Page 11 of Claimed By Rage

The man pounds his fist against the door, and I picture those bright, orange eyes flashing.

“—a minute!”

“We don’thavea minute, princess,” the stranger growls. “We’re late.”

Drawing up every ounce of strength I have, I force my feet to move toward the door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I pop it open and the man shoves it open wider with the flat of his palm. His eyes lock onto my dress first—a jet black, lacy number that dips low in the frontandthe back—and his scowl, already cutting across his face, somehow digs deeper.“You’re wearingthat?”

A flash of hot embarrassment whips inside my chest. I bought this dress after my divorce finalized—something sultry and seductive andnew.The opposite of what I used to wear. “What’s wrong with my dress?” I brush my palms down the sides, fingering the high slit up my thigh. My heartbeat throbs under the bear’s intense stare.

Not orange eyes like I imagined—but a deep, mahogany brown.

“Are my panties showing?” I didn’t actually check if they were visible. Carefully, I spin in a tight circle and let the skirt swish around my legs, the click of my heels helping settle my nerves.

If there’s one thing I understand in life, it’s fashion. The way a dress hugs a woman’s body should be intimate, and I tailored this dress to perfection the moment I bought it, spending hours earlier this afternoon adjusting those alterations now that I’vegone up a few sizes since the divorce. My boobs are bigger, my hips wider, my thighs thicker. I had to undo the cinches I originally made in the waistline, and I was self-conscious about it with each pull of the needle.

But you know what?

I still lookdamngood.

It’s enough to make me laugh, full and bitter, as I shake my hair loose from the bun behind my head. It cascades down my back in a tumble of soft curls that Iknowlook and smell amazing.

After all,looksare what I do for a living, sofuckthis guy’s opinion. “I know I look good,” I huff, grabbing my clutch from the side table and shoving it against his chest, “or else your jaw wouldn’t be on the fucking floor.”

Truthfully, his jaw is clenched so tightly that his teeth might crack from the pressure, but the remark hits its target. As his neck flushes an angry red and his pulse point throbs obscenely fast, for a split second, it’s almost like Rage is standing in front of me. But that isn’t quite right—this man is taller, broader, with way more muscles and a few years of experience on Rage. Silver hair peppers his temples, and the wrinkles around his mouth are clearly from frowning way too often to be healthy. A scar cuts through both of his lips from top to bottom on the right side, curving around his chin until it tapers off over the bend.

Our eyes meet and although this man isn’t Rage, I can see the resemblance. “Are you Rage’s dad?”

His dark eyes narrow and his glare turns venomous. “Get in the car, princess.”

It’s my turn to glare. “Princess?”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me through the door, slamming it shut behind us. I stumble down the steps as he drags me along behind him, walking way too fast for the heels strapped to my feet. I’ll break an ankle at this rate. As we approach the dip of thedriveway and the long, arching walk down the hill to the street, I pull him back with all my strength. “Hey, wait?—”

My heel catches and I tumble forward, my heart leaping to my throat.

I haven’t fallen down in years, especially not in heels.

I shut my eyes to brace myself for the impact, but when I don’t feel the stinging pain of concrete scrapes or rattled bones, I pry them back open to find the bear staring back at me.

Storm clouds.A thousand shades of gold rolling into each other, all at once separate but whole. Chaos contained. The buildup before the thunder or the downpour of rain.

A shiver runs down my spine as the stranger breaks our gaze to stare at my feet. No,glareat them. With a grunt, he loops his arm behind my knees and lifts me into the air, holding me tight to his chest as he barrels down my driveway to the limo still idling in wait for us. “We’relate,” he repeats, even surlier than the first time he said it. He cracks the car door open with one hand and thrusts my body inside head-first, tossing me through the air to the nearest bench seat. The bounce, while not exactly painful, knocks my brain around my skull.

I choke on ascreamas my blood boils. “Who the hell do you think you are?” If Rage finds out he handled me like this?—

I nearly scream a second time. There’s no way in hell I’m broachingthatsubject with an egomaniac like Rage.

The bear-man ducks inside and shuts the door, taking the seat furthest from me before rapping his knuckles on the opaque divider between us and the driver. The limo lurches ahead—I didn’t even know a luxury vehicle could do that—as we peel away from my street and off into the city. Even though I’m not blindfolded for the journey, I might as well be because the windows are blacked out. I can’t see a damned thing. The window controls are useless, too, clicking without actually working.

I’m being treated like a child—asecretlove childbeing ferried from one underground bunker to the next.

“If you’re Rage’s dad, you did a shit job raising him.” I lift my hair from my neck and fan myself, my temper making my body flare hot. “He’s an asshole, but at least now I know where he gets it from.”

The man ignores me, staring at the blacked out windows like he can see the future within his reflection. His jaw tics and he folds his hands in his lap, grasping them tightly together. Scars crisscross his knuckles, tearing through weathered, black and grey tattoos that wrap around his fingers and across the backs of his palms. Definitely older than Rage, but just as angry as him.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“You know, he manhandles me like that too.” I rub my wrist where this guy pulled me after him, soothing the aching skin with the pads of my thumbs. “Pushes me around. Puts his hands on my—” I cut myself off from sayingass, but I could say a lot of body parts, and it would all be true.

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