Page 39 of Claimed By Rage

Unlacing my boots, I step out of them and place them near the door, then I close and lock it. Tiny shreds of my skin stick to the wood, and I glance down at my arm.

The cuts aren’t deep and the blood is already coagulating, so I’m not concerned with it. Rage, on the other hand, grows incised when he realizes what’s happening. Not only is Rebel refusing to leave, but so am I,andI’m bleeding all over his belongings.

“Goddammit,” he curses, screwing his eyes shut. “Goddammit.” Kissing Celia hastily—not savoring herat all—he growls into her mouth before letting her go. “The med kit’s under the sink. Fucking hell. Clean yourself up.” He grimaces when he notices the stains I’ve left on his comforter, his teeth clenching once he peels it back to find Celia’s legs marked with it, too.

I hesitate in the bathroom doorway, admiring the sticky handprint on her thigh.

Crimson, just like I’d imagined.

Celia gasps, flailing to disentangle herself from the blankets, from the men, from the situation. “What the hell is that? Oh god, is thatblood?” She makes this high-pitchedsquealingsound and climbs over Rebel to get to the bathroom.

I follow her inside.

She strips from head to toe and jumps in the shower before the water is even turned on. “Gross, gross,gross,” I hear her muttering, then the flick of a cap, the slosh of suds lathering on skin.

Walking to the shower, I pull open the door and watch her scrub her leg clean, then her foot, her little fingers digging between her toes to ensure every drop of blood vanishes. It washes down the drain in a swirl of pink foam.

Once she’s satisfied with her work, she finally looks up and notices me. Her pretty pink lips part to say something, but she stops herself, shaking her head. “Are you okay?” Frowning, she rinses off her hands and takes a step closer. “Those look new.”

I nod. “They are.”

Sighing, she turns off the water and grabs the towel slung over the shower door. Wrapping it around her body, she sidesteps around me and takes a closer look at my wounds. “I’m not scared of blood,” she clarifies unnecessarily.

I grunt, not really caring if she’s scared of it or not. She’ll see much more blood the longer she’s wish us.

“I just don’t like it on me.” Her lips pinch together. “Did you do that? The blood and the, um, handprint?”

I lick my lips. She might not be scared, but it’s close enough to tickle my nervous system. “I like it on you. The red.” I scrape my nails down her cheek, enjoying the flush of pink, the three stripes blooming on her skin.

She blinks up at me with wide, owl eyes. “Why?”

My relationship withredis complicated, all crossed wires and broken things. But Ilikebroken things. They’re easier to play with.

I watch Celia shift her weight from foot to foot while she waits for my answer. Her gaze flicks to my fingertips and she swallows. “Ruin? Did you hear me?”

Taking a breath, I press my index finger into the pillow of her cheek, making her flinch. “Yeah. I heard you.”

When it’s clear I’m not going to answer, she bites her bottom lip and tears her gaze away. “Let’s patch you up, okay?”

I’m much more interested in her reaction to my fingertips, but I follow her to the sink. She rummages in the bottom cabinet for a minute before retrieving the first aid kit. It’s a large zipper pouch with everything from burn cream to a suture kit. We each have one in our rooms, courtesy of Rage’s over-preparedness. He uses his kit for patching up his knuckles more than anything, so most of the items within are unused.

Mine is nearly empty.

Celia clears her throat and sets the kit on the counter, eying my arm with unease. “You can’t do this yourself, can you?”

I’m too busy watching a bead of water travel down a lock of her hair to answer.

“Hurry up,” Rebel whines from the bedroom. “Patch him up and get your sweet ass back here, baby.”

Rage huffs and clicks off the light. “The bed isn’t big enough for four people.”

“Ruin can sleep on the floor, then.”

“Youcan sleep outside.”

They bicker amongst themselves while Celia gently washes my arm in the sink, wiping away the dried blood and examining the cuts. “I don’t think you need stitches, but I’m not exactly an expert…” She unwraps gauze and winds it around my forearm, taping it down once two layers are in place. “I’ve only done this a few times.”

Hm.A few times. “For yourself?” I can’t imagine Celia getting into catfights with other women or full-on brawls with men.

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