Page 55 of Tempted to Rebel

“Your soul. It’s weeping.” He gently brushes away the tears streaming down my cheeks. “It’s beautiful,krosotka.”

I stare into his dark eyes and wonder what exactly he sees that’s beautiful, because right now, I don’t feel like something beautiful. I’m a broken shell of a woman, too weak to successfully carry my own child, cursed with a body that doesn’t work. “It’s all my fault,” I murmur, my voice breaking on a sob. “I can’t get pregnant even withthreeboyfriends!” I grab Ruin’s knife and stab it into the ground, tearing through the grass, the roots, scraping the blade against rocks and carving deep gouges into the earth. It doesn’t make me feel better, but it gives me something to do with my hands.

It lets me grieve in a new way, and for that, at least, I’m grateful.

I hide in my bedroom for what feels like an eternity, wrapped in a cocoon of cotton and down feathers. Maybe if I wait long enough, I’ll undergo metamorphosis and emerge as something better. Something whole.

Something that can nurture a life inside my body.

I know it’s foolish to think that I’m broken—but all of the evidence points to it as fact. I couldn’t get pregnant with Ted. I haven’t gotten pregnant with Rebel or Rage. I’m too scared to have sex with Ruin—at least, I think I am. I play the scene in my head, wondering what kind of a lover he’s like. Will he keep the mask on and hit it from behind, or will he finally let me see his face as he fulfills my greatest desire?

Would he look into my eyes and claim to see my soul? And if he does, would it still be a sad, lonely little thing, weeping and scared? Or could our broken bodies finally become whole again if we work together to fix them?

I fix his body, and he fixes mine.

Sighing, I roll onto my back and flip my comforter off of my face. The room is dark with the lights turned off, but a sliver of warmth peeks through the crack beneath my bedroom door.

Someone’s pacing in the hallway outside.

Once Rebel finished his last cigarette and found me and Ruin in the backyard, I told him that I needed space. He’s giving it to me, albeit reluctantly.

Everything is okay, baby. Nothing’s changed. I promise.

I know he’s being sincere, but he’s only able to speak for himself.

Rage is the one I’m worried about.

My stomach twists, and I imagine for the hundredth time how Rage will react to the news that I’m not pregnant. Will he be as disappointed as I am? Excited at the prospect of fucking me day in and day out until his sperm actually takes? Or could he be angry with me for getting his hopes up to begin with?

Will he punish me for failing?

I stare up at the ceiling as headlights shine through the windows and a car door slams shut. It’s Rage finally arriving—I know it is. Rebel must have called him. Or the doctor, Wren. Shit, has Rage known this entire time? Was he expecting me to call him or come home crying into his arms?

My anxiety spikes as footsteps climb the stairs.

Rebel’s the first one to speak. Something thuds against the wall, and I can feel his anger through the door. “I called you two hours ago! What the fuck was more important than this?”

I can’t hear Rage’s reply, but I’m not sure that I want to. I’ve been in here for two hours, and Rage never bothered to come check on me until now.

That speaks louder than any words ever could.

The door handle rattles. “Unlock the door, Celia.”

I ignore Rage and pull the comforter back over my head.

“Celia, please. I need to see you. I need to make sure that you’re—” Something bangs against the door. It could be his fist, or it could be his face. Either way, the sound makes me jump. “Please let me in.”

Sitting up, I glare at the closed door. “Why? So you can lock me up again? Throw away the key this time?”

Rage hesitates before responding. “I won’t lock you in the cage. I never should have in the first place.”

I scoff. “Too late for that.”

“Celia—”

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say to me. Please leave.”

The door handle suddenly snaps and falls to the ground as Rage breaks the lock. He pushes the door open and steps inside my bedroom. “I’m not going anywhere.”

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