15. Celia
Chapter 15
Celia
After detangling from Rebel’s koala grip and rushing to the bathroom to pee in the morning, the three of us emerge from Rebel’s bedroom to find a full breakfast spread sitting on the kitchen island while Rage pours fresh coffee into three mugs. When I reach for one, he moves it out of range. “No caffeine,” he says, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my forehead. Then he nods to the smallest and healthiest portion of food: a bowl of oatmeal with a handful of berries on the side. “That one’s yours.”
“Great,” I murmur, plopping down onto the nearest bar stool. But my heart isn’t in the grumbled complaint, because on the other side, hope stretches its wings and flutters like a hummingbird against my ribs.
There’s a reason I’m being fed non-greasy, non-fat foods, and it has everything to do with the life I might be carrying.
That makes the sacrifice worth it.
I grab a spoon and dunk it into my oatmeal, making a mental note to thank Dmitri—if I ever meet him—for the conscientiousness displayed while choosing my breakfast. Then I wonder if Thanatos told him what to make for me or if he left the chef to his own devices. Do either of them know what to feed a pregnant woman, or did they make their best guess?
Either way, I’m grateful for the effort being put into keeping me and the baby healthy.
It’s more consideration than a certain someone has shown the entire time I’ve known him. I glance up at Rage when he’s not looking and wonder what he’s thinking. After our little spat inside the cage yesterday, he disappeared as usual, taking all of the testosterone and frustration hanging in the air with him. It’s like he materializes from the shadows every sunlit morning to torment me, then fades out of existence any time I might actually need him for something.
Thanatos’ voice echoes in my head.
Talk to Rage about your business, and he just might help you keep it.
My stomach knots at the mere idea of asking Rage for anything, let alone for help with my boutique. I have to force myself to swallow another spoonful of oatmeal. Is Rage really the one running the club, or does he employ a full staff? No, of course he has a full staff—but how does he manage them? Who coordinates the secret invitations to Midnight , and who transforms the club from its normal nightlife functions into the debaucherous, clandestine invite-only events?
He can’t do everything himself. I’ve seen what he can do with his fists—those aren’t negotiation tools for business, they’re weapons for eradicating threats to the bratva. Someone else has to be running the club—with Rage as the face, or maybe even as the money, if he’s the one making deals in back rooms. I wouldn’t be surprised if the club is a money laundering scheme masquerading as city nightlife. In fact, I should expect it. I may not be the most prominent figure within our bratva by choice, but I do know that no matter which family name runs the outfit, all bratvas have dipped their fingers into dark deals and illicit affairs. It’s how the bratva business has continued running for centuries. One main family spearheads the traditions and values held by the many, with all family units—cousins, uncles, second aunts, longtime loyal friends and confidants—focused on protecting what’s theirs. Money, property, reputation, family .
Children.
I press my hand to my stomach and take a deep breath. Despite any misgivings I have about the bratva, it produces strong individuals and even stronger families. What happened to my father—the way he died so suddenly—was an anomaly that proves that…
I swallow hard. I’ve always believed that my father was a good man at heart and that the life of a criminal didn’t suit him. That despite being Russian, despite being a member of one of the most respected bratvas in the country, he never quite fit in. This, I’ve reasoned, is why he died. He was a criminal living a dangerous life, and that lifestyle is what snuffed him out.
But then I look at men like Rage, Rebel, or Ruin—the kind of men who seem to thrive in the chaos—and wonder if being labeled a criminal is what really killed my father… or if he died from something worse.
Like being weak.
Good, strong men don’t leave home without kissing their daughters goodbye. He doesn’t keep a secret safe house from his wife, or stash thousands of dollars in the walls of their family home, or pack a single suitcase and buy a one-way plane ticket out of the country for just himself.
His pakhan doesn’t erase his name from bratva record or refuse to bury his body in the Monrovia family crypt. Good, loyal men and women are dressed in satin and gold when they’re laid to rest.
After he died, my father never had a funeral. I don’t know what happened to his body or if there were any pieces left to bury at all.
I watch Rage fiddle with each of his brothers’ plates and note the care he takes to ensure that they both receive not only a full meal, but the shiniest silverware, perfectly-folded cloth napkins, a full, steaming mug of hot coffee, and for Ruin in particular, a mysterious paper to-go bag that the youngest brother immediately carts upstairs along with his meal. Then Rage pours me a glass of spring water, folds my napkin into a perfect square, and slides it over toward me with a tiny packet of organic brown sugar on top.
The scars on his knuckles shine in the bright kitchen light. For such a violent man, he’s precise with his movements. Deliberate. Like he… cares.
I bite the inside of my cheek as warmth spreads across my face. A good father takes care of and supports his family. Maybe it’s the baby fever talking or my hormones going crazy from all the sex I’ve been having lately, but for the first time since I met Rage, he doesn’t look like a bruiser raring for a fight.
He looks like a head of household—like a leader.
Like a father.
And it’s doing things to my insides.
As I take the sugar packet, our fingers brush and fiery sparks spread from that tiny point of contact all the way up my arm, burrowing deep in my chest. I bite the inside of my cheek and quickly tear into the packet, spraying sugar all over the island. Rage’s lips twitch as he grabs a second packet and pours it directly into my oatmeal. “Someone’s jittery this morning.”
As Rebel slides onto the bar stool beside me, he presses a quick kiss to my cheek and hums in the back of his throat. “Sugary sweet,” he rumbles, his voice still deep and raspy from sleep. He flicks his tongue across my cheek and hums deeper, like he’s licking sticky sweet sugar from my skin and really enjoying it.
Rage’s eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw jumps. “Eat your breakfast.”
“This is better.” Rebel practically purrs as he pulls me into a slow, sensual kiss that melts every lingering hint of tension in my body. This kiss is over as soon as it’s begun, but the after-effects linger. My heart flutters and my body warms from the inside-out, creating a flush that curves down my neck. I’m dazed, blinking at Rebel’s poorly hidden smirk and Rage’s clenched fists on the bar’s edge.
Just like that, the peaceful start to the morning snaps into razor-sharp pieces.
“I’m told you have training today,” Rage says abruptly, “with Thanatos.” Our eyes meet, and the blush across my chest blooms brighter at the flash of jealousy in his eyes.
I clear my throat and ignore my body’s reaction to both of them as much as possible. Focusing on the task ahead helps tremendously. “That’s correct.”
Rebel flicks the hair from his eyes. “Why? I thought you hated him.”
“He’s—” I frown and try to avoid calling their half-brother a necessary evil . “He’s offered to help, and I see no reason not to take him up on it. I need to be able to defend myself.”
“From what?”
“From whom. ”
Both brothers stare at each other for a half-second before Rage scoffs aloud and crosses his arms over his broad chest. “You’re safe as long as you’re here.”
“With us,” Rebel amends, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Anywhere we are, baby, you don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“You can’t be with me twenty-four seven, and there’s only so much you can do from behind a screen if I get attacked.” I push my half-empty bowl away and slip out of Rebel’s grasp to stand. “I’m not too proud to admit that I have weak spots. I need to know what they are so I can work around them. Thanatos made it very clear with my kidnapping that I have more of them than I realized. Out of the four of you, he has the most experience with spotting them, and—” I side-step away from Rebel’s wandering hands, ignoring the adorable pout on his lips—“he’s the only one who won’t try to get in my pants. He’ll be focused on our goal the entire time, unlike the rest of you.”
“I can focus,” Rebel protests, swirling his bar stool around to face me. Licking his lips, he slips from his seat and slinks closer. “Especially when it’s on you.”
I jump back and put distance between us. If he gets his hands on me, I’ll be late to training. A quick glance at the clock shows that I have less than twenty minutes before eight o’clock. Am I meeting Thanatos somewhere or is he picking me up? Are we going to a public gym, or does he have some kind of private facility for this kind of thing? Nerves trickle down my spine as I realize just how little I know about today’s plans. We never discussed any details. He just told me eight o’clock, like that’s all the info I need.
“What are you wearing?” Rage lifts a single eyebrow and interrupts my thoughts.
I glance down at my dirty t-shirt and sweatpants, hand-me-downs from Rebel. It’s not like I have many options, and there’s no way in hell I’m wearing lingerie. “This is all I have.”
Rage sets his coffee mug down with a bang. “Come with me.” He heads to his bedroom, slams his palm on the scanner to unlock the door, and swings it open wide. I follow with Rebel close on my heels, both of us staring inside Rage’s room from the safety of the doorway.
“Come here ,” Rage huffs, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside. Keeping my hand in his, he opens his closet door and reveals an expensive rack of clothing with a dozen shoeboxes lined up in two neat rows beneath. It may not be a walk-in closet like I have at home, but it’s spacious enough for a full seasonal wardrobe, complete with warm sweaters, hats, and scarves that are clearly not the man’s size. The size of his forearm alone would tear these shirts at the seams, not to mention the fabric?—
I gasp and grab a delicate cashmere sweater dress that I know comes from this year’s winter line at my boutique. “Why do you have this?” I check the tag and sure enough, it’s in my size. Everything in the closet is my size. There’s not a single scrap of menswear to be found amidst the dozens of outfits.
“This end has casual wear,” Rage explains, shoving the majority of winter coats and cute blouses to the side to show me the leggings and tank tops hidden at one end of the closet. “While the other end is mostly outerwear—jackets and gloves for when you go outside. The middle section has more formal attire for events, but I’m clearing the hall closet for the more expensive pieces.”
I look between the clothes and Rage, trying to absorb what he’s saying. “You bought these for me?” My heart flutters while my mind struggles to catch up. Even the shoes range from winter boots to sparkling heels, meaning that he not only took into account my size, but he also coordinated the outfits. Everything is brand new with tags still attached. “All of this is mine?” I glance up at Rage, and my breath catches.
His eyes spark like embers in the night, glowing as softly as the gentle curve of his lips. “Yes, krosotka , these are all yours.”
I break away from his gaze, clear my throat, and busy myself with inspecting the clothes. Not a single garment is the wrong size or color for my complexion. There are no unflattering boxy shapes or irritating fabrics—it’s as though I hand-picked everything myself.
How well does Rage know me, after all?
“Pick something.” He watches as I put together a workout ensemble, complete with black leggings and a hot pink sweat band for my forehead. “We’ll have to make room for maternity clothes, but I’m thinking we can renovate, tear down some walls, expand the apartment across the entire wing instead of only these few rooms.” Without warning, he presses his palm to my stomach and releases a long breath. “It’s only a matter of time before our family starts to grow. We need to be ready.”
Placing my palms over Rage’s, I hold my breath as tears threaten to surface. A family . He really wants one—with me. Part of me has spent the past two weeks believing he only wants kids to bind the two of us together, but what if he truly wants to be a father?
A good one?
Lifting my chin, Rage stares into my watery eyes. “What’s wrong, mama?”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “Nothing, I—” Taking a quick breath, I force myself to be honest. “I didn’t know you cared so much about… this.”
About me.
He smiles suddenly, and it’s so radiant that it takes my breath away all over again. “Of course I care, Celia. Haven’t you been listening?” Leaning close, he brushes his lips over mine. “I take care of what’s mine. And you, my beautiful, stubborn woman, are mine. ” He captures my lips in a warm, sensual kiss that makes my knees shake, but just like Rebel’s kiss at the breakfast bar, this one ends as soon as it’s begun. Rage brushes a hand over my hair as he straightens. “Now get dressed, krosotka .”
Neither Rage nor Rebel leave while I change clothes, but for once, I don’t mind. Their eyes never leave my body, but rather than find it an intrusion of privacy, it makes me feel safe.
It makes me feel loved.
That feeling is what carries me out the door and across the hall to the training hall Rage insists actually exists. He accompanies me the entire way there, either for the honor of delivering me to his brother or to ensure I don’t run down the grand staircase and out the front door. Either way, I still don’t mind his presence.
That’s what scares me most of all.
After he fucked me in the cage yesterday, I was sure that I could never stand to be around him again. The things he said to me—the way he fucked me—nice men don’t do or say those things to the people they care about. But the man walking beside me this morning isn’t the same one that choked me out or threatened to lock me back up in his gilded cage if it turns out that I’m not pregnant.
They can’t be the same person.
Because there’s no way that violently possessive man would smile this gently as he tugs on the edges my hoodie pocket and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s tender and sweet and makes my head spin.
As he pulls back, his lips ghost over my temple and the crisp scent of his aftershave washes over me. “It’s a good idea, the training.” He tilts my chin up and stares into my eyes. “Exactly what the mother of my children needs to defend our family. You have my blessing to come here as often as you want. With supervision,” he clarifies. “I don’t want you getting hurt by lifting more weight than you can handle or misusing a machine. Understand?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and try to calm my fluttering heart. Rage is actually giving me room to breathe, like I wanted. Yeah, I’ll have supervision, but it doesn’t have to be his. It could be Thanatos. Or Rebel. Or Ruin. Shit. I could be here all hours of the day if I wanted.
A shiver rolls down my spine as I picture the gleaming golden bars waiting for me across the hall. I need to do everything I can to avoid staying another night in that prison.
Including getting pregnant.
“I understand.” Lifting onto my tiptoes, I press a chaste kiss to Rage’s lips. “Thank you.”
Surprisingly, I genuinely mean it. I’m grateful for this. The training, the clothes, the sense of normalcy.
The way he runs his fingers through my hair before letting me go.
“I’ll be back in a few hours. Rebel will come pick you up if I’m running late.”
I watch as Rage walks away and disappears like he always does, leaving me to deal with the aftershocks of his attention. My hands shake. My heart races. My mind is like a live wire—snapping from one idea to the next so fast that I can’t keep up.
The room remains silent until Thanatos clears his throat. Between us lies a pale blue training mat that covers the floor from wall to wall, with an extensive catalog of weight-lifting and bodybuilding equipment waiting behind him. He steps onto the mat barefoot, and my gaze travels up the expanse of his legs—full, round calves and thick thighs corded with muscle—as I marvel at the heavy tattoos disappearing beneath his shorts. The fabric is tight on his body, leaving little room for imagination as they curve over the bulge in between his thighs.
And down one leg.
My face flushes bright pink as I hastily flick my gaze up to his face.
Unlike Rage, Thanatos isn’t smiling.
“Take off your shoes,” he orders, “and get on the mat, Princess.” He pulls his hoodie over his head, giving me a glimpse of washboard abs before his black tank top falls back into place. The vertical scar running through his upper lip deepens as he scowls. “Hurry up.”
I kick off my boots and meet him in the middle of the mat. “Thank you for breakfast?—”
The look he gives me would freeze fire. “Shut up and hit me.”
My eyes widen. “I’m sorry, what?”
He takes one step closer, then another when I don’t move. “Hit me.”
I gape up at him. “I’m not going to hit you!”
Thanatos narrows his eyes, looking eerily similar to Rage in his worst moments. “In this room, you’ll do exactly as I say, when I say, or you can walk away right now before you waste any more of my time. You asked me to train you, and that means following my rules. I don’t need you to question my methods or make small talk. I need you to pay attention to what I tell you to do and learn how your body reacts, or you won’t be able to control your movements when someone’s running at you with a knife.”
“How comforting,” I retort, but Thanatos still isn’t smiling. He’s grabbing my wrist and pulling it high over my head, then quickly spinning me around so that my back is pressed to his chest. He grabs my hip with his other hand, gripping tight enough to hurt, and hisses in my ear. “ Pay attention. I’ve got you trapped, Princess. What are you going to do now?”
Hot panic surges through my limbs as my fight or flight response kicks in. I grit my teeth and follow the first instinct that kicks in—slamming the back of my head into his face. The collision rocks my brain, but Thanatos is the one cursing as he tosses me to the ground and jumps on top of me. Pinning me onto my back, he exhales hotly across my face. “Hit me again.”
This time, I don’t hesitate.
I hit the motherfucker as hard as I can, throat punching him and finally earning a crooked smile. It’s then that I see the greatest resemblance between Thanatos and his brothers. It’s not the dark hair or midnight eyes or endless tattoos covering his body—it’s the way his mouth goes slack as he glances down at my lips, a flicker of desire flashing in his eyes.
He catches himself and recovers instantly, exemplifying the lesson he’s trying to teach me.
Learn how your body reacts, then control your movements.
How hard can it be?