Page 4 of Claimed By Rage

Rage’s onyx eyes burn with equal parts fury and desire as I delay the inevitable. “You might lie to yourself, Celia Monrovia, but your body tells the truth. You want me. You want my brothers. You wantall of us.” His shoulder dips as he shifts the angle of his wrist, shoving the three fingers deeper, grunting as he hits somethingdelicious.My breaths come out as these tiny puffs of air, and when he flicks his fingertipsfaster,hitting that perfect spot that makes me see stars, I cry out, my body seizing as the dam breaks. White hoteverythingtears through my body, too much, too fast, too overwhelming, consuming more than I’ve ever felt before, more than I’ve thought possible.

Ihatehow he makes me feel so…helpless.

“That’s it, beautiful, come all over my fingers.” He wraps his other hand around my throat and brushes his thumb over my pulse point, staring deeply into my eyes as tremors pulse through my body, his pupils blown so wide that all I see are endless pools of black.

If I believed in eternity, this is where I would find it—no end, no beginning, just floating in a moonless sea of shadows without a single guiding star to light my way home.

When he suddenly removes his fingers from my core, I cry out from the loss, my hips chasing his retreat. Embarrassment flares in my chest at the visceral reaction, my neck flushing pink as he admires his glistening fingers in the light. His smile curves, all harsh lines and sex appeal, as he sucks them into his mouth one by one, cleaning the mess—my mess—from his fingers.

The phone number on his wrist is smeared, illegible now that the ink has rubbed off on my thighs. He licks that too, catching a trail of my desire that slipped past his wrist, removing the other woman’s mark almost entirely. All that’s left is the fuzzy outline of the heart.

A tendril of something cool and soothing curls inside my chest until he swallows,groaning like a man on the verge of coming. I watch his Adam’s apple bob, my mouth falling open as he smirks and licks his shiny lips. Wanton need courses through my veins, burning away my resolvenot to enjoy thisone heartbeat at a time. That’s another thing about Rage—some primal part of me recognizes the primal parts of him, making it easy to overlook the strings attached to every kiss, every touch, every taste.

Nothing with this man is freely given. My mind understands that, but my body has yet to catch up.

The bells over the door jingle, but even then, he doesn’t tear his gaze away. “You want me.” His dark eyes flash silver as he brushes the pad of his thumb across the seam of my lips,smearing what little remains of his spit and my arousal, then pressing harder, seeking entrance. “The proof is right here. Taste how much you want me,krosotka.”

I jerk my head away. “No.”

Rage’s nostrils flare and he descends on me again, gripping my chin to turn my face back toward his. “You don’t get to tell me no.”

There isn’t much I can hear over my hammering heart, but I’d recognize theclickof a gun cocking anywhere. “Get your fucking hands off her.”

Rage bears down on me for one more intense second before lifting his gaze to look at whoever’s got the gun. Whatever he sees pisses him off even more than I did. “Point that thing somewhere else,” he growls, “before I smash your pretty boy brains all over the floor.”

I can hear the exasperation in the man’s voice—my brother’svoice, I realize—as he chuffs. “You’d be dead before you could get close enough.”

Rage body-blocks me from my brother, effectively cutting me off from the conversation. More importantly, from the path of the bullet. My brother wouldn’t shoot me—but he sure as hell would shoot a man touching me without my consent. If Mikhail has been watching, I’m not sure what he would have seen: a woman being given all the attention she wants, or someone being forced to like it?

The way adrenaline buzzes through my body makes the truth fuzzy. I don’t know which is true.

I run a hand through my tousled hair. “Settle down, boys. I’mfine.”

Neither of them moves. It’s like I hadn’t even spoken.

“Mikhail—” I peer around Rage’s bulging bicep to look at my brother… and immediately regret it. His eyes are narrowed into slits—at Rage, yes, but also atme.He turns his steely gaze on mein a heartbeat, the scowl on his lips carved so deep that he looks ten, twenty years older.

Like our father.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. The resemblance is striking. Our father was many things before he died, andunhappyis only the tip of a very deep, depressing iceberg.

I can’t be the reason my brother is unhappy.I can’t.

But it isn’t reallymyfault, is it?

Rage is clearly the problem. Like my brother, he doesn’t do well with hiding his emotions. I see them flicker across his features, the clear, murderous intent snapping into place in an instant. I have no doubt that Rage would kill any man who gets in his way of claiming me—my brother included.

But Mikhail would kill for me just as quickly.

The tension in the room rebuilds, only this time it’s between Rage and Mikhail. Moving through it is like like treading through water, each small step becoming a fight. Against my better judgement. Against my brother. Against all sense and sanity.

When I take Rage’s hand, the clench of his jaw eases, but he keeps his gaze glued to the gun. “Hey,” I murmur, gentle with my movements, my words. “It’s okay. It’s my brother. He won’t hurt me.”

Mikhail makes this sound, something between a whine and a warning. “Celia, I swear to God, get over here!”

That’s what I should do. Retreat. It’s what I’ve wanted ever since Rage walked onto the shop floor instead of out the back door—distance. Space to breathe. Time to think.

I have none of those things whenever Rage is around, and my brother’s presence doesn’t change that. Mikhail won’t shoot with me while I’m standing so close to Rage. He’s not as good of ashot as he claims, preferring knives as his weapon of choice, and it’s in close-quarters like this when it becomes most apparent.

---