2. Celia
Chapter 2
Celia
My home has always been a picture of perfection both inside and out. Pristine white walls match the decor: sleek and shiny, with hints of silver and sparkle strategically placed to catch rays of sunlight in the warmth of dusk and dawn. The flowerbeds outside are much the same, filled with local greenery that rotates every few months as the seasons change. Strangers and friends alike know at least one thing: Celia Monrovia keeps a tidy home.
Not even Rebel can change that.
Every time he misplaces a throw blanket, leaves the TV remote out, or rifles through my cabinets for something to entertain himself, I put everything back into its proper place. Some may call it a compulsion, but my mother would call it a homemaker’s duty, and that’s how I choose to see it.
A perfect home means a perfect life.
That’s what I tell myself as I drive up the slope and park beside Rebel’s motorcycle. It doesn’t fit here, much like the rest of him. All tattoos and smoke, filling my home with something dark and disorderly—out of place for a cookie-cutter suburban.
Yet he makes himself at home even when I’m not around, becoming more in-tune with my belongings than even my ex-husband was. Rebel has spent countless hours rummaging through my cabinets, drawers, and closets, like he’s looking for something. A secret. An affair. Something broken that I’ve swept under the rug.
He won’t find anything, because I have nothing to hide.
As I round the sidewalk from the front to the side door, I catch glimpses of his presence. The open windows, spilling warm light into the yard. The middle drawer in the antique china cabinet, angled open on the right side. The swivel armchairs in the living room, facing the windows instead of the coffee table in the center of the room. Despite the disarray, passerby still have the opportunity to glimpse the picture I’ve painted, pristine white and perfect, not a single speck of dust, dirt, or decay. It’s what my mother advised after my divorce settled.
Show them how strong you are in the aftermath, and everyone will forget you were ever weak in the first place.
I hover outside the kitchen door as I catch Rebel within, doing what he does best: snooping. He hops up on the kitchen counter and reaches for the cabinet above the fridge, the edge of his t-shirt lifting to expose a sliver of skin over his hips. He goes straight for the liquor, unscrewing the cap on a half-empty bottle of vodka and taking a swig. Or two. Or three. He holds the bottle by the neck with one hand and continues rummaging with the other, sorting through what little remains from my ex-husband’s liquor stash. When Rebel closes the cabinet and reaches for the one beside it, I roll my eyes and push open the door. “There’s nothing interesting up there, Rebel, I promise.”
I drop my keys into the wooden bowl on the bar, frowning at his own set already nestled snugly within. It’s like he wants to live here. Nothing about Rebel screams domesticated , though. He’s all dark tattoos and lean muscle, black skinny jeans slung low over his hips, a charcoal gray v-neck exposing the intricate ink curving across his chest. Despite sharing midnight hair and dark eyes with his brothers, he stands out by the glint of metal looped around his bottom lip and the soft beanie slung over his head.
That, and the distinct dick piercing I remember rubbing against my tongue that night I sucked him off at the club.
He doesn’t have the grace to pretend he isn’t snooping. Flicking his gaze in my direction, he slips something silver inside his front pocket before hopping off the counter. “Everything here is interesting, baby .” He sets the vodka down on the counter before slinking toward me, wrapping his arms around my waist like vines. “It’s yours.”
The sincerity in his eyes almost makes me believe him.
I settle my hands over his hips and take a deep breath. Even this part is foreign: the sweet welcome home . My heart aches for the little things it’s missed from my marriage—things that I haven’t lost, but things that I never had. This is one of them.
Rebel’s lips brush my cheek as he bends down to my height. With only a few inches between us, he doesn’t have to stoop far. “Missed you today.”
There’s no telling how long he’s been waiting for me, only that this has become routine just as much as Rage’s morning visits at the boutique. I never gave Rebel a house key; he finds a way inside on his own, likely breaking a lock in the process. He dips lower and mouths a tender spot on my neck, humming against my skin. “You feel tense. Rough day?”
A shiver rolls down my spine as he sucks the mark he left yesterday, pulling blood to the surface to darken it some more. That’s the thing with these men—they enjoy marking their territory. “You could say that.” Rage was rougher than usual today, not stopping after his morning snack, breaking routine to get on my nerves and take more than was on offer. The memory of his fingers pulsing inside my heat forces a blush to my cheeks. “I think I made your brother mad.”
Rebel scoffs, lifting his head to peer into my eyes. His lips shine with saliva, the snakebite gleaming silver in the light. “Rage is always mad. I swear he was born with a huge stick up his ass.” Rolling his eyes, he pulls me away from the kitchen and into the hallway, toward the stairs to the second level. “C’mon, let’s strip you outta these clothes.”
“I can do it myself.”
He keeps a hand wrapped around mine as he leads me up the stairs. When we reach the landing, he spins us and pins me to the wall, crowding me with his warmth, his scent. The glint of mischief in his eyes is the only warning I get before he dips, sealing his lips over mine. I can feel the smirk in his kiss, the way he buries a piece of himself within everything he does, including this.
If Rage’s kisses are an all-consuming fire, Rebel’s are the smoke that lingers long after he’s gone.
“It’s more fun when I watch,” he murmurs, sucking my bottom lip between his. With a groan, he pulls back completely, leaving me dazed as he gestures toward the bedroom. “After you, beautiful.”
The only sound accompanying the change from my wraparound dress into pajamas is the rustle of clothing. Rebel remains silent as he watches me, dark eyes hooded with a longing that’s palpable. I can taste it in the remnants of his kiss, see it in the pitched tent of his jeans, feel it when he leans back on the bed, the long length of his body screaming fuck me.
I slip into the bathroom instead of climbing into his lap and dry humping him into oblivion. I resist, because I can’t give in to these men. Little things like tolerating their break-ins and tantrums, sure, I can handle that. But seeking out the warmth of their bodies? The sting of their touch?
My nipples harden to sharp peaks as a shiver rolls down my spine. I’m still strung out from Rage’s advances earlier in the day— always wet now , it seems—and I go through the motions of my nighttime routine to try and break out of it. I remove my makeup, scrub my face, brush my hair and teeth, check my cuticles, hop into the shower, whatever I can do to delay walking back into the bedroom.
I know what’s waiting for me, and it’s a very bad idea.
Everything about these brothers screams bad fucking idea.
By the time I finally muster up the courage to face Rebel, he’s no longer in the bedroom. Darkness has fallen outside, which means that much like the last rays of sunlight, he’s gone, off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. He’s left the two bedside lamps on and a crudely-made sandwich on a plate.
A smarter woman would have reservations, a fear of poison or drugs or hidden razor blades, and throw the sandwich away, but I don’t. I devour it in two minutes flat, grateful that he sliced a fresh tomato and added pepper jack cheese. It’s not gourmet, and God , my mother would lose her shit if she knew I was eating not just a cold-cut sandwich, but a sandwich in bed , but this is what my life has become.
I’m no longer cooking elaborate meals every night. Instead, I’m letting a stranger feed me scraps from the fridge.
Exhaustion creeps in far too quickly. I’ve got orders to place and clients to contact and groceries to buy, but I slip into a light sleep easily, like my body is ready for something my mind is not. It’s in these half moments, the ones where I’m sort of in my body but sort of not, that are the most dangerous.
It’s when he arrives.
The third brother, his face and body covered in little more than black leather, always appears in my doorway as a shadow. At first, I think he’s just that: a trick of the light. A figment of my imagination. Nothing to worry about.
Except then he moves.
If death has a personification, I imagine that it’s Ruin. Moving through the shadows like ink, slowly bleeding from one to the next, so gentle that everything still feels like a dream. Yet, your body begins to react. It knows that something is near—something potentially dangerous—but the way he moves is breathtakingly beautiful, languid, graceful, soothing… how can something so magnificent be anything other than welcome ?
He stands at the foot of my bed, staring.
This is how the night always begins.
Slowly, he reaches out a leather gloved hand, lifting the sheets to expose my feet, my legs. He starts there, brushing his fingertips against the tips of my toes, the arch of my foot, gliding gently across my body with a lover’s touch. It’s only when he reaches my calves that he hooks around them, palming my muscles, rubbing now, soothing the aches of the day away. My eyes flutter—open, closed, doesn’t matter—because now I can feel him. Now, I know that this isn’t a dream, that he’s here with me.
Inside my bedroom. Inside my mind.
His breathing is steady until he bends my knees, lifting them higher on the mattress, his movements louder, his touch persistent. If I spread my legs to quicken things along, he freezes in place.
Only when I settle back into the sheets does he continue. He likes me pliant, but not willing. Clothed, but not covered. Trapped, but not chained.
He works the blankets up over my waist, pinning me with their weight on my torso and his hands on either side. Breathing heavy, he exhales harsh against the black mask covering his entire face. Staring.
“Were you good girl today, krosotka? ” His Russian accent is thicker than his brothers’ and always present. “Or did you let them touch you?”
I bite my lip as he runs a gloved palm up my inner thigh, spreading my legs wider, making room for him. He already knows the answer: I couldn’t stop Rage from touching me if I tried, and Rebel keeps his kisses above-the-waist. Each man’s touch is different, and Ruin is no exception. Our eyes lock through the slits in his mask, the sight of their irises—not quite black like his brothers’, but a deep ocean blue—becoming as achingly familiar as his touch. Featherlight, then not. Imaginary, then real.
Ruin pushes up my nightgown and shoves it beneath the wad of blankets across my waist. He drags his palm over my stomach, leaving sparks in its wake. I drag in a deep breath and try to stay still as he inches closer to where I want him most. His hand hovers over my mound, fingers twitching, before pulling back and reaching into his pocket. The ache between my thighs sharpens as reveals a switchblade and flicks it open with a snap of his wrist. I can’t see Ruin’s face, but I picture it all the same, blending his brothers’ features to come up with my best guess. Does he bite his bottom lip as he slices through my panties? Is there a divot between his brows as he concentrates on the task? Or are his lips parted in silent rapture as he pulls the fabric away to bare my body to him?
His voice crackles when he speaks, each word sharp as a knife’s edge. “Show me.”
My face flames as I wriggle my arms down the sides of my body, reaching for the place between us. He keeps his palms pressed tight to my knees, pinning them in an awkward angle that dips them into the mattress while lifting my hips closer toward him. I squirm to free my right hand from the blankets, and the first punch of cool air hits hard. My hand shakes as I brush over my swollen clit, the needy ache burrowed deep inside me sparking at first touch. It’s the ache that Rage planted this morning, embers of his touch seared into the deepest parts of me. The same one that Rebel unknowingly tended, the long lines of his body and soft licks of his tongue fanning the flames.
Under a moonlit sky, it’s Ruin’s turn to crack me open and draw my desire out, to make me feel the weight of my body’s betrayal and the force of its release. He’s the one who shatters my resolve, bending me to his will with simple commands and promises of pleasure.
Ruin exhales harshly as he dips lower, applying more pressure to my knees as he leans in for a closer look. “Keep going.”
Biting my lip, I dip my fingers between my folds, knowing that he’s watching them slip inside, seeing my desire coat my fingers as I push and pull, teasing him as much as I’m teasing myself. Tension coils tight inside my abdomen as I pull them out and twirl the pads of my fingers over my clit. It’s not the same bruising intensity of Rage’s touch, but it doesn’t have to be. My toes curl, my breath catching in my throat. Heat blooms deep inside my body, and I catch myself moaning as I swipe across my bundle of nerves, faster, harder, needing the release. Knowing it’s close—that Ruin needs it, too, needs to see it. Feel it. Experience the crash with me.
His weight shifts on the bed and suddenly it’s not just my hand between my thighs, but his, too, his palm cupping mine as he crawls on top of me. Normal men might grind their dicks against my pussy, but not Ruin—he pushes the heel of my hand into my clit and shoves my fingers inside my heat, the feel of warm leather against my skin making my moans deeper, louder, frantic as his fingers join my own. I can’t tell which are mine and which are his, but there are so many now, the wet suction drawing them all in. He leans on his forearm beside my head, the feel of his hot breath lost behind his mask, but I can hear it—the heavy panting, the way he growls as my hips buck up into our hands, the tortured sound catching in his throat as he comes in his pants before I’ve even toppled over the edge.
But these moments are never about his pleasure, they’re about mine. How many times can I come in an hour? How loud can I moan, and at what pitch? Which are better—the breathless, high-pitched whines or the deep, long moans that reverberate around my ribs?
Rebel may search my house for answers, but Ruin searches my body, piecing me together like a puzzle, each orgasm a mere flip of a piece to reveal the picture hidden underneath.
It’s something that Rage, for all his righteous declarations of possession, doesn’t understand.
You can’t claim something without understanding it.
I want Ruin to kiss me, but he never does. Once sated, the ache of lust morphs into an ache of longing—for tender moments, warm breaths against pillows, the shift of skin against skin as our legs tangle in the sheets, the caress of morning light across our cheekbones, whispers of affection that go beyond the needs of the flesh.
But those pieces are the ones Ruin doesn’t know how to give, much how I wouldn’t know how to ask.
I fall asleep to the feel of his body weight over mine, his hand pressed firmly against my pussy, his face hovering over mine as he watches my consciousness slip away.
When morning comes, I’m always alone, gifted a few hours’ peace where I can try to detangle my thoughts. My body wars with my mind as I peer in the vanity mirror and take stock of the marks the men have left. Fingertip bruises on my thighs, a deep hickey along the column of my throat, a flush across my chest, the remnants of last night still slick in the curve between my thigh and my sex.
A shiver rolls down my spine, my eyes delighting in the traces of them that remain. A body that’s been touched—devoured—is a welcome sight.
But my stomach twists at the implications behind it. Their touch doesn’t come free. This isn’t a relationship, but an ownership . A way to claim my body as theirs and ward off others’ attention.
To leave me alone with no one but them for comfort, and the comfort they provide is only skin-deep.
Something gold and gleaming on my dresser catches in the morning light. Even before turning my head, I know what it is. Still, I stare at the envelope like it’s an unknown—like it could be anything else. I dream of other possibilities, imagining winter galas bathed in faux fur coats and glittering crystal curtains, or a new bride’s luxurious wedding deep in the heart of snow-tipped mountain ranges, or perhaps a sudden, spur of the moment getaway vacation to the Bahamas where the sea and salt are my only company.
But the vision shifts every time, fading back into the grim reality of vaulted ceilings shrouded in darkness, masked dancers grinding their bodies against one another, deep crimson silks draped over beams and cascading down walls. I know what I’ll find, because I’ve been there. Midnight is the dirtiest secret of the city—but once you’ve tasted it, once you’ve experienced the rush, it gets into your bloodstream.
Shit like that is hard to shake.
As I tear open the envelope and finger the thick cardstock inside, a rush of excitement washes over me. The rules of the club state that all guests must remain anonymous, utilizing code names and masks to remain secret to one another. That in itself is a thrill. It’s easy to get caught up in that—the surreal atmosphere, the way everything feels like a dream. But now that my persona Beauty has been claimed by three mafia men, alongside that excitement comes dread.
Because in the light of day, only one truth remains: if I don’t break free now, I’ll be theirs forever.
Theirs to own.
Theirs to steal.
Theirs to break.