4. Celia
Chapter 4
Celia
The last thing I’m expecting at the stroke of midnight is for a limo to idle on the street in front of my house. It sits there for an entire minute, the exhaust curling in the air, bright headlights beaming down the empty lane. I stare at it from my front window for a long time, knowing that it’s lost. It has to be on the wrong street. At the wrong house. On the wrong planet.
Because there’s no way in hell that a limo is picking me up for a scandalous night at a sex club.
But then the back door opens and a man pops out. Not just any man, but a huge one. Despite the chilly winter air, he’s wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, as unbothered by the cold as a bear preparing for hibernation. A tuft of dark chest hair peeks out the collar of his shirt, and when his gaze lands on me—or more likely, the house—I imagine sharp canines and glowing orange eyes to complete the look. It only takes him one second to make a decision, suddenly pushing himself up the arched driveway that meets my front walkway, then up the three tiny porch steps that meet my front door. He disappears from view as he knocks on the door.
I stand motionless at the window, because umm— what the fuck?
“Celia Monrovia,” the man rumbles, his voice deep enough that my breath catches, “I know you’re in there.”
My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. This must be what hyperventilating feels like. My body starts to shake, and my breaths turn into these tiny little puffs of air. “I need?—”
The man pounds his fist against the door, and I picture those bright, orange eyes flashing.
“—a minute!”
“We don’t have a minute, princess,” the stranger growls. “We’re late.”
Drawing up every ounce of strength I have, I force my feet to move toward the door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I pop it open and the man shoves it open wider with the flat of his palm. His eyes lock onto my dress first—a jet black, lacy number that dips low in the front and the back—and his scowl, already cutting across his face, somehow digs deeper . “You’re wearing that ?”
A flash of hot embarrassment whips inside my chest. I bought this dress after my divorce finalized—something sultry and seductive and new. The opposite of what I used to wear. “What’s wrong with my dress?” I brush my palms down the sides, fingering the high slit up my thigh. My heartbeat throbs under the bear’s intense stare.
Not orange eyes like I imagined—but a deep, mahogany brown.
“Are my panties showing?” I didn’t actually check if they were visible. Carefully, I spin in a tight circle and let the skirt swish around my legs, the click of my heels helping settle my nerves.
If there’s one thing I understand in life, it’s fashion. The way a dress hugs a woman’s body should be intimate, and I tailored this dress to perfection the moment I bought it, spending hours earlier this afternoon adjusting those alterations now that I’ve gone up a few sizes since the divorce. My boobs are bigger, my hips wider, my thighs thicker. I had to undo the cinches I originally made in the waistline, and I was self-conscious about it with each pull of the needle.
But you know what?
I still look damn good.
It’s enough to make me laugh, full and bitter, as I shake my hair loose from the bun behind my head. It cascades down my back in a tumble of soft curls that I know look and smell amazing.
After all, looks are what I do for a living, so fuck this guy’s opinion. “I know I look good,” I huff, grabbing my clutch from the side table and shoving it against his chest, “or else your jaw wouldn’t be on the fucking floor.”
Truthfully, his jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth might crack from the pressure, but the remark hits its target. As his neck flushes an angry red and his pulse point throbs obscenely fast, for a split second, it’s almost like Rage is standing in front of me. But that isn’t quite right—this man is taller, broader, with way more muscles and a few years of experience on Rage. Silver hair peppers his temples, and the wrinkles around his mouth are clearly from frowning way too often to be healthy. A scar cuts through both of his lips from top to bottom on the right side, curving around his chin until it tapers off over the bend.
Our eyes meet and although this man isn’t Rage, I can see the resemblance. “Are you Rage’s dad?”
His dark eyes narrow and his glare turns venomous. “Get in the car, princess.”
It’s my turn to glare. “ Princess? ”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me through the door, slamming it shut behind us. I stumble down the steps as he drags me along behind him, walking way too fast for the heels strapped to my feet. I’ll break an ankle at this rate. As we approach the dip of the driveway and the long, arching walk down the hill to the street, I pull him back with all my strength. “Hey, wait?—”
My heel catches and I tumble forward, my heart leaping to my throat.
I haven’t fallen down in years, especially not in heels.
I shut my eyes to brace myself for the impact, but when I don’t feel the stinging pain of concrete scrapes or rattled bones, I pry them back open to find the bear staring back at me.
Storm clouds. A thousand shades of gold rolling into each other, all at once separate but whole. Chaos contained. The buildup before the thunder or the downpour of rain.
A shiver runs down my spine as the stranger breaks our gaze to stare at my feet. No, glare at them. With a grunt, he loops his arm behind my knees and lifts me into the air, holding me tight to his chest as he barrels down my driveway to the limo still idling in wait for us. “We’re late, ” he repeats, even surlier than the first time he said it. He cracks the car door open with one hand and thrusts my body inside head-first, tossing me through the air to the nearest bench seat. The bounce, while not exactly painful, knocks my brain around my skull.
I choke on a scream as my blood boils. “Who the hell do you think you are?” If Rage finds out he handled me like this?—
I nearly scream a second time. There’s no way in hell I’m broaching that subject with an egomaniac like Rage.
The bear-man ducks inside and shuts the door, taking the seat furthest from me before rapping his knuckles on the opaque divider between us and the driver. The limo lurches ahead—I didn’t even know a luxury vehicle could do that—as we peel away from my street and off into the city. Even though I’m not blindfolded for the journey, I might as well be because the windows are blacked out. I can’t see a damned thing. The window controls are useless, too, clicking without actually working.
I’m being treated like a child—a secret love child being ferried from one underground bunker to the next.
“If you’re Rage’s dad, you did a shit job raising him.” I lift my hair from my neck and fan myself, my temper making my body flare hot. “He’s an asshole, but at least now I know where he gets it from.”
The man ignores me, staring at the blacked out windows like he can see the future within his reflection. His jaw tics and he folds his hands in his lap, grasping them tightly together. Scars crisscross his knuckles, tearing through weathered, black and grey tattoos that wrap around his fingers and across the backs of his palms. Definitely older than Rage, but just as angry as him.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You know, he manhandles me like that too.” I rub my wrist where this guy pulled me after him, soothing the aching skin with the pads of my thumbs. “Pushes me around. Puts his hands on my—” I cut myself off from saying ass , but I could say a lot of body parts, and it would all be true.
Rage touches me everywhere.
The sound Rage’s dad makes is a pained, whining twinge in his throat. “Why are you telling me this?”
I shrug one shoulder and tug the hair still bunched in my hands. “You should feel bad that you created a monster.”
Rage’s dad exhales slowly, pulling his eyes away from the window to stare at my outstretched foot. The strap of one of my heels broke in the struggle down the driveway, its buckle useless now. I dig the heel into the floor and pry it off my foot, kicking it across the limo. It clunks against the leather seat and bounces back to the floor.
Slowly, the man lifts his gaze inch by inch up my body, starting with the burgundy polish on my toes, over the curve of my calf, up the length of my newly-shaved thigh, to the spot where my skin meets the hem of my dress. His gaze lingers there while his lips move. “I’m not Rage’s father.”
My cheeks flush, the unwelcome lump in my throat making it hard to swallow. “Oh.”
He stares at my thigh for another heartbeat before reaching for a compartment in the base of his bench seat, next to where he’s seated. After a moment of rustling through whatever’s inside the secret compartment, he pulls out a pair of heels strapped together. They’re identical to mine—black, low to the ground—but with a slightly thinner heel. The arch of the shoe still holds that layer of gloss that screams new , the designer’s metallic gold logo glinting in the light. Brand fucking new. He unclasps them from each other and sets one on the bench beside him. “But you’re right.” The golden storm in his eyes turns dark. “Rage’s dad is a bastard. That, unfortunately, passed to all of his sons.” He exhales heavily, his gaze returning to my bare foot. “Lift your foot.” Patting his thigh—his very thick thigh—he invites me to set it down on top of him.
I shouldn’t give this stranger any part of me.
But I hold my foot over his thigh anyway, and he gently sweeps the heel into place and clasps three tiny, bright red buckles. They stand out against the black but go well with my polish, and when I straighten my foot to admire the look of them together, I catch the red sole of the shoe.
Expensive heels.
That, I can appreciate.
We follow the same motions with my other foot, but before he clasps the heel in place a second time, he thumbs the arch of my foot in a way that makes my eyes roll back, a moan building in my chest. I twitch against his hold and bite my lip as he does it again. His hands are rough against my skin, calloused from years of use doing God knows what, but holy shit , do I so not care.
He’s giving my pedicurist a run for her money.
The scar on his lips pulls as they twitch, but as soon as I think he’s going to crack a smile, he shuts it down. Dropping my foot without bothering to clasp the final strap, he glares—first at my foot, then burning a trail up my body, his scowl deepening with each passing second.
I clasp the damn strap myself. “What’s your problem?”
His glare snaps up to my face. He chews on his response for a few seconds before choosing to ignore my question and pulls something from his back pocket. Tossing it my direction, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns his icy stare out the window.
I lift the strip of fabric and roll my eyes.
It’s a fucking blindfold.
“I’m not putting this on.” I mirror his posture, crossing my arms over my chest.
He clenches his jaw. “Put it on.”
“No.”
Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t put that on, I can’t take you inside. You know the rules.”
The rules state that I’m supposed to be transported with my eyes covered and wrists bound the entire time. A limo ride and personal pick up, no matter how surly the escort, is definitely beyond the realm of normal procedure . “I think we’re a little past the rules, don’t you?”
“Some rules can be bent. Not this one. Put the blindfold on, Celia.”
I wind the fabric around my fingers. “What happens if I don’t?”
A muscle in his jaw tics. “Then you’ll find out how well I can tie knots.” He glances over at me. “Because I won’t be bending any of the rules.”
My grumpy chauffeur disappears as soon as he ushers me inside the club. He pulls the blindfold from my eyes with a snap of his wrist then disappears into the crowd, blending in easily with all of the other well-dressed guests. After anticipating seeing Rage again, I’m expecting him to be waiting for me the moment I step out of the limo.
In the end, I’m left completely alone—but that’s exactly what I want.
I need time to enact my plan for the night.
Shaking off what happened in the limo is easy the moment I take my first step into the room. The heels are sublime. I’ll admit it. They fit like a glove and have just enough cushion that I know I won’t blister by the end of the night, no matter how new they are, and I can tell by the glances I’m getting that they’re doing their job.
I’m drop-dead gorgeous in these fucking things.
I smile at whoever glances in my direction before realizing that I need to be selective. I don’t want just anyone’s attention—I need an alpha. Someone who threatens Rage’s self-proclaimed authority over me. But most importantly, it needs to be someone who simply isn’t him .
I keep an eye out as I wander the room, familiarizing myself with not only the landscape, but the people as well. Part of me looks for my best friend Lilith, hoping for an anchor to keep me steady throughout the night, but deep down, I know that if I find her, I’ll have to steer clear. She has more questions than answers about how Rage and Rebel tag-teamed me in the middle of this very room at the last event, and I don’t want to give her more fuel for her inevitable interrogation.
No, I can’t cling to what’s familiar and safe tonight. I need to be daring. I need to not only step out of my comfort zone, but leap way the hell over the line.
A stranger notices me from the side of the room, but I quickly turn away. I need to be the one taking initiative. I need to pick someone— anyone —that fits the agenda.
Someone who not only makes Rage mad, but really pisses him the hell off. Someone who threatens Rage’s masculinity by simply existing.
I spin around to head back toward the bar when I stumble into someone, their cologne instantly washing over me. It’s a deep, woodsy scent—not too much alcohol, not too in-your-face, but just the right kind of scent that screams decent money.
One glance at his chiseled jawline and a quick squeeze of his bicep seals the deal. He’s the one.
I fake stumbling into him, square against his chest. “Oh! I’m so sorry.” I put on a small smile as he catches me, his hands falling to my waist. Bingo. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Lost in the lights, and all.” I wind my fingers around the collar of his shirt and pull myself up, tugging him down closer to me at the same time. The crisp, white dress shirt with the first three—no, four—buttons undone, and an exposed triangle of tanned skin that begs to be touched makes this seduction even easier. He wants to be noticed. “Thank you for saving me.”
The surprise on his face quickly melts into charm. “It’s my pleasure, beautiful. Are you new here? It can be a lot to take in your first time.”
I’m not new, exactly, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“It’s my first time,” I lie, biting my bottom lip. “I’m a little nervous.”
His hand wraps around mine and pulls it to his lips. I pray he gets a big whiff of my perfume—I put on a special pheromone blend for the night. If I can dance with this man, maybe kiss him a little, then Rage, Rebel, and Ruin can get an eyeful of what Beauty looks like when she’s not theirs to torment.
“Maybe I can help with that. Would you like to join me for the night? I can show you around, give you a tour.”
“That would be wonderful! Your date won’t mind?”
Doesn’t hurt to check if I have competition for his attention.
He shakes his head. “I’m all yours tonight. What’s your name?”
I introduce myself as Beauty, while he tells me his name is Goliath.
My laugh is genuine. “I can’t imagine what they were thinking, giving you that codename. I’m sure you know how the story goes. Goliath was taken out by a single stone. You don’t seem like you’d go down so easily.”
The curve to his lips mirrors the glint in his eye. A hint of wickedness that somehow feels like a promise. “Trust me, whoever decides the names for these events does their homework. I haven’t met a single person whose name didn’t fit.” He inclines his head toward me. “Yours is spot on, gorgeous.”
My chest tightens, my smile following suit. I know what he sees—I’m good at dolling myself up. I always have been. Perfect, silky hair flowing past my shoulders, the glint of diamonds catching in the light and bringing the eye to the tip of my cleavage. Long legs, high cheekbones, warm brown eyes highlighted with a stripe of glitter and smoke with a killer winged eyeliner—I’m a fucking package. I always have been, truth be told. I’m used to being beautiful.
I used to believe it, too, but now I’m not so sure.
The things we put on display can’t all be truths. Lies are woven throughout every image, every persona, because the truth is often much uglier that we ever want to admit.
Goliath gives me a charming smile that, once upon a time, would have made my knees go weak. But now, I see it for what it is: another front, another lie. I understand it, because when I smile back, I’m doing the exact same.
Playing the game.
“Let’s get you a drink.” He leads me to the bar, where he downs a bourbon in record time, and I have a straight shot of vodka. His eyebrows shoot up when he sees me take the shot without flinching.
I have two more before the alcohol really kicks in.
“You’re good at that.”
Embarrassment makes me blush. “I’m Russian,” I explain, “vodka’s like water to us.”
“Russian, huh? I’d started to think that there were only Russian men in the city. I’ve yet to meet a Russian woman since I moved here.”
“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”
He licks his lips, crystal blue eyes traveling down my body. “Maybe I found the best one.”
Warmth pools in my belly, but it’s the alcohol talking, not Goliath. Drinking while on a mission isn’t the best idea, but neither is hooking up with strangers in a secret club in the first place. I’m 0 for 2 in this place.
“Dance with me?” I slide my palm up Goliath’s forearm. “I won’t trip this time, I promise.”
His hand finds my hip. “Our tour isn’t over. This is just the first stop.”
Impatience pricks my skin like needles. I didn’t want this to take all night. I need Rage to see me having a good time with another man, that’s it. “Can’t it wait? I’d really like to dance.”
Goliath leans closer, even though I can hear him just fine from where he’s standing. “Look around. Do you see many people dancing?”
I glance up and scan the room. Although a few couples and throuples are moving to the beat on the ballroom floor, most of them are flocking to the sets of doors at the left side of the room. The crowd is thinner than the last time I was here, making me feel more vulnerable and exposed than before. Especially because I’m with a stranger.
“What’s over there?” I ask, staring as people disappear into the side rooms. Neon lights shine brightly overhead, including one of those curvy script signs reading The Playroom in hot pink . I have a feeling I know what’s behind those closed doors, but I play dumb. “Is that a show or something?”
“Something like that.”
I like Goliath’s evasive answer even less than the lingering hand on my hip. “Tell me what it is.”
He slips his hand in mine and tugs me away from the bar without paying. “Why don’t I show you instead? If you don’t like it, we can come back out to dance.”
My heartbeat picks up tempo. If Rage, Rebel, and Ruin run this club—which I suspect they do—there’s no telling what’s on the other side of those doors. I’m expecting copious amounts of sex from a name like The Playroom , but it could be anything. A burlesque show, a torture room, group showers, golden showers, you name it. Maybe each night has a different theme.
The notion that any of those boys would be scheduling strip teases and themed group events is damn near hilarious, though.
Determination keeps me glued to Goliath’s side as we cross the room. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention the closer we get to our destination, and a pit in my stomach weighs me down. Heat and fire lick at my heels, spurring me to walk faster, as I realize how dangerous this really is. Playing with these brothers’ vices, their desires. They won’t take kindly to me playing with another man outside our little foursome.
My heart races as the back of my neck tingles. It’s just a feeling of unease, like the churn of my stomach, but now more than ever I feel that I’m being watched.
As Goliath and I reach the doors to the Playroom, I can hear someone approaching from behind— fast . Heavy footfalls thud across the hardwood, making me flinch before I can catch myself. If Goliath notices, he doesn’t react, reaching for the door handle to usher us inside.
He never makes it.
Strong arms wrap around my waist and pull me back, out of Goliath’s grip. Rage’s voice rumbles in my ear, low enough that only I can hear. “Find something you like, Beauty?” He palms my stomach greedily, twisting the soft fabric of my dress against his hands, before raising his palm to cup my breast. Squeezing, he exhales hot against my neck. “You look fucking gorgeous, and instead of wrapping that tight little body on my arm, I find you with—” he breaks off with a snarl—“ someone fucking else. ”
His body shakes with anger, his hands rough as he feels me up. My breath catches as he kneads pain into my muscle and bone, one hand crushing my hip, the other slipping past the deep V of my neckline to palm my naked tit. Heat blossoms deep within me, and I recoil from the sensation, from the way he makes me feel.
Tight. Hot. Aching.
Goliath turns then, his face pure surprise as he realizes I’m no longer standing beside him. His smile freezes on his face as his gaze lands on me, then on Rage, and finally on the two of us together . “Excuse me,” he snaps, voice turning cold in an instant, “that’s my date.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat at the thought of another man claiming me so easily. I suppose it’s my fault—I’m the one who led him on. But still , I’m not some shiny toy to pass around and shove your dick into when you get bored. Anger flares inside my chest, but it gets caught in my throat as I choke on a needy, pained whine, Rage’s knuckles pinching my nipple hard. Stars dance in the corners of my eyes, and I have to grab Rage’s arm banded around my stomach to stay upright.
The sharp points of Rage’s teeth scrape against the side of my throat. “Yours? Because she feels like mine. ” He growls, something deep and menacing unlocking inside his chest.
Goliath visibly pales. “Hey, man, my bad. I didn’t know she already had someone.”
Rage barks a laugh, making me flinch. “Oh, she has someone. Three someones, actually. But right now, she’s mine and mine alone, and you fucking touched her. ” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “In my club. On my floor.” His grip tightens, and I cry out at the force of it. Sharp pain drills down into my hip and shoots into my chest, both of his hands squeezing. At the sound, presses a kiss to my temple but doesn’t lighten his grip.
I know I’ll have bruises the exact size and shape of his hands.
Goliath looks over our shoulders, his throat clicking as he swallows. “I, um, I didn’t mean—I’m gonna go,” he says lamely, already sidestepping away from us. But he only takes one step before Rage lunges for him, shoving me against another hard body as he slams his fist into Goliath’s face.
A scream catches in my throat, my heart pumping on overdrive.
“Easy there, beautiful,” a voice purrs in my ear. A new set of arms wrap around my waist, but this man is at ease behind me, locking me in without the show of force Rage used. He hums as he holds me, kissing the hickey on my neck from yesterday. “Missed you today.”
My body trembles with a rush of relief. Rebel. The most sane one of them all. I grab his hand and hold on tight, unable to tear my gaze away from the way Rage’s body moves. The muscles in his shoulders ripple as he throws Goliath to the ground. The muscles in his forearms are flexed, his fists tight, as he stomps on Goliath’s leg to keep him from scrambling away.
While Rage’s victim howls in pain, Rebel chuckles in my ear.
“Buckle up, baby. Rage is gonna fight for every—” Rebel kisses my neck—“last—” slides his warm hand inside the slit on my skirt—“inch—” and pants in my ear— “of you.”
A moan falls from my lips as Rebel slips his fingers inside my panties, but it’s not his touch that I’m focused on.
It’s Rage. The roar of his anger touches mine, breathing new life into my body, making my blood warm and my heart race. I was already strung out on nerves and adrenaline, but this —this is something different, something more primal, something more dangerous.
Because while I should be revolted by how Rage touches me like he owns me, it’s the way he moves with such conviction and confidence as he beats the shit out of someone who touched me that reaches the deepest scars around my heart and squeezes.
This isn’t a man staking his claim for all the world to witness.
It’s the promise of him keeping it.