Page 10 of Claimed By Rage

She wouldn’t dare.

Except…

I didn’t visit her this morning, so I have no clue what kind of mood she’s in. Will she be happy to see me? My chest swoops at the thought of her rushing to me, leaping up on her tiptoes to greet me with a kiss.As it should be.But knowing Celia, what I want isn’t what she’ll give me. She could be a moody bitch tonight. She could make everything smooth as fucking sandpaper solely because she’s stubborn as hell and doesn’t want to give in.

Even if she doesn’t admit it, she’s already mine.

We’ve been playing this back-and-forth game for weeks now, and although the resistance to my affections is expected, even appreciated at times, when we’re in front of the club or the bratva, the last thing I want is a challenge.

I want a woman clinging to my arm—beggingfor my mouth on hers—with every goddamn breath she takes.

Instead, I have the most stubborn, resistant woman on the face of the earth.

If I can’t keep my woman on my arm and her attitude in check, who will trust me to keep the club—and its surrounding streets—clamped tight in my fist? As archaic as the notion is about women being suppliant and subservient, there’s a reasonfor it. People expect bratva women to serve their men and spread their legs—willingly.

Claiming Celia as my future bride makes sense to everyone except her. She’s bratva-born and raised, despite her resistance to her family ties, and returning Celia to the fold will be the ultimate show of strength and stability that the bratva sorely needs after all the shit that went down with ourpakhanand his queen.

We need to show that the Baranova Bratva is unified, strong, and not a force to be fucking messed with.

Which is why my future wifehasto be Celia.

She’s the most resilient woman I fucking know.

So when I push through the back doors and spot her across the room with her arm looped through another man’s, at first, I’m grateful that Rebel is doing his job. But then she laughs, tipping her head back to reveal the column of her throat, and squeezes the man’s bicep.

She isn’t usually that receptive to any of my brothers.

Rebel is grinning down at her in that wolfish way men do when they find something pretty they think they can devour, but the cut of his jaw is all wrong. I step closer to find that his shoulders are too bulky and broad, then his legs too tall, and his suit too loose. His grip on her waist is too polite, even, with how gentle he’s holding her. He’s being careful. Claiming her in a show of light touches and lingering conversation, but notclaiming herlike Rebel would. My younger brother would snake his arms around her waist and bury his face in her neck for the thrill of having her all to himself.

The man on Celia’s arm isnotmy brother.

And he’s touching what’smine.

Both of my fists curl as I storm across the room, determined to cut them off. They’ve begun following the steady trail ofpeople heading to the playrooms at the back of the club—likely intending to join the fray.

The mere idea of another man from me or my brothers undressing Celia, paying her compliments, eying her perfect skin, touching the swell of her cheek or worse,actually fucking kissing her, sends me into a fury stronger thanfucking Jimmy’spathetic whimpering ever could.

If we’re playing a game to see whose lap she’ll sit on tonight, willingly or otherwise, there’s only one possible victor, and he’s standing right fucking here. Convincing the room—and the idiot hooked to her side—is the easy part. ConvincingCeliathat she’s mine, however, is the challenge.

But I know one thing for certain: failure isn’t a fucking option. Celia Monrovia will understand not only that she’smine, but she’ll know what that means by the end of the night.

No matter how much it fucking hurts to swallow.

Chapter 4

Celia

The last thingI’m expecting at the stroke of midnight is for a limo to idle on the street in front of my house. It sits there for an entire minute, the exhaust curling in the air, bright headlights beaming down the empty lane. I stare at it from my front window for a long time, knowing that it’s lost. Ithasto be on the wrong street. At the wrong house.On the wrong planet.

Because there’s no way in hell that alimois picking me up for a scandalous night at a sex club.

But then the back door opens and a man pops out. Not just any man, but ahugeone. Despite the chilly winter air, he’s wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, as unbothered by the cold as a bear preparing for hibernation. A tuft of dark chest hair peeks out the collar of his shirt, and when his gaze lands on me—or more likely, the house—I imagine sharp canines and glowing orange eyes to complete the look. It only takes him one second to make a decision, suddenly pushing himself up the arched driveway that meets my front walkway, then up the three tiny porch steps that meet my front door. He disappears from view as he knocks on the door.

I stand motionless at the window, because umm—what the fuck?

“Celia Monrovia,” the man rumbles, his voice deep enough that my breath catches, “I know you’re in there.”

My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. This must be what hyperventilating feels like. My body starts to shake, and my breaths turn into these tiny little puffs of air. “I need?—”

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