Page 51 of Claimed By Rage

Flowers are supposed to be romantic, but it’s the vase thatreallypiques my interest. It’s clearly antique,heavy, with a solid base and a wide lip. The spirals are short and jagged, each one only an inch or two long, like the artist wanted to create something for flair instead of function. The points dig into my palms as I left the vase and carry it into my office. Once I’ve arranged both the vase and its bouquet perfectly, I step back to admire them.

Two dozen roses,at least.I stop counting after the first sixteen. “Who dropped you off, hm?” The better question iswhy.

They don’t answer, of course, but I talk to them anyway. It fills the silence and drowns out the numbness creeping in.

My ex-husband used to bring me flowers like these after he’d thrown a fit the night before. It was a stupid gesture—flowers can’t fix a failing marriage—but they made pretending easier. People used to comment on how pretty they were. I’d smile and say,Ted got them for me!

I don’t think I actually like flowers anymore.

A card sticks out from the back of the bouquet. I stare at it for an entire minute before tearing it open, ripping the crease on accident.

for a special girl

I purse my lips and tap the card against my palm. “Well, that could be anyone.” I open the card again and notice black smudges around the corners—fingerprints.Mine? Frowning, I drop the card and turn over my hands to inspect my palms. Soot stains my fingers and dusts my hands. Ijustcleaned, too. Was there dirt on the trash can? The door handle? I stare at the card, then at the ash powdering the table around it.

No, around thevase.

Lifting my hand to my nose, I smell smoke. Running my finger along the edge of the vase, black powder appears. It’s stuck in the grooves, like whoever cleaned the crystal didn’t actually bothercleaningit properly.

Fucking weird.

“Has to be from Ruin.” Who knows what kind of freaky shit he gets up to. He probably stole the vase from someone’s garage. I bet the roses were Rage’s idea. Maybe Rebel dropped it off while I was sleeping.

A true joint effort between them.

The mental image of three walking disasters planning a romantic gesture is funny enough that I laugh.It spills from my chest so brightly that I jump in surprise.

My phone chimes from the other room, and I wipe my hands on my pajamas as I go after it.

I’ve missed seven text messages and two calls. Most are from Mikhail—he probably heard from our mother again—which I promptly ignore, but three are from the group chat.

REBEL:

want breakfast?

RAGE:

Invite me over.

REBEL:

i asked 1st dipshit

My stomach flips with butterflies. It feels silly. I know what these men are capable of. And yet…

They got me flowers.

Meet me at 75th? I need a shower.

and coffee

REBEL:

i got u baby

RAGE:

she asked me

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