15. Celia
Chapter 15
Celia
I toss and turn all night long, my body fluctuating between too hot and too cold at the flip of a coin. I picture a golden dollar spinning on its edge, flicking between the two opposites in flashes of muted gold. I count its rotations, thinking it will help me sleep. Hot. Cold. One. Two. Three. Four. Hot again. Shivering. Sweating.
With a groan, I switch on my bedside lamp and sit up against the padded headboard. If I stare long enough at the doorway, the shadows bleed into shapes. I picture someone walking through, stepping into the light and taking true form.
But I can’t tell who it is. Huge and muscled like Rage? Lean and long like Rebel? Or a bit of both, striding into the room with the grace of a panther, the eyes of a predator glowing behind his mask.
I don’t know which is worse: knowing that I keep thinking about them, or wondering if I want to.
Even their ghosts help block out the hollowed loneliness rattling through the house. It’s a skeleton of my former marriage—and all the promises that came with it.
We were supposed to have children within our first year of marriage. Ted promised me that if I quit working, he would provide all I needed to be happy. The money came easily. The friends flowed like wine. But family? The one thing I really wanted?
It never came.
I wrap my arms around myself and stare into the darkened hallway until the sun begins to rise. The shadows lift from the deepest blacks to midnight blues, the promise of tomorrow turning everything into a fuzzy gray.
Even the daylight looks depressed today.
Skipping my morning shower, I shove my feet into my slippers and pad down the stairs. My eyes catch on the empty wine glass in the living room. The throw blanket still piled on the swivel chair. The sunlight suddenly shifting to a harsh pink, painting the room in an eerie, blood-red glow. I stare at the pillows hiding my phone.
Did they text me all night?
Were they annoyed that I didn’t answer?
Biting my lip, I drift from the living room to the kitchen. The bottle of vodka on the counter absorbs the rusted sunlight, turning its contents a bitter orange. I unscrew the top and pour what little remains down the sink, crinkling my nose at the sudden waft of alcohol this early in the morning.
I think I’ll skip breakfast.
My gaze lingers on the empty bottle, the white label peeling at its edge. How many of these have I seen? Just as empty. Just as bitter. Without thinking, I snatch the bottle by its neck and fling it to the ground, shrieking as it shatters. Shards of glass skitter past my feet, but I’m already climbing onto the countertop and reaching for the cabinet over the fridge.
Rebel has raided this cabinet numerous times, but there are still bottles shoved all the way to the back. All of them are open, their labels peeling from age. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach the furthest one, but I drag them all out and toss them to the floor.
The crash echoes through the empty house. Goosebumps rush down my arms. The vodka spills across the tile floor from one square to the next, flowing like rivers of rust, turning yellow with the sunrise.
Once morning breaks, everything turns clear again. The broken bottles sparkle. The trickle of spilt alcohol slows to a stop, looking as innocent as water. The light loses its color, fading back to its normal, crisp white.
I feel like I can breathe again.
Careful to avoid stepping on glass, I swing into the pantry to grab the broom and start sweeping. Then comes the mop. I lose myself in cleaning, the first hour of the day slipping past. Then the second. There’s a familiarity to it that’s comforting. Cleaning up after parties became a chore I enjoyed. It kept my hands busy and my mind occupied.
Most of all, it kept my husband locked in his office all morning. He offered to hire someone to handle it, but never followed though. Truthfully, I’m grateful. It kept me distracted enough to ignore how often his secretary came by to review the week’s progress.
As I carry the bag of broken things to the trash can by the street, something red in the front window catches my eye. At first, I think that Rebel left one of his beanies in the house, but as I walk back up the driveway, something glitters in the light beneath it.
I walk up to the window and stare into my dining room. Sitting in the center of the table is the largest bundle of red roses I’ve ever seen, arranged inside a spiraling crystal vase.
Not a forgotten hat.
A gift.
I look around my front yard, half expecting one of the brothers to be standing behind me. That would be just like them—watching me work all morning without lifting a finger to help, all because they’re itching for me to notice the real gift they’ve left out for me.
Rolling my eyes, I walk through the kitchen to the dining room. The scent of roses hits me like a freight train. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it when I first came downstairs, but after trashing those bottles in the kitchen, the harsh burn of alcohol in my nose could have blocked out everything else. When did they drop this off?
Was it after our group text?
Nerves skitter down my arms, but I lift my hand to rub a soft petal between my fingers. It comes loose, floating down to the table.
Flowers are supposed to be romantic, but it’s the vase that really piques my interest. It’s clearly antique, heavy , with a solid base and a wide lip. The spirals are short and jagged, each one only an inch or two long, like the artist wanted to create something for flair instead of function. The points dig into my palms as I left the vase and carry it into my office. Once I’ve arranged both the vase and its bouquet perfectly, I step back to admire them.
Two dozen roses, at least. I stop counting after the first sixteen. “Who dropped you off, hm?” The better question is why.
They don’t answer, of course, but I talk to them anyway. It fills the silence and drowns out the numbness creeping in.
My ex-husband used to bring me flowers like these after he’d thrown a fit the night before. It was a stupid gesture—flowers can’t fix a failing marriage—but they made pretending easier. People used to comment on how pretty they were. I’d smile and say, Ted got them for me!
I don’t think I actually like flowers anymore.
A card sticks out from the back of the bouquet. I stare at it for an entire minute before tearing it open, ripping the crease on accident.
for a special girl
I purse my lips and tap the card against my palm. “Well, that could be anyone.” I open the card again and notice black smudges around the corners— fingerprints. Mine? Frowning, I drop the card and turn over my hands to inspect my palms. Soot stains my fingers and dusts my hands. I just cleaned, too. Was there dirt on the trash can? The door handle? I stare at the card, then at the ash powdering the table around it.
No, around the vase.
Lifting my hand to my nose, I smell smoke. Running my finger along the edge of the vase, black powder appears. It’s stuck in the grooves, like whoever cleaned the crystal didn’t actually bother cleaning it properly.
Fucking weird.
“Has to be from Ruin.” Who knows what kind of freaky shit he gets up to. He probably stole the vase from someone’s garage. I bet the roses were Rage’s idea. Maybe Rebel dropped it off while I was sleeping.
A true joint effort between them.
The mental image of three walking disasters planning a romantic gesture is funny enough that I laugh . It spills from my chest so brightly that I jump in surprise.
My phone chimes from the other room, and I wipe my hands on my pajamas as I go after it.
I’ve missed seven text messages and two calls. Most are from Mikhail—he probably heard from our mother again—which I promptly ignore, but three are from the group chat.
REBEL:
want breakfast?
RAGE:
Invite me over.
REBEL:
i asked 1st dipshit
My stomach flips with butterflies. It feels silly. I know what these men are capable of. And yet…
They got me flowers.
Meet me at 75th? I need a shower.
and coffee
REBEL:
i got u baby
RAGE:
she asked me
REBEL:
your 2 busy
im on the way
RAGE:
I’ll pick you up, Celia. Don’t leave.
REBEL:
send us a pic. I bet ur soaking wet
(wink emoji) ??
The flowers definitely weren’t Rebel’s idea. I’m smiling as I temp the water and get undressed. My phone pings while I scrub my hair, and I reach outside the shower door to grab it.
Rebel sent me a picture in a private chat. I nearly drop my damn phone. “Shit. Holy shit.” He’s lounging in bed shirtless, the colorful tattoos inked across his chest on full display. There are no words, only thick outlines filled with deep greens and blues and reds. I can’t make out the design, so I refocus on his face.
He’s ridiculously handsome when he smiles.
Staring directly at the camera, he takes my breath away. The snakebite in his bottom lip catches the flash from when he took the photo. His hair is messier than usual, both falling into his eyes and sticking out at the same time. From up close, I realize that his irises aren’t gray—they’re hazel, with deep, dark brown roots near the center.
REBEL:
ready 2 see me?
I blush furiously, feeling younger than I have in years. I don’t text people often, and I never, ever send photos unless it’s for a client.
But this time, I make an exception. Snapping a selfie, I giggle as it sends. Three bubbles pulse while Rebel types his reply.
REBEL:
damn baby
gonna give me a (heart emoji) ?? attack with that smile
show me more?
He knows I’m in the shower. I didn’t exactly try to hide it.
REBEL:
ive got more for u 2
Another picture pops into our chat, and this time, I do drop my phone. “Ah!” It lands on the top of my foot, making me hiss. “Shit! Fuck!” I scramble for my phone, but it’s sitting at the bottom of the shower, soaking wet, just like me. The screen is dark. The buttons won’t work. Those texts and pictures are gone forever.
But the sight of Rebel’s dick, flushed red at the tip, his hand gripping the thick shaft, with not one piercing but three glinting in the light, is burned into my mind.
My flush deepens and I swallow hard. I bet a picture doesn’t do him justice. I bet his cock is just as pretty as he is.
And now, he probably thinks I’m ghosting him after seeing his dick.
“Fuck. Me.”
I rush through the rest of my shower, anxious for whatever comes next. Because if I’m being honest with myself…
A breakfast date and a little flirting doesn’t sound bad at all.
It actually sounds good.
Really good.
I get dressed in record time, putting on a racy red pair of panties, a pleated cotton skirt, thick thigh high socks, black leather boots, and a creamy cashmere sweater. I blow dry my hair and throw it into a messy bun on top of my head, framing my face with a few loose waves. My makeup is light, but I’m rushed, and this is breakfast.
It’s not like it’s a real date. Just a casual one.
But if things go well, I might return the favor and show Rebel a little more of myself, too.
A knock echoes down the hall from the front door, and I shove my broken phone into my purse and practically run down the hall. I’m breathless when I pull the door open, a carefree smile on my face, my keys in hand. “I’m ready for that coffee—” The winter chill hits me square in the chest, my smile freezing in place.
Rebel didn’t say he would pick me up.
Rage did.
Our eyes meet and he sucks in a breath, eyes widening. When my smile fades, Rage’s expression goes from pleasantly surprised to closed off in a heartbeat. “Don’t look so excited to see me.” His voice is as gruff as his demeanor as he takes my arm and leads me down the front porch steps.
For the first time since I met the man, he avoids looking at me.
My heart flip-flops between relief and disappointment, each one so startling that I gasp for air. It chills me to the bone, and I wish I’d worn sweatpants and slippers instead. Or a Snuggie. And a hat with those little ear flaps.
Something big enough to swallow me whole so that I disappear altogether.
Because when Rage first laid eyes on me today, he actually looked happy —and I snuffed it out so fast that I don’t even think he realizes he was smiling at all.