Page 24 of Tempted to Rebel

Rage freezes in his tracks, his eyes pinging all over her body, like he’s looking for the truth to her claims. “You’re lying.”

“Call my bluff, then.” Grabbing hold of his shirt, she pulls him down to her level and brushes her lips across his. “Or are you scared to find out how shitty of a dad you are?”

Rebel and I lunge for Rage at the same time, both of us latching onto his arms to keep him from touching her. He snarls, anger rolling off of him in waves as he fights our grasp. When it’s clear he isn’t going anywhere, he laughs, the sound hollow.

It sounds just like our father did right before he used to beat the shit out of one of us. Rage doesn’t realize it, but the more bitterness he lets in, the more like the monster he becomes.

“Alright, mama. You win. We’ll get you tested.”

Celia’s shoulders relax.

“But when the test comes back negative—” Rage smiles, the sharp curve of his teeth transforming him from the overprotective lover back into the bratva enforcer that makes grown men beg for mercy—“it’s back to the cage until I fuck that baby you want so badly into your womb.”

Lifting her chin, Celia keeps her composure well enough to fool Rage, maybe even to fool Rebel, as she nods in agreement. But I can see the truth in her muddied eyes. She’s scared, and she should be, because Rage doesn’t make idle threats.

If he isn’t a father yet, he will be soon.

Then we’ll finally learn if he can overcome the man who raised us to be monsters, or if he’s doomed to succumb to the violent call of our bloodline.

Chapter 8

Celia

After years of OBGYN visits,I thought I had become immune to the waiting game. Sitting in the lobby. Hovering inside the exam room. Waiting for the doctor to arrive.

But I never anticipated how the waiting game changes once you have three muscled mafiosos in tow, two of which are sporting cuts and bruises on their faces and hands, while the third is wearing a faceless mask. People staring, I’m used to. But people whispering behind my back, I’m not.

Rage scowls at every person in the office, including the front desk staff who are simply trying to do their jobs. Rebel flirts with one of the women in scrubs, trying to convince her to speed things along for us. And Ruin…

Well, he stands at the side of the room next to a potted tree, looking about as obtuse as a beached whale.

Either by the grace of God or the Monrovia name earning me some points, we file out of the waiting area within twenty minutes, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the nurses take my vitals and bring us to a private room. The door closes behind us, and all of a sudden, I’m brought right back to the last time I was sitting in this very room, waiting for pregnancy results on my own. My ex-husband was at work as usual, and I hadn’t told mymother or brother about my latest attempt to fall pregnant, so I went to the appointment alone.

I didn’t cry about the negative test results until I made it home that evening, which was longer than I had lasted before then. Still, the memory stings, and I try to focus on the three large, tattooed differences between that appointment and this one.

They won’t stop staring at me.

I fidget on the examination chair, the crinkle of the sterile paper under my butt loud enough to make me wince. All three of my men are standing in different corners of the room pretending to mind their own business, but every few seconds, I catch them all staring at me, like they’re waiting for the baby to pop outtoday. Rebel actively plays with the medical supplies stored in little glass jars on the counter, Ruin stands directly beside the door ready to pounce at the first sign of danger, and Rage is… well, overbearing as usual.

“Could you give me some space?” I rub my temples and pretend that the warmth on my back isn’t Rage’s hand—it’s the sun, or a heating pad, or a fluffy white cat curled up into the cutest little ball of fur. But every time he rubs up and down my spine in these slow, torturous strokes, I’m reminded of how he touched me last night.

I swallow hard and pray that Dr. Sakovia doesn’t ask about the collar or the bruises underneath.

“Why don’t you let Rebel wrap your knuckles?” I ask, nodding toward the man pulling strips of gauze into teeny-tiny pieces. They fall like snow on the formica counter, a steady pile growing with each passing minute. Rebel pulls a face that saysgross, while Rage takes my hand and engulfs my knuckles with his own. The bruises and broken skin don’t faze him, but I’m already nauseous, and the metallic tang of blood in the air isn’t helping.

“I’d rather you help me,” he murmurs, lacing our fingers together.

I stare at our entwined hands before tugging mine free. “No thanks.”

The smile freezes on his face. “No thanks?”

“You heard me.” Clearing my throat, I pat the crinkle paper behind my back. “Rebel, bring the gauze and antibacterial creme over here and I’ll clean your cuts.”

Rage tilts my chin up. “What are you doing,krosotka?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Rebel, however, cuts right through the bullshit. “Holding her hand isn’t gonna make her forgive you,” he says, reaching into the cabinet to grab a fresh box of gauze and tape. He tosses them at Rage’s chest. “Stop trying to force it.”

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