Page 35 of Tempted to Rebel

I glance up at her eyes, and that’s when I see it—a glimpse of her soul tucked safely underneath the flash of fear. My knife finds her flesh again, this time at the curve of her neck, and a bead of blood collects where they kiss. “Let me see.”

Her body freezes, but her mind doesn’t. She looks between the two of us with quick, analytical flicks of her eyes, checking for weak points in my stance, my posture, my body.

Little does she know, they don’t exist.

“The fire,” I begin calmly, grabbing my shirt and tugging. I lift the fabric over my stomach so that she can see the mottled flesh underneath. “The fire took pieces of me,krosotka,pieces I haven’t been able to find. Look all you want, but you won’t find them, either.”

Her eyes scour the contours of my abdomen, across every inch of skin and hidden muscle. “Find what?”

“An opening.”

I keep the blade to her neck while I touch her body, ignoring her breast for her ribs. I run my fingers along the ladder, feeling the dip of each and how much give there is between them. Most are hidden—it’s not like Celia is malnourished—so I press harder to find them. They would be easier to see if I could just?—

Slowly, I slide my knife down her flesh, careful not to cut open her skin any more. My brothers won’t be happy if I leave too many marks. Not yet. Not until they’ve had their fill. Then I’ll have mine. Always taking turns, the clock ticking, the world spinning.

Celia remains still while I continue my tour of her body, the knife mirroring my hand, both of them teasing her waist, her hips, digging into her thighs. Her breath catches when I prod open her legs, spreading her wide.

Thisis what I want to see more than anything.

How pretty she is down here. Soft, pink, swollen, warm.

Hot, actually.Her thighs were warm but her slit—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.

She twitches, her muscles likely burning, and I click my tongue. “Still,krostoka,be still for us.”

I pull her lips apart to find her glistening and slick. “Which part is you,” I murmur, “and which parts are them?” Keeping my fingers and her pussy spread, I prod her hole with the handle of my blade.

“Oh, God,” Celia gasps, her muscles going rigid. “Ruin, please,pleasedon’t?—”

A half inch disappears inside, then an inch, and I find myselffascinatedby how quickly her body reacts.Her thighs quiver, her eyes clench tightly shut, and she makes those sounds—the tiny whimpers I’ve heard her make with my brothers.

Licking my lips, I tip my knife in and out and play with her opening, watching it expand to fit the handle, then feeling it try to take even more from me.

Was her body made for this, too?

I’d nearly forgotten about my cock, but it roars to life now, pulsing in time with Celia’s own heartbeat. If I press my fingertip to her clit, I can feel it—the heavy beat of her heart pumping blood throughout her body, all the way down tothissensitive spot.

But that’s not my focus for this evening. It’s the way that Celia’s pussy begs for more of my knife that captivates me. Most people think that the blade and its unforgiving edge are the most important part of a knife, but they’d be wrong. It’s the handle, the part you hold, that matters most. Our connection is intimate, the two of us working in tandem to achieve our goals, to take life and, sometimes, keep our own intact.

It’s a sacred bond that I’m sharing with Celia now.

Her body understands.

“Ruin,” Celia moans, her hand gripping my arm tight enough thatshemight leave a mark, “you’re—you’re bleeding!”

Oh.

I spare a moment to check my palm, but all I see is the gush of red from my grip around the blade… and how it drips onto Celia’s body. Her stomach. Her thighs. Her pussy. Painting her crimson withmyblood.

My cock leaks from the tip, and I pull the knife away before I stumble and shove it deeper. I bet she could handle it, butIcan’t.

“F—fuck,” I groan, my knife clattering into the sink basin while my cock jerks inside my pants. Hissing, I grab Celia’s thigh with my bloodied hand, finally feeling a lick of pain in my palm while my cock spills, the heady mixture of pleasure and pain making me dizzy. I lean over Celia and drag in lungfuls of air, my body suddenly too hot, too tight. The mask covering my face feels like a prison, locking me away frommore.

More air. More light. Morefeeling.

More ofher.

Celia’s warm little hands wrap around my shoulders, and she holds me close while my body shakes. “Easy there, easy,” she coos, hugging me tight. Her body heat is lost on my chest and back, but her thighs blaze against mine, reminding me how sticky sweet red she is—nowmineas much as my brothers’.

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