Page 9 of Claimed By Rage

Heat rushes from my chest to my throat, making it hard to swallow. There’s always a part of me thathatesmen like Jimmy. Spineless, brainless, pieces of shit that do more harm than good. Still, this part is routine, too. I always get a little worked up when men don’t face the consequences of their actions head on.

My next words are trapped behind the steel clench of my jaw. It takes genuine effort to unhinge andbreathe.I must not do a good job of looking sane and sober, because Jimmy flinches again, harder this time. My temper flares hot. “If you’ve been fucking up that long…” I point my fingers at his temple and mimic placing a gun to his head. “Your brains would have splattered this wall a long fucking time ago, Jimmy.” I dig my fingertips into his temple, twisting them as I push hard,harder, until he makes a choked, strangled sound in the back of his throat.

When I pull back, his skin’s an angry red and his eyes bug out of his head, but it’s not enough.

It never is.

The first punch lands square against his jaw. His head snaps back, a pained grunt pouring into the gag between his teeth. The second one reverberates up my arm, tingling my nerves in a shockwave that makes my jaw clench harder. On the third, his tooth splits the skin around my knuckles, and Ihatehim for it.

When I touch my girl later and see this stupid fucking cut from Jimmy’s stupid fucking teeth, he’ll be closer to her than he ever has the right to be.

And that makes melivid.

Despite my name, it’s rare for me to lose control. To reallylet goand pummel my opponents with all of the fury I keep locked up tight. Ever since I was old enough to make a fist, I’ve been warned about the dangers of striking out in anger. My mother, in particular, tried to soothe the beast when it was still a cub thrashing against its cage. She used to brush her palms over my knuckles and murmur a softshhagainst my temple, attempting to calm the creature within.

When she died, no one stepped up to take her place.

My inner beast quickly grew claws and teeth, earning me a reputation within the bratva as a brawler. A demon. Tearing through his targets with a ferocity that astounded even the oldest, hardest men within the bratva’s ranks.

Most people pull their punches.

I learned early on how stupid that was.

The feel of Jimmy’s face beneath my fist becomes a rhythm as consistent as the pulse in my veins. I don’t stop, because I’mangry.It burns through my body like a poison, familiar in the way that it claims me much as I claim it. Harnessing that anger is what got me to where I am today: it’s power as much as it ispoison. Most people don’t understand that. Anger is fuel. It’s a weapon. Afriend.

Jimmy moans, the sound as pathetic as he is. I sneer as I take in the swollen bruises all over his face, hideous and malformed and downrightrevolting.Just like he is. I loosen my fist and stretch my fingers, knowing that they’re hot and bruised, too, as angry as I feel inside. “Fail me again, Jimmy,” I warn, “and it won’t be my fists kissing your face next time.”

From the shadows in the back of the room, my brother Ruin emerges, slinking forward into the light. Jimmy can’t see for shit with swollen eyelids and broken sockets, but he flinches anyway—they always do when Ruin appears from thin air. That’s part of his charm, I suppose, the way he can pull the fear from people’s hearts. It radiates from their bodies in this sickening cold that swallows the world whole in something bitter and gray.

If anger is my motivator, fear is my brother’s. He eats that shit up with a cracked-out smile and a pleased hum in his throat.

Crazy bastard.

“Keep him alive,” I remind Ruin, “but make sure he tells us everything. Go slow.” There’s zero chance that Jimmy isn’t pulling some shit, and I need to know what it is before it blows up in our fucking faces.

Even shit stains like him can create ripples in the system if they thrash around long enough.

Ruin tears the gag from Jimmy’s mouth. He likes to hear them scream.

“W-wait,” Jimmy slurs, “I’ll talk.” When my brother grabs a pair of metal cutters, his voice pitches higher. “I’ll talk.”

Sighing, I step aside and roll my shoulders back. Tension pulls in my back, and I grab the half-empty bottle of vodka from the table littered with various tools and instruments. Popping the cork, I chug a few swallows and let the burn settle over the thrum of rage still pulsing deep. It’ll take a minute to rein it backin. Being aroundfucking Jimmydoesn’t help. The whimpering alone is enough to make me wanna bash his skull in. “I know you will, Jimmy.” I smack his cheek and grip tight, dragging his eyes back to mine. “You don’t have a choice anymore.”

I leave my brother to his work. We’ve been doing this long enough that he knows not to kill Jimmy too quickly—first, we need all the intel in his puny fucking brain, andthenRuin can carve him up all he wants.

There are five cells we’ve built into the basement beneath the club, each one a concrete box meant to hold prisoners for as long as we need. Collecting things—intel, money, bribes—is part of the business. Collectingpeopleis part of it, too, and the reason for the raucous upstairs. I can hear the laughter as I bound up the stairs to the main level. Each step forces another cinch of my mask into place, burying the rage beneath a layer of charm and charisma a club owner needs to keep his cattle in check.

Dangle carrots, not guns, to appeal to the stock.

With Celia knowing my identity,more or less, I don’t need to wear a physical mask tonight. The warm air upstairs is already tinged with the sting of booze and haze of cologne that comes with the party, and I dart into my family’s private suite in the back to freshen up before Celia arrives.

I can’t cover the bruises or cuts on my knuckles, but I dab them with antiseptic to keep them clean and wrap them in loose bindings. If Celia is observant, she’ll notice—maybe even ask questions.

I won’t lie to her about it if she does, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that. The last thing I want isfucking Jimmyon my mind when I’m with her.

As I swipe loose strands of hair from my eyes and slick them back into position, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Color has risen to my cheeks, stray flecks of Jimmy’s blooddotting my arms and neck. Mutely, I wash them off at the sink, pat myself dry, and take a deep, sobering breath.

If Celia isn’t already waiting for me at the front, she’ll arrive any minute. I instructed Rebel to keep her occupied until I was finished downstairs, so if he has any fucking sense, he’ll have listened and kept her away from the crowds. I’m not opposed to people seeing her—but if they touch one fucking hair on her head, they’re fuckingdead.I clench my jaw as an image of her smiling at a faceless man surfaces to the front of my mind.