Tempted to Rebel (Brutal Beauty #2)

1. Celia

Chapter 1

Celia

Muffled whispers swirl in the air as wedding guests grow anxious, tired of waiting for the ceremony to begin. I keep my hands folded in my lap and my ankles crossed beneath the pew. Silent. Watching. A shiver rolls down my spine as guards shift before my eyes, transforming from well-dressed men into thugs and brawlers in padded armor and black, faceless masks. A new security detail has taken over the room, and no one seems happy about it. There’s an energy swirling around them—a crackle in the air that snaps and pops every time one of their fingers twitch on their guns or they scuff their boots on the marble.

They’re waiting for something, just like the rest of us.

Once the few attentive guests catch on to the shift in guard detail, whispers flow more freely, spilling like water through the aisles. One ripple of fear turns into a wave, engulfing the room in panic, and suddenly, people are shouting. Guests reach for their weapons, forgetting that all firearms, knives, and blunt objects were checked at the entrance to the church.

The panic swells in a crescendo that echoes in the rafters.

No one is safe. Old, wooden pews act as barriers, trapping the crowd in neat, little rows waiting to be gunned down. The more agile guests leap from their seats, some seeking answers from known bratva personnel—perhaps a cousin or an uncle—while others rush the closed outer doors.

None of the guards move to stop them.

The heavy wood rattles against chains hidden on the other side, barring them shut from the outside. The sound echoes louder than the voices, and I watch as people shrink into themselves, avoiding the memory of cold iron kissing their wrists and keeping them prisoner. Others, invigorated by the possibility of violence, crack their knuckles and approach the guards with cocksure smiles.

The screaming begins. It echoes through the rafters and pings off of every piece of stained glass lining the Sanctuary walls, ricocheting louder than any bullet. The force of it rings in my ears, making me flinch.

I should have never agreed to accompanying my mother to a bratva event, let alone a wedding for its pakhan.

“ Celia. ” My mother clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Compose yourself.” Unlike most of the people surrounding us, she’s unaffected by the chaos erupting around us, maintaining an icy distance from her emotions.

She has one thing I lack within the bratva: experience.

“What’s going on?” I crane my neck to get a better look, but in my heart, I already know that something has gone wrong. The wedding is over before it ever began.

Two masked men drag someone out of the room, smearing blood across the polished marble. I stare at the crimson streak as my body turns ice cold, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

A wedding should be sacred. It should be full of love and light—not this . Anything but this.

I fight a rush of tears, knowing that they’ll only stoke my mother’s ire. Why is nothing sacred in this godforsaken city? Why must everything involving my family turn to violence and chaos? Can’t there be a single day of happiness, just one innocent moment of peace?

A pair of young children, a little boy and a littler girl, hold each other in the row in front of us. The girl whimpers softly while the boy tries to be brave, emulating the stony expressions he sees on all of the adults around him, including my mother.

Forced to be brave when he’s still only a child. My heart cracks, and a wave of grief for every child forced to witness these events flows freely through my veins.

“Hey,” I murmur, keeping my tone gentle and soft. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Their father turns to glare at me, his jaw clenching as he chews on his thoughts before they turn into words. “Adella,” he says finally, addressing my mother, “what a shame it would be for your son’s marriage to fall apart before it’s even begun.” His glare pings between the two of us. “Then again, the Monrovias have a poor track record when it comes to their spouses. Perhaps Mikhail should give up before he’s either dead or divorced by Christmas.”

My mother presses her lips into a fine line. “Watch your tongue, Fiero, before someone’s hand simply—” she flashes a three-inch knife concealed within a silver tube of lipstick—“ slips. ”

A vein in Fiero’s neck pulses as he swallows and chooses to remain silent. He turns to his children and ushers them to the other side of the pew away from us. When he tries to exit into the aisle, a masked man shoves to his chest, stopping Fiero in his tracks. He argues with the guard until a rifle smashes into his face with a sickening crack, a second masked man hauling Fiero away without further warning. Fiero shouts Russian curses even after the doors to the hallway close behind him.

He left his children behind.

The little girl starts to cry in earnest, and I gather my skirts and leap over the back of the pew to reach her. “Hush, now,” I soothe, petting both the children’s heads. “Everything will be okay. Shhh. ”

My heart breaks for the children—less so for their father. No one else steps up to claim his kids as theirs, despite my silent searching for a second parent. Everyone avoids meeting my eye. My mother is the exception; her disdain unmistakable. Before we ever arrived, she warned me to keep a low profile. Pretending that everything is fine is her specialty, and after navigating the social ruin that my divorce brought our family name, she’s become an expert.

Normally, I would do as I’m told and keep my head down, but today is anything but a normal day, and these children deserve better memories than this.

One of the guards aims his rifle toward the crowd. “Everyone move! ” He repeats the order in Russian while a half dozen other guards follow his lead and corral us into the four corners of the room, separating us by age and ability. I’m placed with the younger group of women and children, while my mother is split into another group with women closer to her age. A few people argue, but anyone who raises true hell gets pistol-whipped or punched in the gut and removed from the room entirely, following the path of blood. Every time someone opens the doors that lead outside the Sanctuary, we hear the rapid-fire tat-tat of a gun or the agonized scream that comes after. I remove my shawl and wrap it around Fiero’s little girl’s neck, careful to cover her ears. “Keep this on,” I instruct, tying a loose knot at the base of her neck, “it’ll help with the noise.” She looks up at me with wide eyes, and I enlist her brother’s help to keep the shawl in place.

Too soon, a guard approaches my corner of the cathedral and sizes up our group like livestock. Fire stirs in my chest with each kick of my heartbeat, and I quickly move to the front of the group and stand in his way before he can grab anyone and haul them off. “Back the fuck up,” I hiss, bracing myself as best as I can for whatever violence comes next. My entire body shakes from adrenaline and frayed nerves, the careful control I keep over my fear having snapped the moment Fiero’s daughter first started trembling.

I might be afraid, but I will not let them touch the children.

Clenching my fists as the guard steps closer, I scan him for weaknesses the same instant he scans me for mine. An AK is casually slung across his back like he doesn’t intend to use it, but his body is thicker than the others’, built from years of training and fighting. If he wants to hurt me, he won’t need to use a gun—he has an arsenal at his fingertips.

I can’t see his face behind the mask, but his eyes—deep pools of ebony ink—suddenly spark with interest. “You’re trouble,” he rumbles, the hint of a smile in his voice, “aren’t you, krosotka? ”

Memories from the Baranova wedding flash before my eyes the moment Rage comes into view. Confidence rolls off of him in waves every time his muscles shift beneath his clothes, each movement smoother than silk. A shiver rolls down my spine as he looks me up and down—and I do the same to him, taking in the all-black ensemble and wondering how I never noticed it before.

He walks like a man who would crush the world in his fist if it meant he could drink from eternity.

The moment Ruin carries me across the threshold into the brothers’ domain, Rage finally smiles, and my heart stumbles over itself. Foolishly, a part of me clings to the man I thought he was, the one who promised to take care of me, but I know that version is a well-crafted lie.

A man who is capable of love wouldn’t break my heart so easily.

As he steps closer, my breath catches on the snap of fear crowding my chest. The last time I saw Rage, I attacked him, wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing, like he’s done so many times to me, only I dialed it up a notch when I knocked the bastard out, handcuffed him to his car, and left him there to freeze in the middle of winter.

Time slows to a crawl, hovering in the razor-thin precipice between reality and fantasy. As Rage moves, flashes of memory blur with the present. An image of a masked guard from the Baranova wedding flickers in my mind, replacing the man silently stalking toward me with the one burned into my mind—the word krosotka falling from both of their lips in that same, hushed reverence I’ve come to expect.

Rage isn’t just any one of the armed guards from the Baranova wedding—he’s the man—the one who approached me and called me beautiful.

The only one who couldn’t take his eyes off of me.

At the time, I was struck by his presence. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, painting the Santuary floor in a kaleidoscope of color that he stepped right through, breaking the mirage so that he could get to me. With the mask covering his face, no one could recognize him for who he was, but now, I could close my eyes and blindly pick him from a lineup.

I know this man. I’ve seen what he’s capable of. I’ve tasted the warmth of his body and all the allure it promises.

But it’s merely a pretty picture. A trap intended to capture pretty prey like me.

As Rage stops in front of us, I catch a gleam of gold behind his massive frame. At first, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. The room has changed since I was last in it, with all of the furniture replaced by this towering thing, all bright metal and harsh lines. A low, padded bench is nestled inside the bars, with a pallet of blankets folded on the floor beside it.

A cage , I realize with a start.

One large enough to fit a human… or two on top of each other.

I fight against Ruin’s hold on my body, struggling to free myself. I’ve heard war stories from bratva members who have been captured overseas, and every single one of them warned against being put in a cage. Because when the door locks, you’re at your captor’s mercy until you escape… or you die by their hands.

Ruin holds me tighter, crushing me against his chest. “Be still, krosotka. You are home.” He might as well say bad dog , for all his tone implies. I’m misbehaving. He handles my struggle easily, wrapping a fist around the rope at my back and pulling. It arches my spine and pulls at both my thighs and shoulders, making them scream in protest. I clench my teeth around the gag in my mouth and shut my eyes tight, praying he’ll stop.

Instead, someone grabs my jaw and pries it open, looping their finger through the gag and tearing it from between my teeth. A scream burns in the back of my throat, but I fight it with all my strength. I won’t give either of them the satisfaction of hearing it.

“Look at me,” Rage commands, dropping the gag in favor of cupping my face. When I don’t comply, he snarls and lifts me from Ruin’s grasp, taking possession of my body. The tug on my limbs ceases, and I swallow a whimper as sharp relief washes over me.

A tear slips free, sliding down my cheek until it falls.

“You did this,” Rage snarls, carrying me in his arms. “This is your fault.” A sudden clang of metal on metal makes me jump, and Rage clamps down harder to keep me still, bruising my skin in his hands. “Things could have been much simpler if you’d just—” he cuts himself off with a hiss, bending at the waist to set me down. Plush blankets greet my ass, and he makes quick work of undoing the knots binding my feet and arms. As the rope falls away, he fishes a key from his pocket and removes the handcuffs next. I don’t bother moving my arms once they’re free, so he does it for me, bringing them to the front and setting them in my lap. He then rubs the red welts on my wrists with his thumbs, a pinched scowl on his face.

“Don’t take pity on her now,” a familiar voice calls out. Rebel appears from a doorway at the side of the living room, stepping into the dim light with catlike ease. He looks like he always does—casually grunge, with dark jeans slung low over his hips and a soft maroon t-shirt that exposes a sliver of his midriff, the usual mischievous smirk curving across his lips. But his eyes, usually sparking with amusement, remain cold and distant. “She runs away from every good thing she gets. Isn’t that right, baby?” He crosses to the side of the cage and raps his knuckles against the bars. “In the end, you’re a runner, not a fighter.” His voice quiets to a whisper meant only for me. “Sure had me fooled.”

I meet Rebel’s eyes and silently plead with him. He’s always been the sweeter, softer brother—I can’t lose him now that every inch of the horizon is shadowed with misery.

If I’m surrounded by three genuine monsters, I don’t think I’ll survive.

“Keep the cuffs on,” Rebel warns, wrapping his fists around two of the bars, his silver rings clinking against the metal, “or she might slip her cage, brother.”

“She won’t.” Rage grips my chin and turns my face back toward him. “She’s going to be a good little pet, isn’t she?”

He can’t be serious. Eyes wide, I search his face for the joke, for the hint of a smile, but there’s no crack in the facade, nothing for me to latch onto.

When he pulls out a collar from his pocket, I realize just how serious he is. He loops the black leather around my throat and latches it at the back, setting a dangling, golden heart pendant against my throat. I can’t see what it says, but the metal is cold against my skin, contrasting the warmth of the soft leather. Rage slips his hand into my hair and tugs the tie free, spilling long tresses down my back. He combs loose strands away from my face, admiring his pet .

For that one brief moment, he transforms back into the man who promised me a future worth living, the tenderness in his gaze giving him away. My heart aches as it clings to this version of him, wanting nothing more than to rewind time and freeze it at that exact moment.

Rebel scoffs and rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to fuck her, do it already. Don’t do the whole—” he whines in the back of his throat—“ fawning over her thing.”

“I’m not going to fuck her, and I’m not fawning over her.” Rage slips the handcuffs over one of my wrists while I’m distracted and cinches the other one around one of the bars to the cage. Tearing the gag free from my neck and dropping it to the floor, he presses the pad of his thumb against my chapped bottom lip. “ When I give you my cock,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against mine as he leans in close, “you’re going to beg for it. Because the only way you’re getting out of this cage, Mama —” he presses the flat of his palm to my stomach—“is with a baby in your belly.”

I shake my head violently and back away from him as far as I can, the cage and the cuffs not giving much leeway. I barely move a few inches before my body bends in ways it was never meant to. “No, please?—”

His eyes darken, and my body trembles as it senses danger. The world stills, my heartbeat quieting to a whisper as he speaks. “You will bear my children. You begged me to fill up that pretty pussy of yours to give you what you’ve always wanted, and you don’t get to go back on your word. You made a promise—” his nostrils flare—“and so did I.” Slamming the cage door shut behind him, he locks it with a key from his pocket and hovers just outside. Lip curling, he reaches for a bundle of clothes on the kitchen island and tosses them to Rebel. “See that she gets dressed.”

Rebel pulls a face. “I’m not touching her.”

Only a week ago, Rebel wouldn’t stop touching me.

The whiplash hits hard, but I keep my composure the way my mother taught me. Chin up. Eyes front. Shoulders back. Spine straight. I stare at Rebel while he crumples the clothing in his fists and wrestles with his emotions. The swift change in the dynamic between us is my fault, just like Rage said, because I’m the one who fled after Rebel came to my rescue and saved me from the stranger who invaded my home and took me hostage.

I wince at the reality of the situation. It’s not really my fault, is it? Rage is the one who is taking everything to such extremes. I’m not the one who installed a cage in my living room or had a collar made for my bride.

If he had dated me like a normal man, asked me to dinner or took me to see a movie, would we be at each other’s throats like we are now?

Rebel shoves the clothes against Ruin’s chest. “ You undress her.” A silent moment passes between the three brothers before Rebel snatches the clothes back, an unspoken acknowledgement passing between them. “ Ugh, fine, I’ll do it.”

My heart hammers like a kick drum as I finally speak up. “I want Ruin’s help.” I lift my leg, pointing my toes toward the masked brother. “I choose him.” He may have carried me inside after Thanatos tied me up and kidnapped me, but I don’t think he’ll hurt me. I can’t trust Rebel when he’s so clearly upset with me after I ran out on him. I’ve only ever seen Rebel’s sweet side—I don’t know what to make of this version of him.

He’s shaking with anger as we speak, and that scares me.

“You think you get to choose—” Rebel snarls—“ anything anymore?” He laughs bitterly and assesses the clothes in his hand. There are multiple pairs of lacy panties, a trio of skimpy bras, and a handful of different tops and bottoms to mix and match an outfit. Tossing most of the items to the ground, he approaches with a handful of scarlet lace.

My gaze flicks to Rage, but if I think he’s going to offer any help, I’m sorely mistaken. His demeanor has shifted from his usual shade of pent-up anger to cool dismissal as he shrugs on a coat and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask, wincing at the hint of desperation in my voice. Despite what I did to Rage the last time I saw him, we shared a special moment together before everything went to shit. He didn’t just agree to fuck a baby into me—he made love to me, promising to provide for my every need if I could just… let him .

Then I shoved all of his promises back in his face with a big F You in the shape of a little white morning after pill.

But as soon as I swallowed it, I couldn’t hold it in. My body revolted, throwing it back up within seconds. It’s the reason I didn’t hear my attacker climb the staircase and slip into my bedroom—I was heaving my guts into the toilet bowl.

The truth crumbles like ash in my mouth as Rage’s icy gaze pins me to the floor. He doesn’t answer my question. Turning on his heel, he walks away and clicks the door shut behind him, not sparing me a second glance as he leaves. I wait for him to walk back through the door like he did once before—to march right up to me and kiss me, to demand more, to fight for answers.

Why did you do it, Celia? Why did you betray the promise we made each other?

Shivering, I imagine a sinkhole splitting the room open and swallowing me whole. Shrouded in darkness, I could pretend that this is all one extended nightmare. That none of this is real, and I’ll wake up tomorrow as bitterly heartbroken and lonely as I was months ago before ever receiving my invitation to Midnight —before these brothers walked into my life and refused to walk back out.

But the harsh glare of gold in my peripheral makes it impossible to ignore my new reality. I’ve chosen this path, and now I have to live with the consequences.

Rebel saunters up to the front of my cage. “Take your clothes off.”

Steeling my nerves, I meet Rebel’s unflinching stare. I can’t solve my problems with Rage right now, but I can address the ones I have with Rebel head-on. Rattling the chains of my handcuffs, I reply, “I’m a little tied up here.”

“I don’t care.” His smile remains cruel. “Take your clothes off, krosotka. Now.” He grips the bars, allowing me a glimpse of the scanty panties and bralette he chose for me to wear. Neither looks comfortable or the least bit supportive, but I doubt that’s their intended purpose. Rebel licks a stripe across his top row of teeth.“Unless you’d rather be naked. I could always throw these away.” He shakes the lingerie mockingly.

Glaring at him, I kick off my boots first, struggling to undo the laces one-handed. Then I peel off my clothes layer by layer, my sweater and bra getting caught around my arm, as predicted. I twist and contort my body to pull off as much clothing as I can, then huff and collapse onto the blankets. Undoing the bra clasp at my back with one hand was a bitch, but tearing the rest off is impossible without either removing the cuffs or sawing through the stitches with my teeth. “A little help?” I ignore the ache in my wrist and rattle the cuffs again.

Rebel’s glare freezes on my bare tits. The air is cold in their apartment, and it shows—goosebumps trail down my arms and legs while my nipples harden to sharp points. I shiver under his gaze, locking my legs tightly together so that he can’t see anything else. I know he’s seen me naked—but that doesn’t mean I have to spread my legs and give him a show.

He grabs a sheathed knife from Ruin’s belt and crouches by my side. “Hold fucking still.” Flicking the blade through the bars, he cuts away my bra strap like he’s slicing through butter, then he does the same for my sweater. I tear the tattered garments off and toss them into a pile with my leggings and panties. He slips the lace bralette and panties through the bars, our fingers brushing.

Static jolts between us, shocking each other on contact. Rebel hisses like a cat while I recoil like I’ve been burned. My body shudders at the jolt while Rebel curses up a storm. “Goddammit!” He drops the knife and kicks it toward the wall. “Put some fucking clothes on!”

My temper flares. “I would if you’d give me any!”

Seriously, the bralette barely holds my nipples, let alone my entire boob, and the panties hardly cover anything. I’m grateful they at least stay in place instead of rolling down my hips. The bralette, on the other hand, takes double the effort to pull over my chest with only one hand available. Rebel snatches a matching key to Rage’s from a silver chain around his neck and tosses it into my lap. “Fix your damned top then give those back.”

There are four keys hanging from the chain, the tiniest being a spare key to my handcuffs. A larger, golden key likely belongs to my cage, and two more silver keys look eerily familiar. “Where did you get these?” I finger the heaviest key and realize exactly what it is—my ex-husband’s house key that went missing from my keyhook a few weeks ago. I scratch my fingernail across the grooves in the final key, tracing the cut like I’ve done hundreds of times over the years, before I knew what it unlocked.

It’s the key to my father’s safe house. A replica of the original, no doubt, which means that Rebel had to have found mine and made a copy. Did he know what it belonged to before I ran away, or did he figure it out after Thanatos tracked me down?

A smirk curves across Rebel’s handsome face. “Where do you think?”

“You stole them from me?”

He shrugs. “You invited me in. I couldn’t leave without a souvenir.”

What else has he lifted over the past few weeks? My face flushes with shame and I silently berate myself for being a stupid, lovestruck girl letting strangers into my home without thinking it through. I figured they were dangerous mafia men—but I didn’t think through what that meant in the day-to-day. Rage is easy to figure out because he’s suffocating about possessing me—but Rebel and Ruin?

I don’t really know them at all.

Once my cuffs are off, I quickly adjust my top and slide my arm through, then pull a blanket over my lap to fight off the cold. I hold onto the keys for a moment longer, wondering when I’ll have them in my hands again. This could be my moment. I could make a run for it.

I don’t have to look to know that Ruin’s knife is still lying on the floor a few feet away. I could hold onto the keys until they’re forced to open the door from the outside, and then I could lunge at them, or maybe I can fit my hand through the bars and unlock it myself?—

“Tick-tock,” Rebel hisses, stomping the heel of his boot against the cage wall closest to me. “Give them back, Celia.”

Frustration licks through my body like fire as I hold out the keys for Rebel to take. Even if I make it out of the cage, there are two of them in the room. I might be able to overpower Rebel if my adrenaline kicks in, but I don’t stand a chance against him and Ruin.

Rebel snatches the chain and slips it back over his head, the keys jangling until they settle against his chest. He tucks them beneath his shirt, hiding them from view, and rakes a hand through his dark hair. It’s gotten longer over the past few weeks, giving him an even edgier appearance than usual.

We stare at each other for long, silent heartbeats while he pinches his snakebite between his front teeth. “You shouldn’t have run,” he says finally, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “We can handle a creepy stalker. It’s not like you were in danger. I would have stayed with you the entire time. All night, if you’d have let me.”

Ignoring the irony of having another stalker than these three, I shake my head. In truth, it’s not the break-in or the man behind it that scares me—it’s the three men holding the keys to my freedom.

I run my palm down one of the golden bars, shivering at how cold it is to the touch. This is why I know better than to mess around with mafia men. They’ll go to any extreme to prove they’re right or keep their word. I wonder which of the brothers had the idea first—was it Rage who decided to lock me up so he could be the first to knock me up, or was it Rebel who half-jokingly threw the idea out in the middle of dinner one night?

Shifting my gaze from Rebel to Ruin, I wonder if he could have made the decision or if he merely went along with it. He seems to go along with everything the others propose—is that because he agrees with them, or because there’s no detriment to following their lead?

What does Ruin get out of keeping me in a cage?

I want to ask, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer.

“Did you find him?” I ask instead. “The stalker.”

Rebel picks up Ruin’s knife and twirls it between his fingers. “No. But we’re on his trail. It’s only a matter of time before we gut him.” He passes the knife to Ruin, who sheathes it. “Well, before this guy does. I don’t like the mess.”

Ruin grunts, like he agrees.

I don’t know why anyone would stalk me. I’m a normal woman living a normal life—up until recently. “It must have been a random attack,” I say softly. I’ve been thinking about it all week when I wasn’t frantically finishing my designs for the upcoming gala and outsourcing their completion. Having a stalker doesn’t make sense. “I don’t know anyone out to get me aside from you three.”

Rebel gets this pinched look on his face, like he doesn’t like the implication that he’s a threat to my wellbeing, but he doesn’t comment. He disappears into the bedroom directly beside me, leaving the door open— wait . I scan the doorway and huff in disbelief.

There is no door. There are empty hinges but no nails and no door to shut. The palm scanner that acts as an automatic lock lies dormant on the wall beside the doorframe. Rebel flops onto his back on an unmade bed and props his knee up, staring at the ceiling. Aside from a strip of LED lights behind the headboard that paint the back wall in a wash of cerulean blue, the room is dim. Rebel flicks through his phone for a moment, and then music booms through unseen speakers, filling the entire apartment with loud drumming, electric guitars, and a mix of male vocalists singing, screaming, and rapping.

I guess our conversation is over.

Ruin stands completely still a few feet away, watching me. As tempting as it is to let this man ogle my tits over the others, I wrap a blanket around my shoulders to keep myself warm and keep Rebel from enjoying the view.

Not that he’s looking. His arm dangles over the edge of the bed, a bottle of hard liquor uncapped and hanging from his fingertips. I missed him taking the first swig, but I catch him gulping a few mouthfuls now, then the bottle goes right back to skimming the hardwood floor.

Great. My keeper’s going to be drunk and irritable.

I stretch out my legs and brush my bare toes against the cold bars. My boots lie on top of my torn sweater, the leggings, bra, and underwear I wore this afternoon crumpled in a sad heap beneath them. “Aren’t you going to take my clothes?” I eye my discarded socks eagerly, knowing that any extra layers in this place will be worth their weight in gold. I can probably put my sweater back on, too, at least over one arm.

Ruin doesn’t reply, choosing to stand like a silent sentinel instead of answering my question. I guess I should be used to that by now, although I might actually miss his late-night advances into my bedroom after receiving such a warm welcome home from his brothers.

Judging from his silence, it doesn’t look like I’ll be receiving any firm caresses or growled orders for me to come anytime soon.

Not that I want them anymore.

I close my eyes and hug my knees to my chest, wishing this would all be over. The worst part of all isn’t actually the cold or the cage—it’s knowing that despite what Fox and Angel told me the night we met, I’m powerless to fight back.