17. Celia
Chapter 17
Celia
Rage takes me to an unmarked hole in the wall and expects me to be happy about it. Although the outside walls are cracking and there’s a hint of urine in the air— gross —once we’re inside, modern appliances make the six hundred square foot room look more like a studio apartment. A clean one. There’s a stainless steel fridge and microwave set into a faux granite countertop, an open-shelf used as a basic pantry, and an entire wall taken up by a desk with various medical equipment, bandages, pill bottles and syringes, and a floor to ceiling gun safe. There’s a single door on the far wall, leading to what I can only assume is a bathroom. Whether or not it has a shower is up for debate.
“This is a safe house,” I say numbly, rubbing my arms. I’m not surprised that the bratva has them all over the city, but I’m not sure what Rage and I are doing in one. I glance at the double bed, but the last thing I want to do is lie down.
“Yes, it is.” Rage stands in front of the door, arms crossed, watching me. “You’re safe here.”
I snort. “I wasn’t questioning my safety, thanks.”
His eyebrows pull together. “You’re upset.” A muscle in his jaw tics. “I wanted to get you off the street.”
“Don’t want to be seen with a crying woman?” I shake my head, exhaling hotly. “We could have stayed in your car. You could have taken me home. ”
It takes Rage two long strides to reach me. He cups my face in his warm, calloused hands. I’ve seen these hands break a man’s body. The bruising along Rage’s knuckles has lessened, but the evidence of his power resides in not only the discoloration, but the scars. One jagged cut has scabbed over, more recent than the others, but there are bumps and ridges across his knuckles that show the passage of time, countless beatings recorded only in memory. Were Rage a professional boxer, he’d wrap his hands before every fight. Even MMA fighters, despite a lack of a padded boxing glove, still wrap their hands to protect from fractures and sprains.
Rage uses his body as a weapon—without any thought of protection or longevity. Maybe the fights are always spur-of-the-moment, but I have a feeling that he has plenty of time to choose his targets. Hell, he could fight with guns, knives, any number of weapons—but instead, he uses his fists.
Without a barrier between him and the pain he inflicts, some of it is bound to recoil back into his body. He could be holding countless scars—both on his flesh and within it.
Maybe that’s why he’s so quick to anger. He’s always fighting.
“If I took you home,” he says slowly, midnight eyes searching mine, “you would have been alone until Rebel or Ruin could get to you. I never want you to be alone when you’re like this, Celia.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I’m fine.” The words are tight, high-pitched lies, but I desperately want them to be true. I should be fine. It’s not like I’ve lost a child—Ted and I never conceived. I should be happy to celebrate others’ families.
But there’s this jagged, twisted knot inside my chest that writhes with jealousy any time I see others experiencing the life I want. It’s a cruel twist of fate to be simultaneously overjoyed for someone and drowning in envy every time they walk in the room with their family. Married, unmarried, one child or five—the variances don’t matter. It’s the love I see in the parents’ eyes as they talk about their children, or the way the younger ones rush into their arms after an hour apart.
I want that.
So badly.
Rage can’t possibly understand.
He closes the distance between us and falls into me like we’re sinking in quicksand—slow, deliberate, every ounce of his attention on the spaces where our bodies meet. He tangles a hand in my hair and slants his lips over mine with such tenderness that it tugs on something inside my chest. I fall to pieces in slow motion, the hitch of breath caught in my throat, the silent tears that overflow, the way my body unravels beneath Rage’s touch. There’s no anger in how he undresses me, all of the impatience and greed to claim my body disappearing as quickly as it comes. I watch him battle with it—the need to take washing away beneath the need to feel.
Goosebumps trail down my arms once he lifts my sweater over my head. His hands follow their path, his lips scorching against the column of my throat. I stumble out of my boots while he unzips my skirt, pulling it over my hips with a kiss to my stomach, then to each hip bone. “You are breathtaking,” he rasps, gazing up at me with pure, overwhelming awe. My body flushes with heat that settles deep in my belly, and I gasp as he lifts me easily and lays me down on the mattress.
I don’t feel breathtaking.
I feel exposed at my core, aching to the depths of my soul. Rage isn’t doing this to me—it’s impossible for one person to tear me open so deeply—but I lay bare for him all the same, my worst fears on display. “I can’t do this,” I gasp, pushing myself up onto my elbows. “ We can’t, Rage—I, I can’t. ” Tears threaten to spill, and a sob catches in my chest. “I don’t want to have sex if we can’t have a baby.”
His eyes find mine, their depths molten pools of black. I once imagined that they were twin black holes—all-consuming, terrifying, unending. The way he looks at me makes me believe it, like he wants nothing more than to swallow me whole and trap me in an abyss that only he can reach. A master of his domain, with me as his eternal muse.
He doesn’t speak, pulling at the buttons on his shirt and exposing his chest, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “Eyes on me, krosotka .” Slowly, he pulls the shirt off his back, exposing black and grey tattoos along the edges of his ribs, down the sides of his torso. Among them are patches of rough skin, some stretched pink, others matching his natural skin tone but mottled with definitive scarring. His jaw clenches as he undoes his belt and strips out of his pants, allowing me to see even more scars across the tips of his shoulders as he bends to remove his shoes. Once standing, he climbs onto the bed and nudges my thighs apart to make room for his hips.
We aren’t fully naked, both of us still in our undergarments.
Rage brushes the tears from my cheeks with a sigh that settles into my bones, like he’s the one falling apart. “Everything that I am,” he murmurs against my lips, “is yours.” He grabs my hand and holds it tight against his chest, the beat of his heart strong and steady. “Everything that I can be is already yours.” Rocking his hips into mine, he grinds the hot length of his cock against my center, his eyes burning with a fire that’s immeasurable. “Take it. Take me. Use me. I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever dreamed.” Melting into me, he groans against my lips, one hand cupping my throat while the other hitches my leg over his hips. He grinds deeper, rotating his hips. “Let me give you what you need, krosotka .”
The ache in my chest fizzles like a fire being doused with rain. At first, each of Rage’s kisses—on my lips, down the side of my neck, across every inch of my collarbone—makes the pain hiss and snap as it lashes out to stay alive. When Rage cups my breasts and takes my nipple into his mouth, the fire screams as he douses it with soothing licks of his tongue, the heat still burning but tolerable. He slides my panties down my thighs and nestles between them, glancing up at me before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my slit.
The moan that tears from my chest makes him growl, and he dives in, licking and sucking my clit with a fervor that’s unmatched. No one has ever eaten my pussy like this—not even him. His eyes spark with that all-knowing confidence that drives me crazy, but I can’t hate him for it, not when he’s washing away the gnarled thorns in my chest, breaking them down until the ache subsides.
We could do this.
We could actually have a baby.
Rage smiles up at me while he hooks two fingers inside, rubbing the spot that always makes me come undone. Pleasure zings up my spine, and I clutch the bedsheets as a tremor wracks my body. “That’s it, krosotka , that’s my beautiful girl. You want to come, don’t you?”
I keen in response, grinding my hips onto his fingers.
“I’ll always give you what you want,” Rage groans, mouthing my clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
My body seizes as I come, the room fading into white noise, bright light, and the weight of Rage settling over me. I open my eyes and he’s smiling at me, so beautiful that it hurts. Seeing him so open, every single one of his scars on display, unlocks my heart.
He may be a monster, but he’s the monster promising me every dark part from his world—and all of the light from mine.
“I want a baby,” I plead, nodding my head. “I want a baby, Rage.”
“You want my baby,” he corrects, pulling free from his boxers. His cock bounces against his abdomen before setting over mine. “Say that you want my baby, Celia.”
My heart skips, but it’s beating too fast for my mind to catch up. “I want your baby.”
Rage slots his cock against my entrance and thrusts, sliding it through my lips without entering, the tip pushing against my clit. My breath hitches as he does this again, one hand wrapped in my hair, the other searing against my hip as he holds me steady. I squirm, knowing exactly where I want him, but he pants hotly in my ear and keeps rubbing me, coating his length in my desire.
“Say it again,” he rumbles, nipping my earlobe. “Tell me that you want my baby.”
“I want your baby.”
“Louder.”
“I want your baby!”
“Fucking promise me ,” he hisses, gripping my hair so tightly that it stings. He leans on his forearm and gazes into my eyes, his own narrowed into slits. “Promise that you want my baby, that you’ll have my baby, that you’ll fucking love my baby.”
“I will!” I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him closer, crashing our lips together. When I break for air, I hold him close, panting into his mouth. “I’ll have your baby, Rage. I’ll love them, keep them, treasure them.”
Until my dying day.
He punches his hips and slams inside of me, growling as he claims my mouth. “Oh, krosotka , my beautiful girl. So ready to be a mother.”
I cry out, but he swallows the sound, groaning as he buries himself to the hilt and grinds his pelvis into mine, the pressure causing pain, but the heat and swell of his cock fucking magnificent. I keen as he pulls out only to slam back in, hitting the deepest parts of me.
“I’m going to pump you so full of my cum,” he moans, “so fucking full of me.” His cock twitches and he pants. “ Fuck , mama, I’m already gonna bust. Take my seed. That’s it. That’s it. ” He bursts deep inside, his cock pulsing as it fills me. The hot, wet sensation between my legs makes me wrap them tighter around his waist, keeping him inside. I don’t want a single drop wasted.
Rage groans. “Oh, I’ve got more. Don’t worry.” He chuckles deep in his chest and kisses me hard, sliding his tongue between my lips. Grabbing my breast, he massages it roughly, pinching my nipple between his knuckles. “You’re gonna take three loads, aren’t you, mama? Three thick, fat loads. I’ve been saving them for you.” He shudders, pulling his dick a few inches out before sliding it back in. He rocks into me with hard, steady thrusts, notching his teeth on my neck and sucking a bruise into my skin. “Gonna mark you up so good, too. The whole world will know you’re mine. Say it. Say that you’re mine.” He punches his hips, making me gasp.
“I-I’m yours.”
I don’t even know if I mean it. Having his baby is one thing, but giving myself completely to this man?
What more could he want from me?
What more is there to give?
It doesn’t matter if I’m sure or not, because Rage comes with his teeth clamped on my neck, groaning as he fills me up a second time. Pain mixes with pleasure and I writhe beneath him, so close to coming that I feel it in every square inch of my body. “ Rage ,” I whine, digging my nails into his shoulders. “I can’t—I’m gonna—” His fingers find my clit and he presses hard, pushing me over the edge.
I’m expecting him to pull out, but he sits up on his knees and grabs my hips, slamming me onto his length while he thrusts faster, sweat dripping down his forehead. My pussy clenches, and I feel the slick heat of Rage’s cum and my own slipping down my body, coating my thighs and sliding between my cheeks. Rage grinds his teeth and slams me onto his cock, growling like an animal. “Get ready, krosotka , so fucking wet, so fucking good for me, gonna fill you up so good—” Everything blurs together, from Rage’s nonsensical words to the pounding of my heartbeat and the sensation that I’m falling—further and further into this man, seeing the deepest parts of him that he promised were mine.
Everything that I am is yours.
Heat builds in the deepest parts of my body, where Rage and I are joined, where my heart bursts into flames, where my soul resides. Rage is giving me the very essence of his life to create a new one, and I don’t know what to do with that.
How can I take him into my body without at least respecting the man willing to give me the one thing I’ve wanted most in my entire life?
He comes a third time as promised, flooding me with his seed, and collapses on top of me. The weight of him drowns out the frantic beat of my heart with his own. He keeps his cock nestled inside of me, but I can feel his cum leaking out as he finally softens. With a groan, he slants his lips over mine and kisses me. It’s sloppy and wet, but no less enthusiastic as he sucks my bottom lip between his. “Lie still,” he instructs. “I’ll make sure it takes.”
Before I can question what that means, he’s pulling out and leaning back to grab my knees. Lifting them high into the air, he bends me in half so that my pussy is lifted toward the sky.
“Hey!” I smack my hands against his thick thighs. “It doesn’t need to be that high! A pillow works!”
Rage grins at me, then looks fondly at my leaking pussy. “I like the view from here.” He spreads my thighs, and I can feel my lips separating, the thick cream sticking to my swollen skin. Gently, he gathers the cum spilling down my thighs and pushes it back inside, slicking his finger and groaning. “So full of my cream. Gonna knock you up, krosotka. Then everyone will know who you belong to.” He plays with my soaking wet pussy, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Here, taste how good we are together.”
He holds his glistening finger up to my lips, nudging them with the tip. “Open up, mama.”
I part my lips and he slides his finger inside up to the first knuckle.
“Lick it clean.”
I swirl my tongue around his finger, tasting our desire. Then I moan as the taste spills into my mouth, my pussy throbbing, pulse soaring. I whimper, and Rage lowers my thighs down to the mattress.
Replacing his finger with his lips, he kisses me like it’s our first time, taking it slow, savoring the moment. Relief washes over me as I realize that this could be the beginning of a new chapter—something beautiful and bright, precious and perfect.
“I’m all yours,” Rage promises, wrapping his fist in my hair, “you’re all mine,” he presses the flat of his palm over my stomach, pressing firmly, “and this is all ours.”
In that moment, I believe that even if Rage isn’t perfect, he’s at least right.
Whatever bonds we’ve made today don’t only belong to me or to him—they’re ours.
And that might be what makes them perfect after all.