Claimed By Rage (Brutal Beauty #1)

1. Celia

Chapter 1

Celia

There are a few key things a working woman needs to keep her going when her employees call out sick for the third time this week: a double shot of espresso, a fine-tipped French manicure, and thigh-quivering orgasms to keep the stress at bay.

But that doesn’t mean she needs them all at once.

Caffeine and adrenaline surge through my veins in a heady cocktail of too much as my very stubborn, very delinquent not-boyfriend nudges my thighs apart with his shoulders. I knock over a jar of pens as he slides my ass to the edge of my desk. “ Rage ,” I hiss, digging my nails into his scalp. No matter how many times I pull out his hair, he keeps coming back every other morning, a lazy smirk on his face as he sits me on top of my desk and makes me ride his face.

It’s not my idea, I promise.

He huffs, his breath hot against my panties. “I told you to stop wearing these.”

“And I told you —ohhh .”

His tongue feels just as wide as his shoulders as he swipes it against me, wetting my panties like a fucking animal. My face flames as he groans, no doubt tasting my desire. He may act like an animal, but I’m the bitch in heat who likes it.

And he fucking knows it.

Rage nips my clit through the fabric, making me buck against his face. Fuck. It hurts, but only in the way that makes everything else dial up a notch. The tension. The thrill. The need pulsing between us.

As much as I claim that he’s the one addicted, the counterargument that I’m not is lost in these moments, the little punches of breath, the shuffle of our clothes, the frantic way we touch each other.

Because that’s how it always is: frantic, needy, insatiable. There’s no love here, but there’s something . That something keeps him coming back and me, well, coming.

He presses a rough kiss against my inner thigh and slides my panties down my legs. “Don’t wear these next time, Celia. I mean it.”

I roll my eyes—or I try to. They clench shut the moment he buries his face in my pussy. Pleasure zings up my spine and shoots down to my toes all at once, each insistent swipe of his tongue powerful and purposeful. He’s a man on a mission, and he knows exactly how to claim victory. “R-rage,” I cry, biting my lip. Resistance may be futile, but I have to save some of my dignity. “We can’t do this. I’m working. ”

The burly man shoots me a quick look, like he doesn’t believe me, and hooks my calves over his shoulders, the soft fabric of his dress shirt warm and inviting. One thing I’ve always admired about him, not that I’d ever admit it, is his attire. The man doesn’t go cheap, and it shows in both texture and appearance, all of his shirts and slacks tailor-made to fit his muscled frame, stitched together with expertise that makes me jealous.

I’d kill for that kind of skill.

My breath hitches as he licks my slit from stem to stern, hooking the tip of his tongue over my clit at the last second. He chuckles as my legs seize, then pushes the flat of his palm against my inner thighs, widening my stance as he dips his tongue inside my heat.

I grab the back of his giant, arrogant head and pull him closer, hoping he suffocates while he’s down there.

Yeah, I guess we’re doing this. Again.

I should have said no the first time he showed up at my door. Hell, before then. The very first night we met at that ridiculously-exclusive club, I let him seduce me in the middle of a crowded room. Stupid, I now realize, quivering against his skilled tongue as he works my body into a frenzy. This is the game we play every few days: how quickly can I come on his wicked tongue?

He has to be keeping track with how often he checks the Rolex strapped to his wrist.

With each expert flick of his tongue, shame curls heavy inside my chest, making it harder to breathe. I shouldn’t let him keep touching me like this, here, at my workplace. It’s not right. I’m not some horny teenager working a retail shift—I’m the owner of this boutique. I can’t have men walking in here to tongue-fuck me all hours of the day. People will find out . People will see.

It’s only a matter of time before someone walks in?—

The jingle of bells at the front door makes my stomach drop. Rage is usually good with timing, arriving just after the morning rush when the shop is quiet. But today, he arrived late. It’s too close to the next wave of customers. People will stop to browse the entire street of boutiques and cafes, mine included, any second now.

The bells over the door jingle a second time, and someone clears their throat out on the shop floor.

No, not in any second, right now.

Panic beats wildly in my chest. “Rage. Stop. There’s a customer?—”

He presses his tongue flat against my clit, swiping with slow, lazy strokes, unhurried in the slightest. I grab his hair and pull —he grunts, spreading my thighs wider apart to slip two thick fingers inside my molten core.

I gasp in a breath and screw my eyes shut as he works me slow and steady, curling his fingers to tease an orgasm from me one stroke at a time. I come just as slowly as he works my body. A ripple of pleasure pulses from my core to my limbs, leaving me boneless and sex-drunk as he pulls back to stare at me.

Licking my desire from his knuckles, he hums happily. “You taste like honey, krosotka. Sticky and sweet.”

My face burns. The problem isn’t just Rage—it’s his brothers, too. The three of them have been paying me visits throughout the day, each one with their own MO. Rage likes to taste me. Rebel likes to touch me. Ruin likes to watch me. It’s only been two weeks, and they’re already tearing down the structure and routine I’ve carefully crafted in my life and creating space for themselves to fit.

I used to be civilized. I’d have sex at home, in bed, instead of wherever the hell the mood strikes. I’d be able to look my partner in the eyes and hold love in my heart while we made love —but nothing about these men is loving.

They take what they want, when they want.

The only blessing is that they take turns. Rage is a morning man, appearing while I’m at work and disappearing within an hour. Rebel likes to appear in the evenings, drinking my best coffee or lounging on my couch by the time I make it home. But Ruin is the true wild card—I never know where or when he’ll strike. His brothers, I can predict pretty well. Ruin is another story entirely, appearing out of thin air at all hours of the day, demanding that I touch myself… while he watches.

Sometimes, in the moments before sunrise when I’m finally alone, I tell myself that it’s all one crazy dream. That I’m still Celia Monrovia, a loveless, sexless divorcée who puts on a pretty smile while her heart secretly cracks into sharp little pieces .

But then our new routine starts all over again, and Rage reminds me that this impossible situation is very real and very dirty .

I take a deep breath as I come back into my body. That’s Rage’s cue to help me up. He puts me back on my feet and straightens my skirt, as though that makes me modest again.

There’s nothing modest about what we just did. What we keep doing.

Clearing my throat, I adjust my hair clip in the mirror. “You should leave. There are customers waiting.” I nod towards the back exit, determined not to look directly at him. I might combust from the lust burning in his gaze. I haven’t reciprocated his oral advances—not even once. He hasn’t asked.

I haven’t offered.

“Don’t do this again, Rage. Not this close to the lunch rush.” I exit the employees only section and return to the sales floor, smiling at three new customers and praying they don’t notice the scent of wet pussy lingering around me.

I move behind the counter to ring up one of the ladies. “Oh, I love this top. Did you see that we carry it in blue? It’s right over here?—”

Her gaze drifts from the garment in my hands to my right, the tiniest gasp passing her lips. Her expression softens immediately, her posture shifting as she pushes out her chest and juts out her hip. She’s older than me by a few years, maybe a decade at most, but when it comes to desire, age doesn’t matter. People have the same tricks and tells when we see something—or someone—we like.

My smile freezes in place, my skin tingling as I imagine Rage running his hands over my body. He might as well be—I can feel his eyes roaming my curves like he didn’t just feel me up two minutes ago. I told him to go out the back door, didn’t I? What the hell is he doing up front?

“Ma’am?” I try to get her attention. “Did you want to see this in blue? It would look great with your skin tone.”

She turns her gaze back to me slowly. “That’s… not necessary. Just ring it up, please.”

As I’m folding the garments into her bag, she slinks toward Rage. I stare at one of the mirrors across the room and catch a side-view of him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a scowl twitching onto his lips as the woman approaches him. He’s probably annoyed that she’s blocking his view.

I’m still wondering why the hell he hasn’t left yet.

I set the brunette’s bag aside while the next customer comes to the counter. While I chat with her and ring up her items, the brunette tries to start small talk with Rage. He doesn’t respond. I’m not even sure he gives her a pitying glance.

That’s how all three of them are—laser-focused on me.

What a fucking blessing.

I roll my eyes before I catch myself, and the customer with me frowns. “Excuse me?”

Shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m—that wasn’t meant for you.” I force a smile. “My brother won’t leave,” I lie, raising my voice to make sure Rage can hear me. We’re in no way related, but I’d rather people think my brother Mikhail pays me regular visits than Mr. Tall, Tattooed, and Temperamental. “He really needs to listen when I tell him that I’m working. ”

The woman glances between the two of us, but I can tell she doesn’t want to get involved. She grabs her bags and heads out the door without another word. The third customer leaves without buying anything.

I wait for the first customer to leave, the brunette with a big smile and bigger tits, but she pulls out a pen from her purse and grabs Rage’s hand, scrawling something on his wrist. Her smile is seriously huge —too much teeth, not enough lip—as she blows across Rage’s wrist to set the ink. I’m pretty sure she grazes his knuckles against her boobs— ugh —before letting go. Then she takes her sweet ass time meandering to the door, fondling racks of clothes and casting furtive glances in Rage’s direction every few seconds.

I glare daggers at her back the entire time, hoping she’ll turn around to see me and get the hint that she’s not welcome back if she’s gonna hit on strangers in the shop, but she doesn’t spare me a single glance.

That’s probably for the best. I’m not on my best behavior today.

Once the door closes behind her, I turn my ire onto the real problem. “Listen, asshole , you can’t just — ” I gasp as Rage closes the distance between us in three long strides. Flinching back, I stumble against the front counter, the words I mean to say sticking in my throat. He slams his palm against the wall beside my ear, the blue ink on his wrist catching my eye. Turning my head, I ignore the heat of his stare and read the message.

Ten numbers, followed by a perfect heart stamp.

I roll my eyes. Of course he’d get her number . Now he can add her pussy to the all-you-can-eat buffet: open for breakfast and dinner.

Rage flexes hard enough that I can see a thick vein pulsing up his forearm. He clips each word between clenched teeth. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Celia.”

I push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. With a huff, I push harder. “Then stop being a fucking man and get off of me. I told you to leave.”

Snatching my wrists, he pins them together over my head. “You also said that I was your brother, you fucking liar.” He exhales hotly, dipping his face into the curve of my neck. His lips brush the shell of my ear. “You think pretending to be my sister will keep me from touching you? Keep me from fucking you?” Shifting his weight, he keeps one hand on my wrists while the other reaches down and fists the bottom of my dress. “Nothing will keep me from you, krosotka , especially not something as weak as a lie. ” He abandons the fabric to shove his hand between my thighs, mirroring how he touched me earlier. The gentleness is gone, replaced with something harsher. Anger? Annoyance? Is he actually upset about this?

I’m the one who has every right to being upset!

My body is still slick from his tongue, making the swirl of his fingers over my clit a smooth glide. He presses down hard, and I cry out as pleasure-pain zings up my spine.

My eyes fly open as he works my body and touches me exactly how I like, rimming my clit instead of pushing against it head-on. I bite my lip to keep from moaning. Panic mixes with pleasure as people continue walking by the front windows, some glancing inside, most walking right on by.

Keep walking , I pray, don’t see me like this.

If anyone catches me getting fingered behind the counter, I’m screwed. This isn’t a franchise I’m running—it’s high-end, personalized, with the prices to match. My clientele can make or break anyone in the city with the right word to the right people. No one can know that I’m fucking around with a man like Rage.

No one.

Nothing about my livelihood or its fragility breaks through Rage’s determination. “Your body sings for me, Beauty, and I’ll play its song any fucking time I please.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to my neck, lacking finesse as he skims me with his teeth. “Now, say thank you.”

My clit pulses with desire as he pinches it between his fingers. “F-for what?”

“For making you come.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms and shake my head. “I’m not coming.” But dear God , do I want to. I can feel it building deep inside, threatening to pull me over the edge.

He pulls back to glare into my eyes, finally letting up on the assault on my clit. We stare at each other for a heartbeat while I try to take back control over my body. Steady my breathing. Stop sweating. Ignore the ache.

When he suddenly arches his fingers and plunges three inside, I keen like a wild animal.

“Yes, you are.”

I’m so wet that he glides inside without any resistance. With a hard press of his palm, he grinds into my clit and knocks the air from my lungs. Pain lances through me. It hurts, yet it feels really good. No part of this should make me even hotter , but somehow Rage lights my body on fire every time we’re near each other. Anger. Desire. Fear. Heart racing, blood pumping, body shaking—all of it, because of Rage.

I think I hate him for it.

His mouth descends over mine, claiming my lips in a kiss that’s hungry. He sinks deeper, all the way down to the knuckle, not shy about fondling me in public. With a groan, he forces his tongue past my lips on his conquest to victory—the finish line in sight. My body trembles as I near my breaking point, and he knows it.

Rage breaks the kiss to growl harshly in my ear, sounding as ragged and raw as I feel. “You want my cock, don’t you, Beauty? Say it. Say that you want me to fuck you right here, right now, for all your fucking customers to see.”

That’s the thing he doesn’t understand. Here in the waking world, I’m not the mystery woman from the club. I don’t have on a mask, and I don’t go by the name Beauty. He’s mixing the two women up and claiming both in the process.

But Celia Monrovia isn’t his. She’s mine.

I sharpen my resolve to a fine point, wielding it like a spear that I can plunge straight into his heart. “Fuck you,” I hiss, finally mustering the strength to break free from his grasp. I dig my nails into his neck and shove, but he still doesn’t move, groaning like he likes it—like I’m fisting his cock instead of scoring the fine tips of my manicure into his throat. “I don’t want you or your cock.”

The problem is that he hasn’t stopped—his fingers are buried deep inside of me, determined to wring an orgasm from my body. He touches me however he pleases, thinking that I enjoy it.

The sick part is, I kind of do.

My knees buckle as he keeps going, curling his fingers in my heat, feeling how fucking drenched I am, both of us hearing it loud and clear as his movements build into a rhythm— plunge, curl, retreat.

A whimper catches in my throat, burning as much as the liquid heat inside me, both of them threatening to break free. I’m close— so fucking close— and I fight to keep it locked up tight. I don’t want to give him another piece of me, no matter how small.

He doesn’t deserve it.

Rage’s onyx eyes burn with equal parts fury and desire as I delay the inevitable. “You might lie to yourself, Celia Monrovia, but your body tells the truth. You want me. You want my brothers. You want all of us. ” His shoulder dips as he shifts the angle of his wrist, shoving the three fingers deeper, grunting as he hits something delicious. My breaths come out as these tiny puffs of air, and when he flicks his fingertips faster, hitting that perfect spot that makes me see stars, I cry out, my body seizing as the dam breaks. White hot everything tears through my body, too much, too fast, too overwhelming, consuming more than I’ve ever felt before, more than I’ve thought possible.

I hate how he makes me feel so… helpless.

“That’s it, beautiful, come all over my fingers.” He wraps his other hand around my throat and brushes his thumb over my pulse point, staring deeply into my eyes as tremors pulse through my body, his pupils blown so wide that all I see are endless pools of black.

If I believed in eternity, this is where I would find it—no end, no beginning, just floating in a moonless sea of shadows without a single guiding star to light my way home.

When he suddenly removes his fingers from my core, I cry out from the loss, my hips chasing his retreat. Embarrassment flares in my chest at the visceral reaction, my neck flushing pink as he admires his glistening fingers in the light. His smile curves, all harsh lines and sex appeal, as he sucks them into his mouth one by one, cleaning the mess— my mess —from his fingers.

The phone number on his wrist is smeared, illegible now that the ink has rubbed off on my thighs. He licks that too, catching a trail of my desire that slipped past his wrist, removing the other woman’s mark almost entirely. All that’s left is the fuzzy outline of the heart.

A tendril of something cool and soothing curls inside my chest until he swallows , groaning like a man on the verge of coming. I watch his Adam’s apple bob, my mouth falling open as he smirks and licks his shiny lips. Wanton need courses through my veins, burning away my resolve not to enjoy this one heartbeat at a time. That’s another thing about Rage—some primal part of me recognizes the primal parts of him, making it easy to overlook the strings attached to every kiss, every touch, every taste.

Nothing with this man is freely given. My mind understands that, but my body has yet to catch up.

The bells over the door jingle, but even then, he doesn’t tear his gaze away. “You want me.” His dark eyes flash silver as he brushes the pad of his thumb across the seam of my lips, smearing what little remains of his spit and my arousal, then pressing harder, seeking entrance. “The proof is right here. Taste how much you want me, krosotka .”

I jerk my head away. “No.”

Rage’s nostrils flare and he descends on me again, gripping my chin to turn my face back toward his. “You don’t get to tell me no.”

There isn’t much I can hear over my hammering heart, but I’d recognize the click of a gun cocking anywhere. “Get your fucking hands off her.”

Rage bears down on me for one more intense second before lifting his gaze to look at whoever’s got the gun. Whatever he sees pisses him off even more than I did. “Point that thing somewhere else,” he growls, “before I smash your pretty boy brains all over the floor.”

I can hear the exasperation in the man’s voice— my brother’s voice , I realize—as he chuffs. “You’d be dead before you could get close enough.”

Rage body-blocks me from my brother, effectively cutting me off from the conversation. More importantly, from the path of the bullet. My brother wouldn’t shoot me—but he sure as hell would shoot a man touching me without my consent. If Mikhail has been watching, I’m not sure what he would have seen: a woman being given all the attention she wants, or someone being forced to like it?

The way adrenaline buzzes through my body makes the truth fuzzy. I don’t know which is true.

I run a hand through my tousled hair. “Settle down, boys. I’m fine .”

Neither of them moves. It’s like I hadn’t even spoken.

“Mikhail—” I peer around Rage’s bulging bicep to look at my brother… and immediately regret it. His eyes are narrowed into slits—at Rage, yes, but also at me. He turns his steely gaze on me in a heartbeat, the scowl on his lips carved so deep that he looks ten, twenty years older.

Like our father.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. The resemblance is striking. Our father was many things before he died, and unhappy is only the tip of a very deep, depressing iceberg.

I can’t be the reason my brother is unhappy. I can’t.

But it isn’t really my fault, is it?

Rage is clearly the problem. Like my brother, he doesn’t do well with hiding his emotions. I see them flicker across his features, the clear, murderous intent snapping into place in an instant. I have no doubt that Rage would kill any man who gets in his way of claiming me—my brother included.

But Mikhail would kill for me just as quickly.

The tension in the room rebuilds, only this time it’s between Rage and Mikhail. Moving through it is like like treading through water, each small step becoming a fight. Against my better judgement. Against my brother. Against all sense and sanity.

When I take Rage’s hand, the clench of his jaw eases, but he keeps his gaze glued to the gun. “Hey,” I murmur, gentle with my movements, my words. “It’s okay. It’s my brother. He won’t hurt me.”

Mikhail makes this sound, something between a whine and a warning. “ Celia , I swear to God, get over here!”

That’s what I should do. Retreat. It’s what I’ve wanted ever since Rage walked onto the shop floor instead of out the back door—distance. Space to breathe. Time to think.

I have none of those things whenever Rage is around, and my brother’s presence doesn’t change that. Mikhail won’t shoot with me while I’m standing so close to Rage. He’s not as good of a shot as he claims, preferring knives as his weapon of choice, and it’s in close-quarters like this when it becomes most apparent.

He won’t shoot until I’m far enough away for the bullet to clear me.

I glance up at Mikhail. This is the first time I’ve seen him in weeks. I don’t linger, because one look at the fury in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: despite coming to my rescue today, he’s still pissed at me for ignoring him over the past few weeks.

Well, I’m still furious, too.

I feel the anger like a second heartbeat all the way from my head to my toes. It pulses through me like lava, making me feel violated from within. I don’t normally get angry like this but when your brother and his mafia buddies hold a wedding party hostage and terrorize the guests for hours of ruthless interrogations, you get a little frustrated.

For the first time in my life, that anger and frustration overpowers all other emotions. I might be annoyed with Rage’s persistence in making me his, but I’m furious with Mikhail for acting like what he did on his wedding day was okay.

When our eyes meet, I see my own staring back at me. Being twins means that we share a lot of physical traits, from our chestnut brown hair to the same tip to our noses. But in this, we will always differ.

I will never agree with being part of the bratva if it means terrorizing innocent people, regardless of the why .

“Go home, Mikhail.”

He freezes, the hard line of his mouth pressing tighter, nearly disappearing altogether. “He’s bothering you, Celia.”

I know that Mikhail coming to my rescue is likely some kind of divine intervention. A sign from God that Rage is just as bad as I think he is—that I should walk away right here, right now, and let my brother splatter his brains all over my boutique. I would finally escape his eyes—his tongue—his wicked claim over my heart.

However.

What my brother doesn’t know is that Rage isn’t one man—he’s a package deal. There are three of them itching to get inside me, and if Mikhail shoots Rage today, he’ll have two more psychopaths to contend with.

As pissed I am at Mikhail, I’d rather he not die at my expense.

“I can handle this. Go home to Valentina.”

It’s no secret that the bratva’s Queen is finally home where she belongs after her unexpected disappearance—I’ve heard whispers of her return throughout the shop as gossip trades hands over shifting hangers and clutched handbags. Mikhail should be with her right now, not with me.

Mikhail finally shifts his gaze, looking between me and Rage. “I’ll go when he goes,” he says gruffly, “not a moment before.” His warm brown eyes pierce mine, screaming I’m not leaving you alone with this asshole.

For that, I am grateful.

When I turn back to Rage, he’s not staring at the gun anymore. There’s the slightest curve to his lips, a confident smirk in place that makes another kind of heat rush through me. My face warms all over again as he reaches up to touch the pink flush blooming across my cheeks.

I cringe away from his touch, my lips twisting into a grimace. “Don’t read into this.” The words rush out as one long string of syllables. “I don’t want your blood all over my floor.”

“Mhm.” Rage’s grip tightens as he holds me steady and ducks his head toward mine. “I think you just chose me, krosotka ,” he rumbles, the tips of our noses brushing, “and that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” He devours my mouth in a searing kiss, one that steals the breath from my lungs. His tongue slips between my lips, and I can taste it—the desire he took from me, spilling back inside my mouth. He groans, suddenly pulling my hand to his crotch to feel the thick outline of his cock, hard and hot and eager, and he cups my palm around his length, forcing me to touch him, to feel him , to acknowledge how much he wants me, even now, with a gun aimed at his head.

Mikhail curses behind us. “For fuck’s sake, man, get the hell off of her!”

I pull away first, not wanting to linger on the hummingbird flutter of my heart or the way his hard length feels rocking into my palm. Jesus , the heat of him is gonna imprint on my brain.

Thankfully, Rage decides to play nice. He chuckles and presses a hard kiss to my forehead. “Don’t worry, I’m fully loaded for you anytime, anyplace.” He winks as he saunters away, clapping Mikhail on the shoulder as he walks past him to the exit. “Good to see you, brother.”

Mikhail’s face twists. “I am not your brother.”

The bells over the door jingle as Rage leaves, but I don’t miss the way he hovers outside, watching me through the massive front windows.

My brother glares at me, tapping the butt of his gun against his thigh in short, jerky bursts. “You have the worst taste in men.” He glares out the window at Rage. “Do you need me to take care of him?”

The light, fluttering feeling in my chest deflates instantly, my hands balling into fists. I’m not ready to admit that Rage makes me feel good—physically, at least—but the crash back to reality hits hard, like a sledgehammer to the gut. Bile rises in the back of my throat, and when I look at my brother, I see him for what he is.

He’s no longer only Mikhail Monrovia, the man who has kept our family safe since Dad died, but one of the bratva’s vors , a captain willing to get his hands dirty to keep me safe, even now, a decade later.

He would kill a man like it’s barely worth the time it takes to consider doing it. That’s who he is now. Bratva-made, like most of the men in this city.

I’m pretty sure he’s only asking because he knows that if he kills Rage without my consent, I’ll never forgive him.

The weight of it all crushes me. “No.” I shake my head. I don’t want any more death, not even for a man like Rage, but I don’t dare tell my brother that. I don’t want to pick a fight, not after the insane highs and lows over the past hour. My heart can only handle so much. “I’ll take care of him.”

Mikhail doesn’t buy it, but at least he doesn’t argue. “Fine. But Celia?” He tucks his gun into a holster hidden beneath his suit jacket. “Grow up and stop ignoring me.” His eyes narrow, a lock of his chestnut hair falling across his forehead. “You’re bratva whether you like it or not. You can’t wish it away on some shooting fucking star.” Thrusting his hand out toward Rage, still lingering outside, he huffs. “Case in point. Do you know who he is? Really know? Because he’s not the kind of guy I thought I’d find you trading spit with.”

I don’t know specifics. Rage doesn’t really talk so much as he takes. But I don’t want Mikhail to spoon-feed me information about my latest hookup. “I told you, I’ll handle it.” It’s no secret that Rage, Rebel, and Ruin are bratva—I see it in their tattoos, in the way the world bends to their will, the fine lines of their muscles, honed into weapons. It means that I made a huge mistake dancing with them at the club two weeks ago, but I couldn’t help it.

For the first time in years, someone wanted me.

My brother wouldn’t understand how, at that exact moment, nothing else mattered.