Page 73 of Claimed By Rage

She trembles in my arms as I carry her out to the gutted cargo van. Tossing her into the back, I watch her hit the metal floor with a heavythud, satisfied when her face scrunches up in pain. She has no idea what real pain is.

My brothers are too blind to teach her. I can see it in the plans they make—cages and satin and handcuffs, like she’s an unruly pet they’re fond of, when all they really need is to put her down.

I could drive her to the cliffs and throw her over, watch her sink to the bottom of the icy ocean.

I could put a dozen bullets in her right here, bury her in the backyard of this little hovel, and tell my brothers that I never found her.

But we are a family with a history of being denied our grudges—this one, I can actually deliver.

While we drive across town to the club, I keep an eye on her in the rearview mirror. She keeps still, no longer wriggling to free herself, just…silent.Eyes shut. Blocking out the world.

Maybe planning retaliation, if she’s smart.

I slam my hand on the dashboard, enjoying the way she jumps. Loose tendrils of hair wisp around her head, stick to her neck, and billow out in a delicate halo of honey brown. The scarlet flush on her cheeks is a delicate thing—too light to be considered a bruise, but too dark to be mistaken for the embarrassed excitement of a blushing bride being delivered to her future husband. It’s something in the middle, some kind of new, ruddy color, which does something to me. My gut twists, and my glare turns steely.

It’s kind ofpretty.

“I don’t understand it,” I laugh, my shoulders bouncing.God,I so don’t get it. “What’s so great about a bratva reject?” Shaking my head, I take a breath. “See, even after I left, Ezra took me back in a heartbeat. Andrei, too, of course, since I’m of use to the bratva. But you?” I tilt the mirror to get a better look at her. Long legs stuffed into tight, black leggings, a pale pink sweater that rides up her sides, exposing a nude bra underneath. Her stomach is showing, and I force my eyes back to the road.

That’s another grievance.

The Plan B.

“If we tell the bratva what you’ve done—” I click my tongue against my teeth—“not even your brother can save you. It would have been faster to put a bullet in your brain, you know, if you wanted to kill yourself. Messy, but fast. You would have beengone likethat.” I snap my fingers. The sound echoes through the empty drum behind me, making Celia flinch. “But now?” I whistle, taking the next turn at a red light. “Now, you won’t escape my brothers, not even to death. You realize that, don’t you? They’re gonna lock you up so they can play a game of pretend—but let me tell you a little secret.” I meet her gaze in the rearview. “The only games they know are the brutal kind, and even when they’re gonna try to be nice to their fake littlewife—” I spit the word, resentment flooding my system—“none of us have seen what a happy marriage looks like. Our dad was one mean bastard, especially to the things heloved.” I roll my eyes on that last part. I doubt my father ever knew the meaning of the wordlove.

“Anyway, you should have offed yourself.” I run a hand down my face, fighting a sudden wave of fatigue. The long nights are catching up to me. Not only does Ezra have me running protection for therealbratva princess—excuse me,Queen—but I’m combing the streets for a real threat every other waking moment of the day. Exhaustion is a persistent mistress, riding my ass from dusk till dawn.

But at least I won’t have anything more to do with Celia Monrovia after this drop-off.

She’ll be my brothers’ problem to solve.

It takes an hour, but we finally make it to back to the club. During special swinger events, they call itMidnight, but during the day, it doubles as a gentleman’s club serving alcohol and pussy to anyone with enough cash to pay their way through the door. Most of our clients are fellow mafiosos—Russian, Irish, Italian, whoever we’re dealing with that day—so it’s rare to have guests we don’t entertain with our specially-curated staff.

I swing around to the back entrance. Ruin is waiting at the door, arms crossed, looking as menacing as ever.

Most of the time, I think it’s a shame that our father fucked him up so badly, but it’s times like these that I know we’re better for it. Stronger. More resilient.

It’s a fucked-up kind of gratitude, but maybe that’s the only kind we can afford to have.

Anything else—the softness, the sweetness, the genuine thankfulness someone might have for any number of life’s blessings—never makes it to our doorstep.

I throw open the back of the van and drag Celia to the edge. “Brought you a present.” Smacking the metal floor next to her, I watch her for signs of panic, but she’s completely collected, the long drive giving her time to think and process her future.

Ruin stares at her for a long moment, unmoving. The seconds tick by while I wait, exhaustion creeping in on me, its needles stabbing the backs of my eyes. “We good?” I ask.

My youngest brother breaks out of his trance and nods. “Did you drug her?”

“Didn’t have to. She wasn’t much of a challenge.”

He grunts, then takes his time getting to the van. He fingers the ropes around her ankles and follows a trail of red up her calf, likely from where she was pressed against the ridges in the floor for so long. Goosebumps break out across her skin, and I watch as they bleed from one inch of skin to the next. Ruin traces their path with his gloved fingertips, a reverence to his touch that I simply don’t understand.

How can he still like what he sees?

How isn’t he strangling her right now?

But if I know my brother like I think I do, he already has plans for how and when he touches her next. Ruin is deliberate, methodical, liking to take his time to ensure he experiences every raw detail of the moment.

If anyone will stay Rage’s temper and curtail Rebel’s impatience, it’ll be Ruin. He could keep the bitch alive for days. Weeks. Hell,years.

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