Page 37 of Claimed By Rage

Different, but no less appetizing.

Rebel and I step into the room in unison, hovering at the end of the bed. This is usually when a sleeping person stirs, their body sensing something amiss, a presence that lingers where it shouldn’t. I usually have tools to combat the twitching limbs, the flicker of eyelids, the panicked whimpering. But just how Rage’s work shift is beginning soon, mine is ending.

I don’t have my tools with me.

But I don’t need them with Celia.

Unlike my usual marks, Celia doesn’t wake in a panic at being watched. She’s slow to rouse, like I’m dredging her body out of a pit of sand, each falling grain bringing us closer together. Her wavelength meets mine somewhere between waking and dreaming, hovering in that precipice between life and death like it finds comfort there, in the in-between.

I understand it all too well.

Rebel, however, has too little patience and too much energy. It frizzles around him in every move he makes, fraying at the edge of his consciousness. Event nights always string him out, affecting his rhythm more than the rest of us. He sweeps his hand over Celia’s bare calf, hovering over her knee.

Even in the relative darkness, I can picture the bruises on her skin.

A shiver rolls down my spine, making my balls tingle. I lick my lips and watch as Rebel climbs into the bed, slipping beneath the blankets to spoon Celia from behind. He fits like a missing piece, easily contorting his body to hers, sighing into her hair as he nuzzles close.

I don’t care to join them, so I watch instead.

Then, I reach out and touch her.

I start with her foot, brushing my bloodied fingers over the top, waiting for her twitch. Then I press the pad of my thumb into her arch and sweep up, massaging the knot that keeps coming back. I play like this for a while, dirtying her skin, trailing my hand higher, palming the curve of her calf, the thick expanse of her milky thigh.

There is no window in Rage’s room, but I imagine the sun rising. The black blood would warm in the light, revealing streaks of crimson across Celia’s skin. Another shiver rolls down my spine and blood flows to my thickening cock. My body warms, making my skin tight. There’s never enough room when I’m trying to fit Celia inside, too, like she’s too much for me to hold.

All my broken pieces beside all of her whole ones.

I wonder if snapping and cracking bits of her will make room for shards of me in between.

Rage wakes first, his body’s natural rhythm winning over the need for sleep. The transformation is immediate—all of thetension in his body snaps back into place, his voice a low, warning rumble once he realizes we’re here. “Get out.”

Neither Rebel or I move.

He clutches Celia to his chest tightly, like he’s trying to convince himself that she’s here for only his pleasure.

But we agreed before this ever began.

She doesn’t belong to him.

She belongs tous.

I stare at my palm pressed to Celia’s thigh. When I lift it, a bloodied handprint stains her skin. Her leg slides an inch higher on the mattress, like she’s expecting me to bend her knee and spread her thighs.

I could.

Ishould.

But I don’t.

I stare at the three of them in bed. “What does she feel like?”

Rebel’s the one to answer, a pleased sigh on his lips. “Warm. Soft.” He wedges his knee between her legs and hugs her body to his chest. “Perfect.”

Celia sighs and rolls onto her back.

The three of us go still.

“You two aren’t welcome,” Rage grumbles, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I have eight hours with her. It’s only been two.”

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