved. The air between us felt electric, charged with something I didn't want to name.

Then Marcus pushed away abruptly, putting distance between us.

"Wear a robe next time," he said, his voice cold. "This is a shared space. Act like it."

He stalked out of the kitchen, leaving me shaking against the refrigerator, heart pounding, the container of strawberries still clutched in my hands.

I looked down at the label. At his name written in bold strokes.

Then, out of pure spite—or maybe something more complicated—I opened the container and ate every single strawberry.

Tomorrow's problem could be tomorrow's problem.