Page 51 of Tempted to Rebel

Rebel hums a tune for the rest of the drive to my house, and to my surprise, Ruin picks up the tune in a gravely, low pitch. I listen intently but can’t pick up the melody. It’s only when we’ve pulled up the driveway that I recognize a Russian word on Ruin’s lips, but by then, they’re both already stepping out of the car. Rebel opens my door for me and greets me with a smile that ignites sparks in my heart.

Things might be turning around for the two of us. My first night back when we visited the diner feels like a lifetime ago, but I still remember the salt on his lips and the cool night air clinging to our skin. It’s the first time he asked me to trust him—to let ourselves figure things out between us—and I think I’m ready to know what that means.

I’m grateful that the idea of having a child doesn’t scare Rebel off. He might not vocally talk about becoming a father like Rage does, but if he weren’t at least open to the idea, I think he’d be running for the hills instead of holding my hand as we walk up the path to my front porch. “How old are you, Rebel?” I ask, watching as he grabs my spare house key from its hiding spot behind one of the porch columns. He reallyhasmade himself at home here.

He licks a stripe across his teeth as he unlocks the door and lets us all inside. “Twenty-eight, but my birthday’s in a few months.” He jabs his thumb in Ruin’s direction. “Ruin’s twenty… five, right?”

Ruin grunts, which apparently means yes.

“Yeah, twenty-five. And Rage is the oldest until you bring Thanatos into the picture. He’s got us all beat by about five or ten years, give or take. He was already in school when our parents got together and had Rage.”

I do the math in my head to piece together their family tree. “Thanatos is in his forties?” He sure doesn’t look it. I guess the grays streaking through his hair or his bleak outlook on life could give it away.

Rebel shrugs. “Something like that, yeah. He’s pretty old.”

I nearly choke. “Forty isn’t old!” I’m rounding the corner to thirty in a few weeks—I don’t need my boyfriend thinking thatI’mold next!

“How old are you?” Rebel asks.

Ruin answers for me. “She is twenty-nine.”

“Damn, crossing the bridge into your thirties, huh?” Rebel whistles long and low, laughing when I smack his arm. “I’m just kidding! Hey, stop it! I’mkidding!” He grabs my wrists and pins me to the wall in the entryway, grinning as he presses his body against mine. “Easy, baby, easy. I promise, I’m into older women.” To prove his point, he licks into my mouth and teases my tongue with his, groaning as he tilts my head back and deepens the kiss. Cupping my face, he sighs against my lips. “Your age doesn’t matter, Celia. Older, younger, I don’t care. Becausethisis real.”

His kiss lingers in my system long after he’s stepped back to give me space. My body thrums with the intensity of it—of this feeling growing between us. I find myself smiling as I reacquaint myself with my house. Throwing out old food from the fridge,sifting through the mail piling up on the kitchen counter, tidying up the rooms. “Have you been getting my mail from outside?” I toss the junk mail into the trash and flick through the bills with disinterest. “Rebel?”

Voices float down the stairs, meaning that he’s rummaging through my things again, likely through the panty drawer, knowing him. Rolling my eyes, I follow the sound and walk up the flight of stairs to the second floor. A shiver rolls down my spine at a smear of blood on the wall—is that mine? Or my attacker’s? I haven’t forgotten about the break-in, but I’ve been able to avoid thinking about it with everything that’s been going on. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I push open my bedroom door to find both men standing in front of my dresser, the top drawer pulled open in front of them.

“I’m telling you, this one has to be her favorite.”

Something vibrates, and panic makes me yelp. “Rebel!” Storming over to them, I yank the vibrator from his hand and hold the button to turn it off. “Stop playing with my things!” A blush breaks out across my face. “I thought we were here for supplies!”

“Oh, weare.I’m packing your stuff for you. The most important things go first, andthatis very important.”

“It is not!” My face burns with embarrassment. “Pleasestop stealing my things.”

Rebel smirks, not sorry in the slightest. “Alright,krosotka, I’ll play nice. You can pack your vibrators yourself. I’ll grab the package Than left downstairs.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

While he disappears downstairs, I throw random things into my suitcase, too frazzled to pack anything with intent. It feels like I’m saying goodbye, and that’s not at all what I want. This place is my home. It has been for half a decade, at least.

“What do you think about staying here for a while?” I ask Ruin, glancing up at him. He’s been silently watching me pack for the last few minutes, not nearly as interested in my belongings as his brother. He doesn’t respond, which isn’t helpful. Sighing, I sit on the edge of my bed and press the heels of my palms to the backs of my eyes. Merging worlds with them is easier when I can pretend my old life doesn’t exist.

I glance around the master bedroom and see all of the memories I’d hoped to build here. A baby’s cradle in the corner by the window. A spring breeze fluttering past the curtains while the baby laughs in my arms. My husband—who no longer looks like my ex-husband Ted, but a dark-haired, tattooed figure—bouncing a toddler on his knee from the bench seat at the foot of the bed. This house was meant to be a home full of life and vibrancy, with children’s laughter bouncing off the walls and silly little crayon drawings hidden on the closet walls.

Instead, the house has become a memorial to the life I thought I’d have. The one I always wanted to build. And that thought isverysobering… and downright depressing.

“What is wrong?”

I blink tears from my eyes and look up at Ruin. His fingertips ghost across my cheek, brushing a stray tear away. If it weren’t for the mask obscuring his features, I could almost picture the frown on his lips.

Lips that I’ve kissed.

Sighing, I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Just reminiscing, I guess.” There’s no sense crying over what could have been. My life was never meant to turn out how I imagined, and I need to come to terms with what’s real and right in front of me. Taking Ruin’s hand, I lace our fingers together. Tattoos peek around his knuckles, symbols and numbers that seem random to the untrained eye. “What do these mean?”

He spreads his fingers for me to see his tattoos. Pointing to each of them, he rattles off various things. “My first kill. My second. The weapon that made this scar—” he lifts his shirt and points to a jagged cut along his abdomen—“and the one I used to kill a difficult target.” He doesn’t expand on any of these stories in detail, but I don’t push him for answers. It’s not like he pushed me to divulge what I’m sad about. I need to respect his boundaries, too.

Lifting his knuckles to my lips, I kiss each one in order from his thumb to his pinky. A sound catches in his throat, and he pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Why?”

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