Page 42 of Tempted to Rebel

Idid that.

Ruin tilts her chin toward him to get a better look, and her gaze wanders his naked chest. It’s too dark to see much, but it’s enough to pique her curiosity. While they stare at each other, I slowly let go of her hand and slide off of her. I’d much rather feelher body beneath mine, but I can’t be all over Rage’s ass about sharing and not do the same.

She reaches up and touches his chest, trailing her fingers across long stretches of scars. He doesn’t have many tattoos despite having an S-tier pain tolerance, because he doesn’t like people seeing what’s hidden beneath his clothes. Still, the same way Celia tracks the ink on my chest, she tracks the scars on his.

He remains perfectly still while she touches him.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, pushing up on her elbow to caress his neck. Her hair cascades down her back, and I greedily slide up behind her and bury my face in the soft strands. I slide my hand over her hip and kiss the sensitive spot behind her ear, unable to keep my hands off of her while she’s like this—not just in my bed, but opening up to Ruin.

And he’slettingher.

He swallows, and her fingertips brush across his Adam’s apple as it bobs. Then he reaches out and touches a spot on her neck, a cut I hadn’t noticed, and a sound catches in his throat. “Does it hurt?” he parrots back, thumbing the spot.

“No, it doesn’t,” she murmurs.

I kiss the tiny cut and she shivers. It wasn’t there when I left this afternoon, and I know damn well Rage wouldn’t make her bleed. Ruin got a hold of her after we explicitly told himnotto use his knife. And yet, here she is, not freaking out about it.

She really is perfect.

Not just for me, but for all of us.

And I think, after today, she just might be starting to accept it.

Chapter 15

Celia

After detanglingfrom Rebel’s koala grip and rushing to the bathroom to pee in the morning, the three of us emerge from Rebel’s bedroom to find a full breakfast spread sitting on the kitchen island while Rage pours fresh coffee into three mugs. When I reach for one, he moves it out of range. “No caffeine,” he says, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my forehead. Then he nods to the smallest and healthiest portion of food: a bowl of oatmeal with a handful of berries on the side. “That one’s yours.”

“Great,” I murmur, plopping down onto the nearest bar stool. But my heart isn’t in the grumbled complaint, because on the other side, hope stretches its wings and flutters like a hummingbird against my ribs.

There’s a reason I’m being fed non-greasy, non-fat foods, and it has everything to do with the life I might be carrying.

That makes the sacrifice worth it.

I grab a spoon and dunk it into my oatmeal, making a mental note to thank Dmitri—if I ever meet him—for the conscientiousness displayed while choosing my breakfast. Then I wonder if Thanatos told him what to make for me or if he left the chef to his own devices. Do either of them know what to feed a pregnant woman, or did they make their best guess?

Either way, I’m grateful for the effort being put into keeping me and the baby healthy.

It’s more consideration than a certainsomeonehas shown the entire time I’ve known him. I glance up at Rage when he’s not looking and wonder what he’s thinking. After our little spat inside the cage yesterday, he disappeared as usual, taking all of the testosterone and frustration hanging in the air with him. It’s like he materializes from the shadows every sunlit morning to torment me, then fades out of existence any time I might actually need him for something.

Thanatos’ voice echoes in my head.

Talk to Rage about your business, and he just might help you keep it.

My stomach knots at the mere idea of asking Rage for anything, let alone for help with my boutique. I have to force myself to swallow another spoonful of oatmeal. Is Rage really the one running the club, or does he employ a full staff? No, of course he has a full staff—but how does he manage them? Who coordinates the secret invitations toMidnight, and who transforms the club from its normal nightlife functions into the debaucherous, clandestine invite-only events?

He can’t do everything himself. I’ve seen what he can do with his fists—those aren’t negotiation tools for business, they’re weapons for eradicating threats to the bratva. Someone else has to be running the club—with Rage as the face, or maybe even as the money, if he’s the one making deals in back rooms. I wouldn’t be surprised if the club is a money laundering scheme masquerading as city nightlife. In fact, I should expect it. I may not be the most prominent figure within our bratva by choice, but I do know that no matter which family name runs the outfit,allbratvas have dipped their fingers into dark deals and illicit affairs. It’s how the bratva business has continued running for centuries. One main family spearheads the traditions andvalues held by the many, with all family units—cousins, uncles, second aunts, longtime loyal friends and confidants—focused on protecting what’s theirs. Money, property, reputation, family.

Children.

I press my hand to my stomach and take a deep breath. Despite any misgivings I have about the bratva, it produces strong individuals and even stronger families. What happened to my father—the way he died so suddenly—was an anomaly that proves that…

I swallow hard. I’ve always believed that my father was a good man at heart and that the life of a criminal didn’t suit him. That despite being Russian, despite being a member of one of the most respected bratvas in the country, he never quite fit in. This, I’ve reasoned, is why he died. He was a criminal living a dangerous life, and that lifestyle is what snuffed him out.

But then I look at men like Rage, Rebel, or Ruin—the kind of men who seem to thrive in the chaos—and wonder if being labeled a criminal is what really killed my father… or if he died from something worse.

Like beingweak.

---