11. Celia
Chapter 11
Celia
Wandering the city aimlessly all day hasn’t left me in the mood to party tonight, yet the boys insist on attending the latest VIP event for Midnight. Further still, none of them aside from Ruin are wearing masks.
Myself included.
A blush is permanently tattooed across my face as I walk through the club, my heels clicking with every step I take. Thankfully, almost every woman here tonight is in heels, so hardly anyone looks my way as I pass by. It’s when they notice my lack of a mask that they understand who I’m here with—the only other maskless people in the room—and suddenly, all their smiles are kept polite and their distance substantial.
The one exception is Fox, her kitsune mask and fiery hair making her easy to spot in the crowd. We exchange friendly smiles before Rage steals me away from the dance floor.
“You could have asked if you wanted to dance,” I huff, frowning at his vice grip on my wrist. Rage isn’t listening, too intent on dragging me away from the other guests. Pain shoots up my wrist, making me yelp. “Hey, you’re hurting me!” One glance at the tension in his shoulders tells me that not only is he being bullish, but he’s not having a good time. “What’s wrong? Is your dad?—”
“No,” Rage interjects, loosening his grip as he leads me up the short flight of stairs to the most prominent stage in the room. It’s a simple black platform with red velvet curtains draped on either side, impossible to miss beneath the warm spotlight. A throne fit for a dark king sits dead center, currently unoccupied. Just beside it, a gleaming gold cage similar to the one in the apartment upstairs sits empty, save for a single pillow resting in the center.
“I’m not going in there,” I say immediately, returning his frown. I slip my wrist from his hand and lace our fingers together. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Rage’s eyes scan the crowd, his aura moody and dark. “He’s not here,” he says flatly. “He should be here. We’re all here. Why isn’t he here?” Looking at me, he pauses in thought, takes a deep breath, and pulls me into his chest. “You look stunning.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s always true.” He traces his thumb over my knuckles. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”
“Well, was he a punctual man?”
“What?”
I purse my lips. “Your dad. Was he always on time, or was he always late?”
Rage chokes on a bitter laugh. “He’d never even show up.” He slips his free hand beneath my shirt to palm my bare waist. “What are you getting at, krosotka ?”
I shrug one shoulder and turn my face to survey the room in the same way he just did. “All I’m saying is, we keep expecting him to show up to a party he hasn’t been invited to, when he’s never shown up for anything before in his life. Why would he be here? Just because I’m here?” Shaking my head, I spot Ruin and Thanatos speaking to each other across the room. “There are too many of you and only one of him. If he knows that all four of you are with me, he won’t jump in to grab me. It’s too risky. Every woman he’s taken, weren’t they alone? On dates?” I swallow, thinking of Sara. She was alone at my boutique when she was taken. Maybe she was getting ready for a date with her boyfriend, even, when Rage’s dad showed up and derailed her plans—possibly, her life. “It’s not fair,” I murmur, leaning into Rage’s warmth. “All they wanted was a little company, or love, or a future, you know? And now it’s been taken from them.”
All because they had the misfortune of looking like me.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I press my forehead to Rage’s chest. Breathing deep, I inhale his scent and try to let it soothe the ache in my heart.
“It’s not your fault.” Rage cradles the back of my head and runs his fingers through my long hair. “None of this is your fault.”
“It feels like it’s my fault.”
“No.” Gently tilting my head back, Rage stares into my eyes, the cut of his jawline sharp as a knife. He swallows, making his Adam’s apple bob in the neon glow of the club. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who demanded to have you, and the only reason my father is targeting any of these women is because I do have you. Because we do.” Sighing, he closes his eyes. “But accepting blame doesn’t solve anything. We need to kill the bastard before he gets to anyone else.”
Sorrow surrounds my body like a cold morning fog spreading across the countryside, blanketing my limbs much the same way it might blanket a field of wheat. It’s a heavy feeling that makes me want to be anywhere but here. Because as much as Rage might blame himself for his father’s actions, I blame myself for everything having to do with Sara’s disappearance.
Her murder , a nasty little voice in my head taunts. You aren’t going to save her, because there will be nothing left to save.
Or what’s left may not want to keep living.
“I need a drink,” I mutter, giving Rage my best attempt at a smile. “Want anything?”
His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes my expression. “What’s wrong, Celia?”
I swallow the truth as I pull free from his arms. “I need a drink,” I repeat, hopping down the steps as quickly as I can.
A strong drink. A very strong drink.
My journey to the bar is quickly interrupted by a familiar face. “Look at you! What a babe you’ve become.” Fox smirks as she approaches me, leading two men behind her on leashes. I try not to stare and fail miserably, so I’m grateful when she envelops me in a hug. It means I won’t have to puzzle through why the men with her are wearing only black collars, boxer-briefs, and matching wolf masks.
Then again, I’m wearing a collar, too.
The gold heart pendant feels heavy against my throat. “Your mask is gorgeous,” I tell her, marveling at the red swirls painted across its white base. She’s wearing a matching white silk kimono with a red sash tied around her waist. “Do you come to all of these events?”
“Every single one.” She smiles beautifully and loops her arm through mine. “You were headed to the bar, weren’t you?” Taking the first step, she leads me to the bar and perches on one of the padded stools, looping the leashes around her wrist. The men trailing behind her come to a stop at her side while she ignores their presence. She catches me staring and laughs.
Mortified, I’m quick to apologize. “I’m so sorry! I’ve just never, um, seen anything quite like it.” My face heats, and I quickly down the first shot the bartender slides our way. We haven’t ordered, but I don’t care. “Keep them coming,” I tell him, lifting my empty glass to signal him.
Fox smiles as she sips her alcohol. “So tell me, how are things in paradise? I hear that you live upstairs with all four of them now.”
My heart stutters. How many people know that I’m staying here, and with four men? “How did you hear that?”
She taps her bright red manicure against the edge of her glass. “I might not be Russian, but I know a thing or two about how this place works.” Leaning over to whisper in my ear, she says, “I’m friends with Liara, their manager. She’s the one who organizes these events.” Sitting back on her stool, she tilts her head to the side. “You haven’t met her?”
“I’ve been a bit—” How should I describe navigating three men’s traumatic pasts? Instantly locking eyes with Thanatos from across the room, I inhale sharply as goosebumps trail down my arms, our prior collision inside the weapons room sending mixed signals to my body. Hot, cold, feverish . I swallow hard and quickly turn back to Fox.
She’s wearing an amused smirk on her painted lips. Shit. Am I that easy to read?
“I’ve been, um, preoccupied.” It’s not only three men’s trauma that I’m dealing with now, but four.
Apparently, that’s amusing as hell to a woman like Fox. “I’ll say.” She lifts her glass and clinks it against mine. “To complications, then. May they be easy to bed and hard once they get there.”
I laugh so hard that the vodka burns my nose.
“Speaking of complications, one of yours has come to visit.” Fox winks at someone over my shoulder. “Hey there, handsome. Want a drink?”
Carefully spinning my chair around, I come face to face—well, mask—with Ruin. “Hey,” I breathe, reaching for his hand. “What are you doing over here? Weren’t you just with—” I glance behind him, then around the perimeter of the room. If Thanatos is nearby, he’s out of my immediate vantage.
“I want you to dance.” Ruin ignores Fox’s greeting and takes a step closer to me, running his gloved hands up my thighs as he slips between them. “Will you dance for me, krosotka ?”
My body warms from deep inside, spreading through my chest and deep beneath my belly. “Okay,” I breathe, suddenly eager to please him. Although he’s been going out into the city with us, I can tell it’s a drain on his energy. His body is still healing, despite any wishful thinking he and his brothers might have. “But only if you dance with me.”
Ruin is silent for a long moment. I don’t know what I was thinking, telling him that. Of course he won’t dance with me. I doubt he’s ever danced in his life, and it’s not like I’m an expert, either. “Forget I said anything?—”
Slowly, he slides his hands over my hips and pulls me out of my chair, lowering me carefully to the ground. My heels click on the hardwood, but I can barely hear them over my thundering heart. “Okay,” he says finally, dipping his head to whisper in my ear. “Take off your shoes.”
I lean back and blink up at him. “What?”
“Your shoes.” He taps my heels with the toes of his boots. “Take them off.”
Following his instructions, I lift my feet one by one and unstrap my heels, affixing them together and peering over my shoulder at Fox. “Could you?—”
“Happy to,” she purrs, taking the shoes from me before I can finish asking her to hold them for me. “Have fun, you two.” Winking, she spins me back around, right into Ruin’s arms. He catches me easily, looking as stiff as I’ve ever seen him as he peels me away from the bar.
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly, hating that I’m making him uncomfortable. “Seriously, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s what you want,” he answers simply. “You should get what you want, krosotka. ”
So should you , I want to say. After a life of having things taken from him, he must be desperate to be willingly given something in return.
This is my chance to repay him for…
Well, everything.
As we step onto the dance floor, the other guests trickle away like falling water, clearing a path for us. The music is loud, thrumming with a heavy bass that vibrates through the floors. I watch as Ruin unlaces his boots and tosses both his socks and shoes to the side, joining me in barefoot bliss. The floors are cool on my feet, and I can only imagine what they feel like beneath his bandaged soles.
“Are you ready?” I ask, surprised when he suddenly removes his gloves, then even more surprised when he slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing the fresh bandages across his shoulders and torso. Rebel and I have been working together to keep them clean, so they’re not new for me.
But they are for everyone else.
Muffled whispers and gasps, a few laughs, and some cat-calling whistles fill the room. Ruin pays none of them any mind, stepping up to me with only his black cargo pants and leather belt strapped to his hips. The hunting knife that he used on me a few days ago is strapped tightly to his thigh, a reminder that even if he looks vulnerable with all the bandages and scars trailing across his body, he’s anything but.
Meeting his eyes, I grab the bottom of my sheer top and pull it over my head, tossing it into the pile with his shirt and shoes. I leave my bralette on, but it leaves little to the imagination, especially with such an experienced audience.
Still.
If Ruin is willing to strip down for me, then I’m willing to do the same for him.
Slowly, I close the distance between us. I’m not much of a dancer, but I’ve taken enough lessons to know that if it’s only the two of us out here, it doesn’t have to be dancing in the traditional sense.
Professionals tell a story with their bodies. They move not only to the music, but to each other, feeling the ebb and flow between their bodies and learning each other’s rhythms.
I place my open palm on his chest and push, sending him back a step so that I can fill the space. Then I curve around his body, trailing my fingers over his collarbone, then across his shoulder, down his arm and wrist, until my fingertips brush the soft center of his hand. Coming up behind him, I press a kiss to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck—to the scars peeking out over his bandages.
He inhales sharply and turns, catching my waist and dragging me against his body. Staring into my eyes, he takes another deep breath, his chest heaving.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, sliding my palms up the sides of his neck and over, until I can wrap my arms around him. “Just breathe. Breathe with me.”
We move to our own beat, neither of us listening to the electric guitar riffs or pounding drums, focusing instead on each other. The touch of his hand on my hip or across my ribs, his fingers dragging against my flesh. I weave my hands into his hair and pull, earning a grunt that doesn’t sound nearly as pained as it would for any other man. I scrape my nails over his scalp, and he groans deep in his chest, panting harshly against his mask.
Leaning up on my tiptoes, I rasp in his ear. “Do you want to stop?” My heart’s beating on overdrive, my body extraordinarily sensitive to his touch, his breath, every inch of his skin touching mine. He’s hot to the touch, his exposed skin flushed a peachy pink.
He growls , lifting me up off the floor to hold me over his hips, aligning our bodies so that I can feel every hard inch of him pressing against my core. “Does it feel like I want to stop, krosotka ?”
Wanton desire pulses through my veins, pooling between my thighs and making it hard to speak without my voice shaking. “N-no,” I pant, biting my bottom lip. “But are you sure?—”
“Stop asking,” he snarls. “I am as sure about this as I am about breathing. Stop. Asking. ” Without warning, he wraps his arms tight around me and drops to his knees with a hard bang , catching me by such surprise that I squeal. My heart pounds as I wrap my thighs around his hips and hold on to him for dear life.
With a chuckle, he lowers my back to the cool hardwood floor and scrapes the edge of his hard face mask against my neck, sparking fire across my skin. When he pulls away, he stares at whatever mark he’s made, his dark eyes glowing with desire. “Your skin,” he mumbles, pulling at my calves so that he can loosen my grip enough to reach between us. Once he’s made room, he slips his hand over his belt and undoes the buckle, pulling the leather free and snapping it in his hands.
My body jolts at the sound, my nipples pebbling into tight peaks. “What are you?—”
“Shh,” he beckons, settling his hips over mine and rocking, groaning at the friction it creates.
Pleasure shoots down my spine, making my eyes flutter. Fuck. That shouldn’t feel so good. I trap my bottom lip between my teeth as Ruin laces my hands together in a prayer pose, then binds my wrists together with his belt. Cinching it tight, he tucks the end through one of the loops and tests its hold, nodding once he’s satisfied.
“I want to feel you,” he murmurs, planting his palms on the back of my thighs and pushing , forcing my knees closer to my chest. I gasp at the stretch, knowing that I’ll pay for it in the morning, but unwilling to tell him to stop.
He latches onto the sound, his head tilting to the side. “Does that hurt?”
“A-a little.”
Releasing one of my legs, he snaps open the front button on my shorts and tears them open one-handed. Before we came downstairs for the evening, the brothers all agreed that even if no one was going to see what I was wearing underneath my clothes, it needed to be sexy so that I would feel sexy, a concept that they were clearly proud of. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that women were the ones who came up with that idea long before they had, but from the way Ruin’s pupils dilate upon seeing the scarlet lace hidden beneath my shorts, I have a feeling that the boys may have been lying about that part.
They really wanted me to wear lace for themselves.
Ruin grabs the hunting knife strapped to his thigh and pulls it from its sheath. “Stay still,” he tells me, pressing the flat side of the knife against my thigh. It’s cold, causing goosebumps to form around its touch. Staring at my raised flesh, Ruin tips the knife onto the dull edge and carves upward, applying enough pressure for me to feel the blade without the danger of it cutting my skin. He hums while he works, carving some kind of design into my flesh, the knife criss-crossing across my thigh, then over my stomach, around my bellybutton, then back down over the swell of my belly. He tips the sharp point to my panties, slipping it beneath the band and snapping the elastic with a flick of his wrist. With a grunt, he tears through the flimsy fabric, then switches focus to the black pleather digging into my thighs.
Booty shorts might be sexy for the first hour or two, but they sure as shit aren’t comfortable after that.
“Cut them off,” I whine, lifting my hips. My pussy throbs as he obliges, grabbing hold of one half of the zipper, pulling the material tight, and sawing through the middle. He tears through the rest, hastily shoving the fabric over my thighs so that it falls to the floor beneath us. His blade nicks my skin at the very end, a sudden prick of sharp pain that quickly turns into a burning heat.
Ruin freezes, his body going completely still.
“I’m okay,” I promise, wriggling on my back so that he knows how serious I am about that. Yes, the knife is scary, or it’s supposed to be— fuck , I don’t know, I just want my clothes off! “Please don’t stop?—”
His eyes snap to mine and he hisses through his teeth, suddenly grinding his erection against my pussy. I drag in a thick lungful of air as he digs in his heels and ruts against me, neither of us actually naked, but both of us on the same page about what we want.
“Take them off ,” I whine for a second time. “ Please , take them off. Touch me, Ruin, I’m so—I’m so hot, baby. Please.”
With a groan, he drops the knife and lowers his body over mine. Wedging his hand between my thighs, he buries his fingers inside what’s left of my panties and cups my sex, sliding his fingers through my slick folds. “Always so wet,” he pants, thrusting his hips. The pressure pushes his fingertips past the threshold and inside of me, making my eyes roll back as he finally starts moving, working my pussy with his fingers and thrusting wildly, lost to a rhythm I can no longer hear. His cock grinds against my body, slotting in the curve where my thigh meets my pelvis, while I attempt to fuck myself on his fingers. It’s a fight for friction and pressure, both of us demanding more without working together to achieve it.
“ Fuck ,” he moans, his body trembling as he smothers mine. I feel his cock pulse with his release, the sticky seed caught in his boxers. I’m close but not that close, and my need tumbles past my lips as incoherent phrases and moans that come just short of begging.
Once the blood rushing in his ears settles, Ruin realizes that I’m still writhing beneath him and surges back to life, burying his fingers to the knuckle and stretching my pussy, going deeper than he’s ever dared before. “You will come for me ,” he growls, panting hotly against his mask. Grinding the heel of his palm against my clit, he makes me scream as pleasure dips into pain, the pressure too much, too hard—his fingernails too sharp, carving me up inside. But through it all, the pleasure barrels through my body like a freight train, an invisible force that can’t be stopped.
I suck in lungfuls of air as my pleasure crests, tears stinging my eyes as Ruin wrenches an orgasm from deep within me. My body convulses as my pussy clenches hard, a silent scream catching in my throat as I come.
Rather than praise me for how well I came for him, Ruin hums in the back of his throat and drags his fingers through my soaked folds, enjoying the feel of my body submitting to his. I breathe as deeply as I can, willing the stars from my eyes as I come back into my body and mind.
Laughter floats through the air, as do wet, sucking sounds and the slap of skin on skin, and I turn my face to the side to find that not only are Ruin and I writhing on the floor together, but so are a half dozen other couples, some of them watching the carnal pleasures evolving around them while others are so focused on chasing their own pleasure that the world is as lost to them as it was to me and Ruin.
I blow air against the sweat on Ruin’s neck, grateful when he shivers, waking from his own lustful haze. Slowly, he pulls his fingers from my pussy and drags them against my stomach, smearing my skin with my desire. “Soon,” he rumbles, palming the band of fabric over my chest while he buries his face in the crook of my neck. His mask cuts into my skin, one of the buckles digging into the soft flesh above my collarbone. “Soon, krosotka , you will be mine. ” His fingers dig between my breasts, pressing hard against my sternum.
Closing my eyes, I try not to let him feel the anxious stutter of my heart, the way it skips two beats and ramps up fast.
If this isn’t what makes me his, then what is?
He exhales slowly and chuckles, finally lifting himself onto his knees to untie his belt from around my wrists. “You will like that, won’t you?” Blood rushes to my hands, making me gasp. He squeezes my fingers. “It was me you cried for as you drove these fingers into your cunt every night for weeks, wasn’t it?”
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s talking about the before —all the long nights in between when he first appeared in my kitchen with my invitation to Midnight and the actual event when he and his brothers officially claimed me. It feels like a lifetime ago—like I was someone else, chasing a high I never realized how much I needed.
That’s how these men feel to me—like a new life.
Chuckling, Ruin pulls my fingertips to his abdomen, letting me feel the heat of his scarred flesh. “Am I everything you hoped for? The man of your dreams?”
I can’t read his mind to find out what he wants me to say, so all I can be is honest.
“I don’t know,” I breathe, staring beyond the faceless mask to the man hiding underneath. “But I want to find out.”
His eyes flash silver. “Then we will.”
I echo his words, feeling the weight of them in not just my heart, but my soul. “Then we will.”