11. Ruin
Chapter 11
Ruin
There’s a hole in Rage’s bedroom door. It’s too small for my hand to fit through, but large enough that I can see shadows of Rage and Celia within, two shapes created out of darkness, unmoving.
They’re sleeping—or pretending to.
That’s their first mistake.
What’s the point of being with someone and not learning how they breathe? The little twitches of their muscles as they fall asleep—or the way they lift their leg or roll onto their stomach in the middle of the night. There are thousands of things to catalogue about Celia at night, and Rage is wasting his opportunity to learn every single one of them.
She’s wasting hers to learn more about him, too.
I pick at the hole in the door, prying off splinters of wood and flinging them to the floor. I don’t realize that I’m doing it at first, but once I recognize the steady pull of my fingertips and snap of wood, I can’t stop. I pick and pick and pick , harder, longer, peeling away the layers between us, digging my way inside.
As the hole expands, it’s tempting to slip my hand inside, but even after an hour, I can only manage up to my wrist. My arm won’t fit. I can’t unlock the door from this side—not without Rage’s handprint. But from the inside, with the right amount of leverage, the lock will pop and the door will swing open.
Rebel chooses this precise moment to wander in from the club well past five AM, wandering to the connected kitchen to chug a bottle of water. I remain still as he shuffles through the motions of undressing, dropping his clothes where he stands. It drives Rage crazy when the house is untidy, so he’ll pick them up before leaving in the morning and throw them at Rebel’s closed door.
I know all of this, because I watch it unfold.
Just like how I know that Rage thinks he loves Celia, because I watch him struggle with it every day. He isn’t used to loving things. With us, it’s easy—we are a constant in his life, always present, never changing. Sure, we argue with him when we don’t like a call he makes, but we don’t throw it back in his face, because we know that he’s usually right when it comes to making decisions for our best interests.
Celia doesn’t understand that yet.
She keeps fighting him.
I don’t think Rage likes it as much as he claims he does.
I think he’s so desperate for another point of stability in our lives that he’s clinging too tightly to the possibility of one—and pushing her away in the process.
Celia isn’t like Rebel or me. She doesn’t have to be here. She doesn’t have to accept us as we are.
He keeps forgetting that.
She keeps trying to remind him.
Rebel walks past me on the way to his bedroom, pausing when he notices me lingering in Rage’s doorway. “What are you doing?” Not only is he shirtless, but he’s stripped completely bare, uncaring about the chill in the air. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and walks closer. “Is that a hole? Rage is gonna flip his shit.”
“She’s in there.” I press my body flat against the door, staring through the hole. Celia and Rage haven’t moved, but they must hear us, because they’re not really asleep. They’re still pretending, with Celia wrapped around Rage’s back like she’s holding him.
I wonder what that feels like.
“Are they fucking?” Rebel shoulders me, but I don’t budge. “Hey, let me see.”
“They are not.”
“I want to see. ”
I take a step to the right and Rebel takes my place at the door. Cursing at what he finds within, he screws his eyes shut and rubs the back of his eyelids. “They should be fucking. They need to get it out of their system before they explode all over the fucking place. The club went crazy after they left.” He tears himself away and goes back to the kitchen for another bottle of water. Chugging half of it, he huffs out an exhale. “I had to break up three fights and revoke someone’s membership. Then, my clients were—” his face scrunches up—“more handsy than usual. I barely got away without someone tearing my dick off.”
We stare at each other for a heartbeat.
“Which ones?”
Shrugging one shoulder, he tosses his half-empty water bottle to the couch. “Too many to name, man.”
I catalogue this info for later.
“Don’t worry about it.” Rebel’s eyes search mine, his fingers twitching by his sides. “Seriously. We can’t have another incident.”
I disagree, but I don’t tell him that.
Rage will be waking soon. Even without an alarm, his body works off of a routine he’s spent years perfecting. Event nights don’t interrupt his body’s internal rhythm.
My shift is ending, too, so I stare through the hole again as my skin starts to itch. “I haven’t seen her today.” Or yesterday. Although Rage and Liara handle the logistics of the club and its events and Rebel slips between roles to fill in any gaps in the line, my work never stops.
Last night’s shift began before I was ready. I got caught up the job and wasn’t able to visit Celia at all while she slept… which means that, aside from holding her steady for Rage earlier, I haven’t touched her in over twenty-four hours.
That little stunt in the ballroom earlier tonight doesn’t count. I barely remember the feel of her beneath my fingers. The sounds of her breathing. The scent of her desire. All of the things I crave about Celia were lost in a sea of red, so I’ve missed the pieces that matter most.
Now is the time to rectify that.
Reaching my hand inside the hole in the door, I tear through as far as my body will allow, pulling past the wooden splinters to grab the handle. My fingertips graze it, slipping over the tip, my arm on fire as my skin peels back in jagged grooves. The metallic scent of my blood fills the air. A dull sense of pain radiates up my arm.
I couldn’t care less.
I try for the handle again, grunting when my fingers slip over the metal, both slick with blood.
“Ruin,” Rebel hisses, smacking my shoulder. “I wanna see her, too, but you don’t see me tearing my fucking arm off to get in there.” He frowns at me before turning around. “I have the key.” Leaping for his clothes, he pads his pockets before running back to me with his cell phone. The screen lights up the room as he clicks open our security app.
Out of paranoia, Rage keeps the apartment off limits for the security system. If anyone were to hack into our system, they could run through the club and all of our adjoining properties with relative ease until the system automatically resets. I watch with little interest as Rebel taps a few buttons on his screen. It’s not surprising that he found a rule to break, but it’s surprising that Rage hasn’t caught it yet.
What’s even more surprising that when Rebel unlocks the door and I peel my arm back, Rage doesn’t move.
Maybe he is sleeping.
We swing open Rage’s bedroom door, both of us hovering on the other side. The room stands still like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Neither of us speaks.
Neither of them moves.
Blood drips down my arm, the subtle tap tap on the hardwood barely audible over the deep breathing inside the room. Rebel’s breathing quickens, his leg jerking forward. I doubt he’s seen this side of Celia before. It’s the one I usually keep for myself, tucked away beneath the sheets.
She looks different here, in another room, with another man.
Different, but no less appetizing.
Rebel and I step into the room in unison, hovering at the end of the bed. This is usually when a sleeping person stirs, their body sensing something amiss, a presence that lingers where it shouldn’t. I usually have tools to combat the twitching limbs, the flicker of eyelids, the panicked whimpering. But just how Rage’s work shift is beginning soon, mine is ending.
I don’t have my tools with me.
But I don’t need them with Celia.
Unlike my usual marks, Celia doesn’t wake in a panic at being watched. She’s slow to rouse, like I’m dredging her body out of a pit of sand, each falling grain bringing us closer together. Her wavelength meets mine somewhere between waking and dreaming, hovering in that precipice between life and death like it finds comfort there, in the in-between.
I understand it all too well.
Rebel, however, has too little patience and too much energy. It frizzles around him in every move he makes, fraying at the edge of his consciousness. Event nights always string him out, affecting his rhythm more than the rest of us. He sweeps his hand over Celia’s bare calf, hovering over her knee.
Even in the relative darkness, I can picture the bruises on her skin.
A shiver rolls down my spine, making my balls tingle. I lick my lips and watch as Rebel climbs into the bed, slipping beneath the blankets to spoon Celia from behind. He fits like a missing piece, easily contorting his body to hers, sighing into her hair as he nuzzles close.
I don’t care to join them, so I watch instead.
Then, I reach out and touch her.
I start with her foot, brushing my bloodied fingers over the top, waiting for her twitch. Then I press the pad of my thumb into her arch and sweep up, massaging the knot that keeps coming back. I play like this for a while, dirtying her skin, trailing my hand higher, palming the curve of her calf, the thick expanse of her milky thigh.
There is no window in Rage’s room, but I imagine the sun rising. The black blood would warm in the light, revealing streaks of crimson across Celia’s skin. Another shiver rolls down my spine and blood flows to my thickening cock. My body warms, making my skin tight. There’s never enough room when I’m trying to fit Celia inside, too, like she’s too much for me to hold.
All my broken pieces beside all of her whole ones.
I wonder if snapping and cracking bits of her will make room for shards of me in between.
Rage wakes first, his body’s natural rhythm winning over the need for sleep. The transformation is immediate—all of the tension in his body snaps back into place, his voice a low, warning rumble once he realizes we’re here. “Get out.”
Neither Rebel or I move.
He clutches Celia to his chest tightly, like he’s trying to convince himself that she’s here for only his pleasure.
But we agreed before this ever began.
She doesn’t belong to him.
She belongs to us.
I stare at my palm pressed to Celia’s thigh. When I lift it, a bloodied handprint stains her skin. Her leg slides an inch higher on the mattress, like she’s expecting me to bend her knee and spread her thighs.
I could.
I should.
But I don’t.
I stare at the three of them in bed. “What does she feel like?”
Rebel’s the one to answer, a pleased sigh on his lips. “Warm. Soft.” He wedges his knee between her legs and hugs her body to his chest. “Perfect.”
Celia sighs and rolls onto her back.
The three of us go still.
“You two aren’t welcome,” Rage grumbles, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I have eight hours with her. It’s only been two.”
“It’s been three,” I point out, tapping my fingertips on my thigh. “You left the party at three AM. It’s six.”
“ Two ,” he insists, “because the clock didn’t start until later.” He rolls onto his other side, facing Celia, and unabashedly palms her tit. “We made a deal.”
“ We made a deal, or have you already forgotten?” Rebel wraps an arm around Celia’s waist and pulls her closer to him. My brothers glare at each other over her naked chest. “You can’t hog her all to yourself.”
“The fuck I can’t. She’s in my bed.”
“You locked her in here! If she had a choice, she sure as hell wouldn’t be sleeping next to you. ”
“What, you think she’d choose you?” Rage’s laugh is bitter. “Because you kiss her on the mouth instead of her pussy?” He growls. “I know what she needs, and it sure as hell isn’t some high school boyfriend bullshit.”
“The fuck did you just say?”
Celia’s eyes snap open. “Will you both shut the fuck up ?” She smacks Rage’s hand off her boob and tears Rebel’s arm from around her waist. Snagging the bundle of blankets, she pulls them as high up as she can, huffing when they get stuck under Rage’s muscled thighs. She manhandles him until she can tug them free, wrapping the bedsheet, then the comforter, securely around her body.
It’s wrapped tight enough to rival a straightjacket.
The two men by her sides look like they want to murder each other on top of it.
“Boys,” she snaps, “I’m tired. I don’t know what godforsaken time it is, but you’ve stolen enough of my night. Either go to sleep, or get the hell out so I can get mine.”
Rage grabs her chin and turns her face toward him. “Our deal was eight hours.” Brushing his lips over hers, he rumbles, “I never promised sleep.”
“I never promised anything,” Rebel murmurs, purring into her ear.
“You’re not a part of this!” She blindly reaches behind her and smacks Rebel across the hip, eliciting the faintest chuckle past his lips.
Their banter shows familiarity with each other, a certain degree of comfort. Rebel blows air across the back of Celia’s neck, and she barely seems annoyed.
Rage notices this, too. Any lingering serenity from waking up beside his woman disintegrates in an instant. “Rebel, get the fuck out of my bed.”
Rebel stretches languidly, humming softly in the back of his throat. “I don’t think I will.”
I cross to the floor lamp near the bench press and pull the chain. Harsh LED light floods the room, but Celia’s the only one who flinches. Rage is glaring daggers at our brother while Rebel simply flexes his thighs, poking Celia in the hip with his cock.
She freezes, eyes widening a single notch. Her lips part in this pretty little O and her breath hitches.
Then she surprises all of us by wrapping her arms around Rage’s shoulders and pulling herself closer. “You promised ,” she murmurs, wide eyes pleading with him.
Though I’m not sure for what.
A muscle in his jaw tics, his eyes pinging between her and Rebel. He cups the back of her head and kisses her slowly, coaxing her to relax. Once she releases the breath she’s holding, he brushes his knuckles across her jawline and stares into her eyes.
I feel it then—that something has changed. There’s a missing piece between what I knew when I found them lying in the dark together and what I know now from seeing them lying together in the light.
There are hints. The hole in the door. The clothes on the floor. The way Rage’s hair is still damp—but hers is bone dry.
The way they look at each other, the weight of this unknown promise settling between them.
Separating the two of them from the two of us.
The three short hours between when they left the party until now should have been as insignificant as the last twenty-four spent without her, but it’s clear that something has changed. It’s small, like a single drop of rain falling into the vast expanse of a turbulent ocean. It won’t ripple or cause a surge when there is already chaos erupting around it.
And yet.
Rage and Celia’s chaos has shifted from a roar to a rumble in those three, short, inconsequential hours.
I don’t want to leave them alone anymore.
Unlacing my boots, I step out of them and place them near the door, then I close and lock it. Tiny shreds of my skin stick to the wood, and I glance down at my arm.
The cuts aren’t deep and the blood is already coagulating, so I’m not concerned with it. Rage, on the other hand, grows incised when he realizes what’s happening. Not only is Rebel refusing to leave, but so am I, and I’m bleeding all over his belongings .
“Goddammit,” he curses, screwing his eyes shut. “God dammit. ” Kissing Celia hastily—not savoring her at all —he growls into her mouth before letting her go. “The med kit’s under the sink. Fucking hell. Clean yourself up.” He grimaces when he notices the stains I’ve left on his comforter, his teeth clenching once he peels it back to find Celia’s legs marked with it, too.
I hesitate in the bathroom doorway, admiring the sticky handprint on her thigh.
Crimson, just like I’d imagined.
Celia gasps, flailing to disentangle herself from the blankets, from the men, from the situation. “What the hell is that? Oh god, is that blood ?” She makes this high-pitched squealing sound and climbs over Rebel to get to the bathroom.
I follow her inside.
She strips from head to toe and jumps in the shower before the water is even turned on. “Gross, gross, gross, ” I hear her muttering, then the flick of a cap, the slosh of suds lathering on skin.
Walking to the shower, I pull open the door and watch her scrub her leg clean, then her foot, her little fingers digging between her toes to ensure every drop of blood vanishes. It washes down the drain in a swirl of pink foam.
Once she’s satisfied with her work, she finally looks up and notices me. Her pretty pink lips part to say something, but she stops herself, shaking her head. “Are you okay?” Frowning, she rinses off her hands and takes a step closer. “Those look new.”
I nod. “They are.”
Sighing, she turns off the water and grabs the towel slung over the shower door. Wrapping it around her body, she sidesteps around me and takes a closer look at my wounds. “I’m not scared of blood,” she clarifies unnecessarily.
I grunt, not really caring if she’s scared of it or not. She’ll see much more blood the longer she’s wish us.
“I just don’t like it on me.” Her lips pinch together. “Did you do that? The blood and the, um, handprint?”
I lick my lips. She might not be scared, but it’s close enough to tickle my nervous system. “I like it on you. The red.” I scrape my nails down her cheek, enjoying the flush of pink, the three stripes blooming on her skin.
She blinks up at me with wide, owl eyes. “Why?”
My relationship with red is complicated, all crossed wires and broken things. But I like broken things. They’re easier to play with.
I watch Celia shift her weight from foot to foot while she waits for my answer. Her gaze flicks to my fingertips and she swallows. “Ruin? Did you hear me?”
Taking a breath, I press my index finger into the pillow of her cheek, making her flinch. “Yeah. I heard you.”
When it’s clear I’m not going to answer, she bites her bottom lip and tears her gaze away. “Let’s patch you up, okay?”
I’m much more interested in her reaction to my fingertips, but I follow her to the sink. She rummages in the bottom cabinet for a minute before retrieving the first aid kit. It’s a large zipper pouch with everything from burn cream to a suture kit. We each have one in our rooms, courtesy of Rage’s over-preparedness. He uses his kit for patching up his knuckles more than anything, so most of the items within are unused.
Mine is nearly empty.
Celia clears her throat and sets the kit on the counter, eying my arm with unease. “You can’t do this yourself, can you?”
I’m too busy watching a bead of water travel down a lock of her hair to answer.
“Hurry up,” Rebel whines from the bedroom. “Patch him up and get your sweet ass back here, baby.”
Rage huffs and clicks off the light. “The bed isn’t big enough for four people.”
“Ruin can sleep on the floor, then.”
“ You can sleep outside.”
They bicker amongst themselves while Celia gently washes my arm in the sink, wiping away the dried blood and examining the cuts. “I don’t think you need stitches, but I’m not exactly an expert…” She unwraps gauze and winds it around my forearm, taping it down once two layers are in place. “I’ve only done this a few times.”
Hm. A few times. “For yourself?” I can’t imagine Celia getting into catfights with other women or full-on brawls with men.
She shakes her head. “For my dad. He used to come home with these scratches all over his arms…” Her nose crinkles. “They weren’t like yours though.” She exhales slowly and returns the supplies to the kit. “Anyway, after he started coming home with new ones every few days, my mother refused to help anymore. Said it was his fault he got them in the first place.”
I don’t know much about Monrovia senior. Rage keeps tabs on the bratva as part of everyday responsibilities, but Rebel and I aren’t main players within the organization. We’re sideliners, called in for specific jobs for specific purposes. I never crossed paths with Monrovia or his son Mikhail… and especially not his daughter Celia.
If Rage hadn’t brought her to my attention, I’m not sure I would have ever noticed her at all.
Rebel and Rage are eagerly waiting when we return to the bedroom, both of their gazes snapping to her the moment she steps back into the room. She wrapped her body in a towel and dried her hair with another. Crossing her arms, she levels each of us with a stern look. “No one is allowed to fuck me tonight. I have a few more hours of peace , and I intend to make the most of them. Which means sleeping, in case that wasn’t clear.”
Smiling at her, Rebel crosses his arms behind his head and spreads his thighs, his flaccid cock flopping to the mattress. It twitches when Celia makes eye contact with it, and she flushes a bright shade of pink.
Will she blush like that when she sees my dick for the first time, or will she bite her lip—like she’s doing now—and blush deeper for me?
“You both need to put clothes on.”
Rage grumbles. “No.”
Rebel sucks his snakebite into his mouth and runs a hand through his hair. “No can do, baby. I’m all natural, all the time.” His eyes light up with mischief. “Are you nervous that you’ll wake up with one of us inside you?” He groans, his cock swelling. “That is so fucking hot?—”
“That is not happening,” Rage hisses, glaring at Rebel. “If you so much as think about it, I’ll hand her a knife and hold you down for castration . ” He pats the space beside him at the edge of the bed. “Come to bed, Celia. No more delays. It’s fucking sunrise already.”
Celia hesitates.
I press my hand into the small of her back and guide her to the middle of the bed. “I can lay on top of you,” I offer, breathing hard against my mask. It’ll be different than when I’m grinding the heel of my palm into her clit and watching her drift off to sleep after she comes, but I’m twitching at the prospect of six more hours with Celia.
Different bedroom. No clothes. Three men.
Everything about this situation is new, and it’s exciting.
As she crawls onto the bed and settles in the middle between Rebel and Rage, she peeks up at me from beneath her long lashes, the faintest dusting of pink on her cheeks. Then, she reaches her hand out to invite me in.
“I… I’d like that. Thank you.”
Unlike my brothers, I know how to listen.
I keep my clothes on.