Page 43 of Tempted to Rebel

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.

Hispakhandoesn’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 afather.

And it’sdoing thingsto 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 andreallyenjoying 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-brothera 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?”

“Fromwhom.”

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 toknow 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 theadorablepout 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 meeight 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.

“Comehere,” 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 closetlike I have at home, but it’s spacious enough for a full seasonal wardrobe, complete with warm sweaters, hats, and scarves that areclearlynot 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 Iknowcomes 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.Everythingin the closet is my size. There’s not a single scrap of menswear to be found amidst the dozens of outfits.

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