Page 58 of Claimed By Rage

“It’s nothing!”

We’re close to one of our safe houses. I can take her there until she calms down. I don’t want to drag her to Jimmy’s house for her to start crying all over again. Then I’ll havetwohysterical women on my hands. Besides—“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” I brush my thumbs over her cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong,krosotka.”

She shakes her head in refusal, making my next decision easy. I lift her into my arms and carry her back to the car, buckle her in, and speed down the road. The safe house is in one of the grimier parts of the city. We call this areaThe Backyard, because it’s only a few streets away from the influential, high-end storefronts like75thand Main.As we pass by run down alleys and boarded windows, Celia starts to pay attention.

“This isn’t the way to my house,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes.

“We’re not going to your house.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she glares at me. “Take me home.”

“No.”

She raises her voice. “Take me home, Rage! I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Something about Terrance, the phone, the store? That can’t be it. The pictures? The children? I keep an eye on Celia as we close in on the safe house, its location onlya few minutes away from the Avenue. Something set her off. Something sharp, digging into her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. I can see it in the way her hands shake. How her eyes keep glazing over, unfocused, as she loses herself in an internal fog.

Ignoring the problem isn’t going to fix it. She’s probably been doing that for months.Years.That woman from earlier, Heather, hadn’t seen Celia inages.If I had to guess, Celia’s been hiding ever since her divorce. Ignoring her problems. Ignoring herpain.

There’s only one way I know how to handle something this deep—by burning straight through it.

Chapter 17

Celia

Rage takesme to an unmarked hole in the wall and expects me to behappyabout it. Although the outside walls are cracking and there’s a hint of urine in the air—gross—once we’re inside, modern appliances make the six hundred square foot room look more like a studio apartment. Acleanone. There’s a stainless steel fridge and microwave set into a faux granite countertop, an open-shelf used as a basic pantry, and an entire wall taken up by a desk with various medical equipment, bandages, pill bottles and syringes, and a floor to ceiling gun safe. There’s a single door on the far wall, leading to what I can only assume is a bathroom. Whether or not it has a shower is up for debate.

“This is a safe house,” I say numbly, rubbing my arms. I’m not surprised that the bratva has them all over the city, but I’m not sure what Rage and I are doing in one. I glance at the double bed, but the last thing I want to do is lie down.

“Yes, it is.” Rage stands in front of the door, arms crossed, watching me. “You’re safe here.”

I snort. “I wasn’t questioning my safety, thanks.”

His eyebrows pull together. “You’re upset.” A muscle in his jaw tics. “I wanted to get you off the street.”

“Don’t want to be seen with a crying woman?” I shake my head, exhaling hotly. “We could have stayed in your car. You could have taken mehome.”

It takes Rage two long strides to reach me. He cups my face in his warm, calloused hands. I’ve seen these hands break a man’s body. The bruising along Rage’s knuckles has lessened, but the evidence of his power resides in not only the discoloration, but the scars. One jagged cut has scabbed over, more recent than the others, but there are bumps and ridges across his knuckles that show the passage of time, countless beatings recorded only in memory. Were Rage a professional boxer, he’d wrap his hands before every fight. Even MMA fighters, despite a lack of a padded boxing glove, still wrap their hands to protect from fractures and sprains.

Rage uses his body as a weapon—without any thought of protection or longevity. Maybe the fights are always spur-of-the-moment, but I have a feeling that he has plenty of time to choose his targets. Hell, he could fight with guns, knives, any number of weapons—but instead, he uses his fists.

Without a barrier between him and the pain he inflicts, some of it is bound to recoil back into his body. He could be holding countless scars—both on his flesh and within it.

Maybethat’swhy he’s so quick to anger. He’s always fighting.

“If I took you home,” he says slowly, midnight eyes searching mine, “you would have been alone until Rebel or Ruin could get to you. I never want you to be alone when you’re like this, Celia.”

Tears sting my eyes. “I’m fine.” The words are tight, high-pitched lies, but I desperately want them to be true. Ishouldbe fine. It’s not like I’ve lost a child—Ted and I never conceived. I should be happy to celebrate others’ families.

But there’s this jagged, twisted knot inside my chest that writhes with jealousy any time I see others experiencing the life I want. It’s a cruel twist of fate to be simultaneously overjoyedfor someone and drowning in envy every time they walk in the room with their family. Married, unmarried, one child or five—the variances don’t matter. It’s the love I see in the parents’ eyes as they talk about their children, or the way the younger ones rush into their arms after an hour apart.

I want that.

So badly.

Rage can’t possibly understand.

He closes the distance between us and falls into me like we’re sinking in quicksand—slow, deliberate, every ounce of his attention on the spaces where our bodies meet. He tangles a hand in my hair and slants his lips over mine with such tenderness that it tugs on something inside my chest. I fall to pieces in slow motion, the hitch of breath caught in my throat, the silent tears that overflow, the way my body unravels beneath Rage’s touch. There’s no anger in how he undresses me, all of the impatience and greed to claim my body disappearing as quickly as it comes. I watch him battle with it—the need totakewashing away beneath the need tofeel.

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