Page 4 of Tempted to Rebel

There are four keys hanging from the chain, the tiniest being a spare key to my handcuffs. A larger, golden key likely belongs to my cage, and two more silver keys look eerily familiar. “Where did you get these?” I finger the heaviest key and realize exactlywhat it is—my ex-husband’s house key that went missing from my keyhook a few weeks ago. I scratch my fingernail across the grooves in the final key, tracing the cut like I’ve done hundreds of times over the years, before I knew what it unlocked.

It’s the key to my father’s safe house. A replica of the original, no doubt, which means that Rebel had to have found mine and made a copy. Did he know what it belonged to before I ran away, or did he figure it out after Thanatos tracked me down?

A smirk curves across Rebel’s handsome face. “Where do you think?”

“Youstolethem from me?”

He shrugs. “You invited me in. I couldn’t leave without a souvenir.”

What else has he lifted over the past few weeks? My face flushes with shame and I silently berate myself for being a stupid, lovestruck girl letting strangers into my home without thinking it through. I figured they were dangerous mafia men—but I didn’t think through what that meant in the day-to-day. Rage is easy to figure out because he’s suffocating about possessing me—but Rebel and Ruin?

I don’t really know them at all.

Once my cuffs are off, I quickly adjust my top and slide my arm through, then pull a blanket over my lap to fight off the cold. I hold onto the keys for a moment longer, wondering when I’ll have them in my hands again. This could be my moment. I could make a run for it.

I don’t have to look to know that Ruin’s knife is still lying on the floor a few feet away. I could hold onto the keys until they’re forced to open the door from the outside, and then I could lunge at them, or maybe I can fit my hand through the bars and unlock it myself?—

“Tick-tock,” Rebel hisses, stomping the heel of his boot against the cage wall closest to me. “Give them back, Celia.”

Frustration licks through my body like fire as I hold out the keys for Rebel to take. Even if I make it out of the cage, there are two of them in the room. I might be able to overpower Rebel if my adrenaline kicks in, but I don’t stand a chance against himandRuin.

Rebel snatches the chain and slips it back over his head, the keys jangling until they settle against his chest. He tucks them beneath his shirt, hiding them from view, and rakes a hand through his dark hair. It’s gotten longer over the past few weeks, giving him an even edgier appearance than usual.

We stare at each other for long, silent heartbeats while he pinches his snakebite between his front teeth. “You shouldn’t have run,” he says finally, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “We can handle a creepy stalker. It’s not like you were in danger. I would have stayed with you the entire time. All night, if you’d have let me.”

Ignoring the irony of havinganotherstalker than these three, I shake my head. In truth, it’s not the break-in or the man behind it that scares me—it’s the three men holding the keys to my freedom.

I run my palm down one of the golden bars, shivering at how cold it is to the touch.Thisis why I know better than to mess around with mafia men. They’ll go to any extreme to prove they’re right or keep their word. I wonder which of the brothers had the idea first—was it Rage who decided to lock me up so he could be the first to knock me up, or was it Rebel who half-jokingly threw the idea out in the middle of dinner one night?

Shifting my gaze from Rebel to Ruin, I wonder if he could have made the decision or if he merely went along with it. He seems to go along with everything the others propose—is that because he agrees with them, or because there’s no detriment to following their lead?

What does Ruin get out of keeping me in a cage?

I want to ask, but I’m not sure I’m ready for the answer.

“Did you find him?” I ask instead. “The stalker.”

Rebel picks up Ruin’s knife and twirls it between his fingers. “No. But we’re on his trail. It’s only a matter of time before we gut him.” He passes the knife to Ruin, who sheathes it. “Well, before this guy does. I don’t like the mess.”

Ruin grunts, like he agrees.

I don’t know why anyone would stalk me. I’m a normal woman living a normal life—up until recently. “It must have been a random attack,” I say softly. I’ve been thinking about it all week when I wasn’t frantically finishing my designs for the upcoming gala and outsourcing their completion. Having a stalker doesn’t make sense. “I don’t know anyone out to get me aside from you three.”

Rebel gets this pinched look on his face, like he doesn’t like the implication that he’s a threat to my wellbeing, but he doesn’t comment. He disappears into the bedroom directly beside me, leaving the door open—wait. I scan the doorway and huff in disbelief.

There is no door. There are empty hinges but no nails and no door to shut. The palm scanner that acts as an automatic lock lies dormant on the wall beside the doorframe. Rebel flops onto his back on an unmade bed and props his knee up, staring at the ceiling. Aside from a strip of LED lights behind the headboard that paint the back wall in a wash of cerulean blue, the room is dim. Rebel flicks through his phone for a moment, and then music booms through unseen speakers, filling the entire apartment with loud drumming, electric guitars, and a mix of male vocalists singing, screaming, and rapping.

I guess our conversation is over.

Ruin stands completely still a few feet away, watching me. As tempting as it is to let this man ogle my tits over the others, Iwrap a blanket around my shoulders to keep myself warm and keep Rebel from enjoying the view.

Not that he’s looking. His arm dangles over the edge of the bed, a bottle of hard liquor uncapped and hanging from his fingertips. I missed him taking the first swig, but I catch him gulping a few mouthfuls now, then the bottle goes right back to skimming the hardwood floor.

Great. My keeper’s going to be drunkandirritable.

I stretch out my legs and brush my bare toes against the cold bars. My boots lie on top of my torn sweater, the leggings, bra, and underwear I wore this afternoon crumpled in a sad heap beneath them. “Aren’t you going to take my clothes?” I eye my discarded socks eagerly, knowing that any extra layers in this place will be worth their weight in gold. I can probably put my sweater back on, too, at least over one arm.

Ruin doesn’t reply, choosing to stand like a silent sentinel instead of answering my question. I guess I should be used to that by now, although I might actually miss his late-night advances into my bedroom after receiving such a warm welcome home from his brothers.

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