Page 71 of Claimed By Rage

I keep my footsteps light as I pad upstairs. Once on the second floor landing, I make a beeline for Celia’s bedroom. The door is wide open, and so are her dresser drawers. Clothes are thrown inside an open suitcase, like she’s planning to make a run for it.

Alsonot fucking happening.

She isn’t in the room. I glance inside her bathroom and find a little purple box torn open on the counter, but still no Celia.

Athudthrough the wall makes my heart race.

Lifting my gun and storming into the room next door, I finally find Celia.

Eyes wide.

Duct tape over her mouth.

A masked stranger with his fist wrapped around her gorgeous fucking hair and a gun held to her temple.

“What thefuck,” I hiss, aiming straight for the dude’sstupidfucking face. Plain white hockey mask with a half dozen holes I can slam a bullet through. But then he jerks, making me aim for Celia instead of him.Shit.“I will fuckingendyou.” The vow hammers through my heart like lead, heavy and final. This motherfucker hasno rightto touch our woman.

Who the fuck is this guy?

Celia always locks her doors. I just happen to know my way inside. He must have broken in. I should have checked the back door for signs. Broken glass, smashed handle?—

He skirts the room, sidling toward the jack-and-jill bathroom that leads to the other guest room. Motherfucker is trying my patience.

“Let her go, asshole.”

His dark eyes never leave mine as he inches closer to the bathroom.

“Wearing a mask? What a fucking coward.” I bare my teeth at him. Ruin has a valid reason for wearing one—he’s the exception to the rule. Everyone else should walk around with their real fucking faces on display. Be held accountable for their actions. “I bet you’re so ugly under there that Celia dumped your ass.” Orold.Man’s got a head of grays. I bet his dick’s as limp as a wet noodle. “Better yet, I bet she wouldn’t even go out with you.That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? The roses, the candles—you’ll do anything for a taste of her. Too bad I interrupted your fucking dinner plans, bitch.” A sneer curls over my lips. “You’ll never fucking have her. She’smine.”

The next few seconds happen in slow motion.

Cowardly motherfucker shoves Celia at me so fast that I’m barely able to get a shot in before she’s tumbling into my arms. Our bodies collide to the hardthudof bone and flesh while Limp-Dick literallylimpsacross the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.

“You good, baby?” I brush her hair from her face and search her eyes. When she nods, I breathe a sigh of relief.Thank God.“I’m gonna go after him. Stay put.”

I skip the joint bathroom and jump into the hallway, following the man’s thundering footsteps down the stairs. He’s out the front door in record time, becauseshit,I never locked it when I came in. “Dammit!” I hop over the porch steps to the front sidewalk and pound the pavement after him, lungs burning, pistol raised. I fire off a few shots but he skirts into the short stretch of woods that leads to the neighborhood pond. Clearly, I fucking missed.

The motherfucker never eventriedto shoot me.

Bet he’s a shit-fucking-shot, too. Has to be on some kind of drugs to move that fast with a limp. Did I shoot him?

I call Thanatos while I run after him. “I need eyes on Celia. I’m chasing some motherfucker who broke into her house.”

“Kind of busy,” Thanatos grunts. I hear a car horn in the background. “Stay with her. I’ll send a team over.”

“Fuck. Okay.”

Limp Dick won’t come back with me there,I think, so I head back to Celia’s house. The front door is wide open. This time, I shut and lock it behind me, then I check both back doorsand lock them up tight. The kitchen door wasn’t broken, just unlatched.

Maybe Celia walked inside and forgot to lock them back because…

Oh yeah,because she was about to fuckingrun from us.

I storm upstairs and slam into her bedroom door. It flies open, banging against the wall. “Celia,” I call out, shoving my gun back into its holster, “you better have a good fucking explanation?—”

My eyes ping to the bed, all the random clothes strewn about, some even scattered to the floor, but no suitcase. Her favorite perfume is missing from the top of her dresser, and the six-inch hunting knife I snuck inside her nightstand is gone, too. The rumble of a car engine sounds beneath my feet, and I jerk to the window to watch her peel out of the garage in her pale blue Porsche—the one she rarely drives. She rams into my motorcycle on her way down the driveway, punching it to the ground before course-correcting and barreling down the street and out of sight.

Far the fuck away from here… and far the fuck away fromme.

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