Page 12 of Claimed By Rage

Rage touches meeverywhere.

The sound Rage’s dad makes is a pained, whining twinge in his throat. “Why are you telling me this?”

I shrug one shoulder and tug the hair still bunched in my hands. “You should feel bad that you created a monster.”

Rage’s dad exhales slowly, pulling his eyes away from the window to stare at my outstretched foot. The strap of one of my heels broke in the struggle down the driveway, its buckle useless now. I dig the heel into the floor and pry it off my foot, kicking it across the limo. It clunks against the leather seat and bounces back to the floor.

Slowly, the man lifts his gaze inch by inch up my body, starting with the burgundy polish on my toes, over the curve of my calf, up the length of my newly-shaved thigh, to the spotwhere my skin meets the hem of my dress. His gaze lingers there while his lips move. “I’m not Rage’s father.”

My cheeks flush, the unwelcome lump in my throat making it hard to swallow. “Oh.”

He stares at my thigh for another heartbeat before reaching for a compartment in the base of his bench seat, next to where he’s seated. After a moment of rustling through whatever’s inside the secret compartment, he pulls out a pair of heels strapped together. They’re identical to mine—black, low to the ground—but with a slightly thinner heel. The arch of the shoe still holds that layer of gloss that screamsnew, the designer’s metallic gold logo glinting in the light. Brand fucking new. He unclasps them from each other and sets one on the bench beside him. “But you’re right.” The golden storm in his eyes turns dark. “Rage’s dadisa bastard. That, unfortunately, passed to all of his sons.” He exhales heavily, his gaze returning to my bare foot. “Lift your foot.” Patting his thigh—hisvery thickthigh—he invites me to set it down on top of him.

I shouldn’t give this stranger any part of me.

But I hold my foot over his thigh anyway, and he gently sweeps the heel into place and clasps three tiny, bright red buckles. They stand out against the black but go well with my polish, and when I straighten my foot to admire the look of them together, I catch the red sole of the shoe.

Expensiveheels.

That, I can appreciate.

We follow the same motions with my other foot, but before he clasps the heel in place a second time, he thumbs the arch of my foot in a way that makes my eyes roll back, a moan building in my chest. I twitch against his hold and bite my lip as he does it again. His hands are rough against my skin, calloused from years of use doing God knows what, butholy shit, do Isonot care.

He’s giving my pedicurist a run for her money.

The scar on his lips pulls as they twitch, but as soon as I think he’s going to crack a smile, he shuts it down. Dropping my foot without bothering to clasp the final strap, he glares—first at my foot, then burning a trail up my body, his scowl deepening with each passing second.

I clasp the damn strap myself. “What’s your problem?”

His glare snaps up to my face. He chews on his response for a few seconds before choosing to ignore my question and pulls something from his back pocket. Tossing it my direction, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns his icy stare out the window.

I lift the strip of fabric and roll my eyes.

It’s a fucking blindfold.

“I’mnotputting this on.” I mirror his posture, crossing my arms over my chest.

He clenches his jaw. “Put it on.”

“No.”

Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t put that on, I can’t take you inside. You know the rules.”

The rulesstate that I’m supposed to be transported with my eyes covered and wrists bound the entire time. A limo ride and personal pick up, no matter how surly the escort, is definitely beyond the realm ofnormal procedure. “I think we’re a little past the rules, don’t you?”

“Some rules can be bent. Not this one. Put the blindfold on, Celia.”

I wind the fabric around my fingers. “What happens if I don’t?”

A muscle in his jaw tics. “Then you’ll find out how well I can tie knots.” He glances over at me. “Because I won’t be bendinganyof the rules.”

My grumpy chauffeur disappears as soon as he ushers me inside the club. He pulls the blindfold from my eyes with a snap of his wrist then disappears into the crowd, blending in easily with all of the other well-dressed guests. After anticipating seeing Rage again, I’m expecting him to be waiting for me the moment I step out of the limo.

In the end, I’m left completely alone—but that’s exactly what I want.

I need time to enact my plan for the night.

Shaking off what happened in the limo is easy the moment I take my first step into the room. The heels are sublime. I’ll admit it. They fit like a glove and have just enough cushion that I know I won’t blister by the end of the night, no matter how new they are, and I can tell by the glances I’m getting that they’re doing their job.

---