Page 53 of Claimed By Rage

It actually soundsgood.

Really good.

I get dressed in record time, putting on a racy red pair of panties, a pleated cotton skirt, thick thigh high socks, black leather boots, and a creamy cashmere sweater. I blow dry my hair and throw it into a messy bun on top of my head, framing my face with a few loose waves. My makeup is light, but I’m rushed, and this isbreakfast.

It’s not like it’s arealdate. Just a casual one.

But if things go well, I might return the favor and show Rebel a little more of myself, too.

A knock echoes down the hall from the front door, and I shove my broken phone into my purse and practically run down the hall. I’m breathless when I pull the door open, a carefree smile on my face, my keys in hand. “I’m ready for that coffee—” The winter chill hits me square in the chest, my smile freezing in place.

Rebel didn’t say he would pick me up.

Ragedid.

Our eyes meet and he sucks in a breath, eyes widening. When my smile fades, Rage’s expression goes from pleasantly surprised to closed off in a heartbeat. “Don’t look so excited to see me.” His voice is as gruff as his demeanor as he takes my arm and leads me down the front porch steps.

For the first time since I met the man, he avoids looking at me.

My heart flip-flops between relief and disappointment, each one so startling that I gasp for air. It chills me to the bone, and I wish I’d worn sweatpants and slippers instead. Or a Snuggie. And a hat with those little ear flaps.

Something big enough to swallow me whole so that I disappear altogether.

Because when Rage first laid eyes on me today, he actually lookedhappy—and I snuffed it out so fast that I don’t even think he realizes he was smiling at all.

Chapter 16

Rage

75thand Mainis one of the most well-known cafes in the upper half of the city. It’s boujee, made for girls having peppermint lattes and dainty little breakfast sandwiches before they walk the Avenue to window shop—or in Celia’s case, where she has the most unfulfilling breakfast of her life.

Not only does she keep looking over my shoulder to check the door every minute, but she won’t speak more than three words to me.

How’s your toast?

Fine.

Are you cold?

No.

Do you want another coffee?

I’ll get it.

No,thank youfor taking me to breakfastorthanks for picking me up despite your busy schedule. I glare at her plate, the slice of bread with green mush spread on top a fuckingoffense.“You can order anything you want,” I repeat, grinding my molars. It’s becoming a habit the longer I spend with Celia. It’s like she’s always looking for ways to upset me, and my bodyhandles it the only way it knows how: by grinding the feeling into dust until it disappears altogether.

She takes another bite of avocado toast and shrugs one shoulder. “This is good. Really.”

Four words. An improvement.

“How’s your coffee?” I ask, spreading my arms across the back of our booth. The movement catches her eyes, the lightest dusting of pink on her cheeks. She likes how I look. Iknowshe does.

So why is she acting like she’s embarrassed to be seen with me?

I look good. I smell even better. I’ve got more money than I could ever spend, and I’m willing to throw it all at her feet. If she told me to take her down the Avenue for a shopping spree, I’d cancel all of my meetings and spend the day following her around.

Happily.

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