Page 47 of Claimed By Rage

I swallow my sigh. I’m never going to finish any of my custom designs at this rate. The charity gala is in a few weeks, and I’ve agreed to designing not just one, but three elaborate evening gownsandfulfilling them with enough time for alterations. It was already a rush job when I accepted, but I took the job before three stubborn men decided that my life was more interesting with them in it. I amterriblybehind schedule.

I drop my pencil, close my eyes, and rub my temples. Sara asked me a question. What was it again? Something about Rage? “I guess we’re fighting, yeah.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. I think he really likes you.”

I try not to roll my eyes. Despite how often she calls out lately, Sara has been a blessing ever since she joined my staff. She doesn’t deserve my shitty attitude. “What gave you that idea?”

“He used to visit you every day!”

Choking on my own saliva, I try not to spontaneously combust. Sara should have been nowherenearthe vicinity when Rage came around in the mornings. If she knows he was here, then she might know what exactly he was doingwhilehe was here… I clear my throat and glance over at the thermostat. It’s a breezy seventy degrees, exactly how I like it.

I’m not sweating from the temperature.

“My boyfriend really likes me,” Sara continues, turning the spotlight from me onto her. “He sends me flowers and asks me all kinds of questions!”

Normally, I’d be annoyed at the incoming lovesick ramble, but today I’m grateful. I feed into her fantasy about her new lover. It’s the first one she’s had in a year. “That’s sweet of him.” Maybe Rage could take a page out of his book. “How long have you been together?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sara laughs. “A week or two, I think? He just moved into town for work.”

I don’t warn her that men who travel for work don’t usually stick around or take their new girlfriends with them across the country once their current assignment ends. “You’re moving pretty fast,” is as close as I get to a warning.

She waves off what little concern I have. “Love should be like that, though, right? Fast and messy and—” she takes a quick breath, bright eyed with lovestruck wonder—“overwhelming, don’t you think?”

I grunt, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and she continues talking without me. My gaze wanders the room, from Sara’s blushing cheeks, to the thermostat stuck on seventy degrees, to the wide window separating my office from the shop floor. Across the building, I look even further out, past the front windows and onto the street. People wander in clusters of two or three, chatting with each other, staring at their phones, huddling together to ward off the winter chill in the air. I watch them for a while, wondering if any of them have obsessive not-boyfriends, too, and how they handle it.

Probably better than I do.

Once Sara’s ramble slides past the thirty minute mark, I glimpse a shadowed figure in the courtyard past the street. They’re standing beneath a huge oak tree, barely hidden from view.

A white mask covers their face. Theirentireface.

He looks like Jason! You know, the murderer!

Shaking my head, I stand from my chair. The last thing I need is Ruin stalking me in broad daylight. Interrupting Sara feels shitty, but she doesn’t seem to mind, smiling broadly at me even as I pack up my things. “Can you lock up on your own? I’m gonna head home.” I leave out the back door, avoiding Ruin completely.

I half expect Rebel to be waiting for me at home, but he’s good at hiding, too.Sort of.The only evidence he was here at all is the half-empty bottle of vodka on my kitchen counter, the china cabinet drawer that’s askew, and the hint of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

I try not to miss him, but the house echoes without his laughter filling the empty spaces. My bed feels like a vast ocean without Ruin standing over it, my body a ship lost at sea.

And my chest—too hot, too tight.

Almost like a magnet missing its mate.

“Why didn’t you tell me you have a boyfriend? I have to hear from Mikhail that you’re dating again?” My momtsksacross the line. “You should tell your mother these things, Celia. After everything I’ve done for you, honey, the least you can do is keep me informed.” She takes a breath, her chair creaking as she shifts her weight. “Really, Celia. Think of your poor mother. It’s dreadful to learn these things secondhand.”

“I’m not dating anyone.” My nose twitches. FuckingMikhail, meddling where he doesn’t belong. He’s still pissed that I’m avoiding his calls. I have nothing to say to him—other than a big, fatfuck you.

My blood boils, but not toward my mother. I rein it in, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Mikhail’s the one you should be worrying about.”

Humming to herself, my mother tactfully avoids the subject. Like always. Heaven forbid that the favorite twin do something wrong.

Like murdering dozens of people at his own fucking wedding.

My head throbs. I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive him. The longer I hold onto my disgust, the harder it is to remember anything else about that day. Abouthim.The brother I used to know fades in the memory of blood on the chapel walls and screams reverberating in the rafters.

My mother conveniently forgets that part of the day’s events.

“At least he’s married,” she says with a sniff.

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