7. Thanatos
Chapter 7
Thanatos
Ever since I was young, I’ve made a point not to want things. If you don’t want something, you won’t be disappointed when you can’t have it. Celia feels like one of those desires I’ve spent my whole life pushing away.
She should be inconsequential. A blip on my radar and nothing more.
But as soon as she was locked safely inside my brothers’ apartment, I went back to the weapons locker and breathed in her lingering scent in the air. After the kind of night we had, there’s little of her left beneath the smoke and salt, but if I close my eyes, I can taste her sweet perfume and pretend that she’s still here with me.
Touching me.
With a groan, I cup my erection and squeeze, knowing exactly where this is going. It’s the same routine I’ve had for the past week. Every time I get close to her, I feel like I’m a fire hydrant about to explode. The pressure builds to a breaking point until finally, I can’t take it anymore.
I have to relieve the tension or I’ll go insane.
Pushing a button hidden beneath the counter, I activate the security monitors linked to the club’s surveillance system. As the screens hum to life, I check for the only ones I’m interested in—anything with a glimpse of Celia. The videos and pictures downloaded on my phone are of a woman I recognize but don’t actually know: a past version of Celia that’s only a part of who she is today. The 4K feed in front of me, however, shows the woman who’s captured my attention as much as she’s captured my brothers’.
I shouldn’t want her.
The warmth of her touch shouldn’t spark a fire in my blood, one that spreads to the depths of my twisted core and feeds off of the distinct lack I’ve nurtured for years. A lack of affection, or intimacy, or desire. For years, I’ve kept my distance from people, my sole purpose being to destroy the man who ruined my family’s chances at a happy future—one that isn’t broken and full of bloodshed. Until Celia came along, I hadn’t touched a woman in longer than I can remember.
Now, she’s the only person I crave.
More than my father, even, I’m ashamed to admit. I’d just as sooner cut ties with the whole investigation and murder plot if it meant I could steal her away and drown in her laughter, her anger, her tears. Every time I picture her standing in front of me, it’s never one version of her but multitudes, shifting faster than I can follow. One moment, she’s a young woman about to walk down the aisle in a white lace gown, then the next, she’s curled in on herself beneath the willow tree in her backyard, sobbing into the grass as the branches blow like a curtain hiding her misery from the world. The images of her spin round and round, between moments caught in suspended laughter at a public event, to the private whispers she once shared with her ex-husband, or her brother, or her friend Lilith.
All of them are a part of her, and I want to gather each and every shattered piece until she feels whole again in my arms.
It’s selfish and stupid and completely fucking unforgivable.
Because if I’m the one to put her back together, what pieces are left for my brothers?
I grit my teeth as I jerk the tail end of my belt through the loop and unsnap the buckle. If I can’t have her, then at least I can have this —the scraps that I’ve stolen from under their noses. This room wasn’t meant to have access to more than the club’s lower level security feed, but I rigged it to reach every corner of the upper floors, too. There’s a camera in each of my brother’s bedrooms, their living room; hell, even the bathrooms. Rage was thorough with its installation, and it feels foolish to waste technology.
I might as well use it.
Rage greets her in the living room, barely listening to her speak before he tosses the hunting knives in her hands to the floor and lifts her into his arms, carrying her bridal style into his bedroom. He sets her down on her feet and begins undressing her from head to toe, peeling off her clothes and kissing each new inch of skin revealed.
That could have been me ten minutes ago.
While my brother lifts her again and transports her into his shower, I tug my pants below my hips, letting them clatter to the floor from the weight of my weapons’ holsters. I don’t give a damn about them when Celia is naked right in front of me, her skin still flushed from our encounter in this very room. I breathe in deep and imagine that I can smell her desire, feel the weight of her body on mine as shove my boxers out of the way to grip my cock, pretending that the heat of my palm is hers instead.
The steam in Rage’s bathroom obscures some of the image, but I watch closely through the glass shower wall as he steps in behind her. Rather than touch her, he reaches over her head for a bottle of body wash, lathers his hands, and begins caressing her body.
Someone else steps into the room with a grumbled shout, and I watch as a naked Rebel forces himself inside the shower with the two of them, quickly taking up the space at Celia’s backside. He grabs a different bottle and squeezes soap into his hands, then scrubs Celia’s scalp.
This isn’t what I wanted to see.
With a hiss, I grip my shaft hard, willing my erection to subside, but it’s no use. I glance at the weapons on the wall, noting the few that were knocked askew when I shoved Celia against them, and one deep breath is all it takes for me to refocus on what could have been, right here in this very room.
Instead of my brothers spreading kisses down her spine and over her hips, it could have been me. I listen to the steady drum of water hitting the tile floor and imagine that I’m in there with them, breathing in as much steam, washing away the nightmare of the past twenty-four hours.
Celia’s voice fills the room as she moans, a high-pitched whine that nestles deep in my groin. My balls ache with a need for release, and I refocus on the monitor. With a few quick keystrokes and mouse clicks, I zoom in and enhance the image, getting a clear view of Rage kneeling between Celia’s thighs, with one of her legs draped over his shoulder to spread her wide open for him. She clutches the back of his head while hers falls back onto Rebel’s shoulder, and our middle brother is quick to devour her mouth.
Bitter jealousy roars to life inside my heart. Growling, I thrust harder into my palm, knowing that the sub-par friction is nothing compared to the smooth silk of Celia’s skin—or better yet, the golden honey dripping down her thighs. I imagine how molten her core is and how easily it would be to slide inside, to lose myself in the bliss of her body. Were I a different man, I might take it for myself without any thought to her own desires, but I’m not a monster.
I’m just a man unable to deny his baser impulses.
They work together to get her off, and then Rage slots himself between her thighs and slams home, making her cries echo throughout the room as he buries himself deep inside of her. Rebel seems fine with taking the brunt of her weight as they lift her off the floor, leaving her at their complete mercy.
Or lack thereof.
Rage pounds into her pussy with a vengeance that fills the air with the wet slap of their skin, his hands holding her hips in place, while Rebel busies himself with her breasts, her neck, the hollow of her throat and all the dirty things he moans into her ear.
I can hear them too, and fuck , if it doesn’t spur me on.
“You’re so wet for us, baby,” he breathes, slipping a hand over her stomach to reach for her clit. She gasps once he finds it, her body convulsing as both men teach her new heights to pleasure. Her moans turn into repeated cries that zing down my spine and directly into my balls, drawing them up as my release edges closer.
She isn’t wet for them, I tell myself. She’s wet for me.
Her wide, hazel eyes dilated beautifully once I had her pinned against the rack, my erection undeniable between us. During our training sessions, I’ve played with different positions—drawing my knee up between her thighs to grind my shaft against her ass, or flipping her onto her back just to watch her writhe and struggle beneath me, the feel of her hot breath on my neck as she fights to break free, panting and groaning and making me so fucking hard for her.
I could cut glass with my fucking dick every time I toss her around.
The first burst of my release is proof that I’m no saint. It jets out in a weak dribble that is quickly overcome by wave after wave of sticky cum, overflowing across my knuckles as I pump harder, faster, painting the brushed silver countertop in thick, pearly streaks.
As I cinch my forefinger and thumb beneath the tip and draw out every single drop, regret washes over me.
She deserves every ounce of my cum inside her womb.
I collapse onto the rubber mat on the floor and wipe the cum coating my hand onto my pant leg, grimacing as I notice a stream of white drip down the edge of the counter and onto the floor. I listen to every breath, every moan, every word shared between Celia, Rage, and Rebel, and wonder how they do it.
How do they share someone so completely without losing their minds? How do they know who is her favorite—or do they even care? If she spends the night in Rage’s bed, do the others not long for the weight of her head on their pillows instead? Or will they merge these little moments of their lives until they’re sharing everything —not just the woman, but showers like this one, and breakfasts and dinners and dates in the city, evenings spent lounging on the sofa or wrapped in each other’s arms.
Is that what it means to be devoted to someone so completely that you’ll sacrifice independence just to be with them? To make them happy?
The three of them exit the shower and dry each other off. Rebel towels Celia’s hair dry while she gently pats Rage’s back dry, then both Rage and Celia turn around to help Rebel replace his soiled bandages with new ones.
I shift my attention to an adjacent monitor, the one inside Ruin’s bedroom. Although his room is normally dark, this time he’s left the light on. He’s sitting up in an unmade bed and lifting a joint to his lips, staring at the blank wall with a faraway look in his eyes as he breathes in deep, then exhales a thick cloud of smoke. Beside him, a thick chain is strung across the ceiling, with dozens of different types and sizes of rope draped over it, each one with various knots and ties looped through them. A closet door sits open with clothes overflowing into a messy pile trailing from the floor to the bed, and the bathroom door beside it bleeds dim light into the room. There’s little else—no pictures on the walls or memorabilia on bookshelves. There aren’t any shelves at all.
Does he feel the same as I do? Left out of the festivities happening just below his feet? Or does he not crave the same attachments that I do?
I lie down on my back and throw my arm across my eyes, listening to the muted chatter between Celia and my brothers, wondering what’s on Ruin’s troubled mind, and wishing that things were different.
“What did Thanatos want?” Rebel asks, his voice louder now that he’s standing closer to the microphone.
“He gave her knives,” Rage rumbles.
“ Kinky. ”
“It’s not like that,” Celia says quickly. I open my eyes and watch as she slips on one of Rage’s collared shirts and buttons the front. She fiddles with them, avoiding my brothers’ gazes. I sit up and narrow my eyes at the image, humming a chord in the back of my throat.
It is like that, though, if the cum drying on my thigh means anything.
She’s lying to them.
“He says I need more training.”
“You’ll have to learn by experience.” Rage leans against the doorjamb and crosses his arms over his bare chest. Both he and Rebel are completely naked still, contrasting Celia as she pulls a pair of Rage’s boxers up her thighs. “Where are you going, krosotka ?”
“To see Ruin,” she answers simply, slipping past him to enter the living room. “I can’t believe you let him go upstairs.”
“It’s his safe space. He’ll be fine for one night.” Rebel follows her to the staircase that leads up to the third floor. The only rooms up there are Ruin’s bedroom and bathroom, taking up what was meant to be a bonus room when the apartment was first built. No one goes up there except for Ruin.
I glance at our youngest brother on the other monitor, but he still hasn’t moved. He’s zoned out, big time, but it’s probably for the best. Once the meds wear off, he’ll be relying on Percocet and pot to fight off his demons.
I don’t think Celia should be there when they arrive.
Clearly, Rage and Rebel are on the same page. They intercept her from going upstairs, with Rage being the one to lift her over his shoulder and carry her back to his bedroom. His voice fades as he moves from one room to the next. “Give him some time to process. We’ll check on him in a few hours.” He drops Celia onto the mattress and crawls onto the bed beside her. Rebel quickly takes the other side, the two of them locking her between their bodies, just like they did in the shower.
“You promise?” she asks, focusing on Rage.
He kisses her wrist. “I promise.”
I watch as they all settle beneath the sheets, but as the minutes pass, I catch all three of them tossing and turning. Rebel’s the only one lying still, but I have a feeling that’s on account of his own injuries, not because he’s asleep. His foot bounces as he taps his feet, finally settling once Celia rolls over and wraps her arms around his waist. Then Rage does the same, spooning her from behind and burying his face in her hair.
Ruin keeps staring at the wall, then at the ceiling once he eventually lies down. But I have a feeling he doesn’t sleep—not even for a second.
After cleaning up my mess and wiping more rubbing alcohol over everything it touched, I slip inside the apartment, make a pit stop to wash my hands in the half bath, and walk over to the Ruin’s staircase. Climbing to the top, I press my back to the door and slide down until I’m sitting on the top step. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m sure he’s faring much worse. “I’m here, Ruin.” I rap my knuckles against the bottom of the door. “Get some sleep.”
He doesn’t respond. I don’t even know if he heard me, and even if he did, I doubt it will make a difference. He slept with Celia in The Box while the rest of us kept watch. There, with all four of us rallying around him, he was safe to dream.
But here , locked upstairs in the dark, he’s alone again.
Just like he was when hellfire rained down over him.
“I’m right here,” I say again, listening for movement through the door. I know he’s a grown ass man and that he doesn’t need a babysitter, but I mentally prepare myself for a night on watch, anyway.
If anything, it helps keep my demons at bay.
Because if there’s one way that I’ve failed my brothers, it’s that I let our father get to them. I let him hurt them again, after I’d vowed never to let it happen after the last time.
If anyone is undeserving of their love, of Celia’s , it’s me.
The true fuck-up of the family.
Pretending otherwise will only hurt us all.