Page 6 of Claimed By Rage

The weight of it all crushes me. “No.” I shake my head. I don’t want any more death, not even for a man like Rage, but I don’t dare tell my brother that. I don’t want to pick a fight, not after the insane highs and lows over the past hour. My heart can only handle so much. “I’ll take care of him.”

Mikhail doesn’t buy it, but at least he doesn’t argue. “Fine. But Celia?” He tucks his gun into a holster hidden beneath his suit jacket. “Grow up and stop ignoring me.” His eyes narrow, a lock of his chestnut hair falling across his forehead. “You’re bratva whether you like it or not. You can’t wish it away on some shooting fucking star.” Thrusting his hand out toward Rage, still lingering outside, he huffs. “Case in point. Do you know who he is?Reallyknow? Because he’s not the kind of guy I thought I’d find you trading spit with.”

I don’t know specifics. Rage doesn’t really talk so much as he takes. But I don’t want Mikhail to spoon-feed me information about my latest hookup. “I told you, I’ll handle it.” It’s no secret that Rage, Rebel, and Ruin are bratva—I see it in their tattoos, in the way the world bends to their will, the fine lines of their muscles, honed into weapons. It means that I made a huge mistake dancing with them at the club two weeks ago, but I couldn’t help it.

For the first time in years, someone wantedme.

My brother wouldn’t understand how, at that exact moment, nothing else mattered.

Chapter 2

Celia

My home has always beena picture of perfection both inside and out. Pristine white walls match the decor: sleek and shiny, with hints of silver and sparkle strategically placed to catch rays of sunlight in the warmth of dusk and dawn. The flowerbeds outside are much the same, filled with local greenery that rotates every few months as the seasons change. Strangers and friends alike know at least one thing: Celia Monrovia keeps a tidy home.

Not even Rebel can change that.

Every time he misplaces a throw blanket, leaves the TV remote out, or rifles through my cabinets for something to entertain himself, I put everything back into its proper place. Some may call it a compulsion, but my mother would call it a homemaker’s duty, and that’s how I choose to see it.

A perfect home means a perfect life.

That’s what I tell myself as I drive up the slope and park beside Rebel’s motorcycle. It doesn’t fit here, much like the rest of him. All tattoos and smoke, filling my home with something dark and disorderly—out of place for a cookie-cutter suburban.

Yet he makes himself at home even when I’m not around, becoming more in-tune with my belongings than even my ex-husband was. Rebel has spent countless hours rummagingthrough my cabinets, drawers, and closets, like he’s looking for something. A secret. An affair. Something broken that I’ve swept under the rug.

He won’t find anything, because I have nothing to hide.

As I round the sidewalk from the front to the side door, I catch glimpses of his presence. The open windows, spilling warm light into the yard. The middle drawer in the antique china cabinet, angled open on the right side. The swivel armchairs in the living room, facing the windows instead of the coffee table in the center of the room. Despite the disarray, passerby still have the opportunity to glimpse the picture I’ve painted, pristine white and perfect, not a single speck of dust, dirt, or decay. It’s what my mother advised after my divorce settled.

Show them how strong you are in the aftermath, and everyone will forget you were ever weak in the first place.

I hover outside the kitchen door as I catch Rebel within, doing what he does best: snooping. He hops up on the kitchen counter and reaches for the cabinet above the fridge, the edge of his t-shirt lifting to expose a sliver of skin over his hips. He goes straight for the liquor, unscrewing the cap on a half-empty bottle of vodka and taking a swig. Or two. Orthree.He holds the bottle by the neck with one hand and continues rummaging with the other, sorting through what little remains from my ex-husband’s liquor stash. When Rebel closes the cabinet and reaches for the one beside it, I roll my eyes and push open the door. “There’s nothing interesting up there, Rebel, I promise.”

I drop my keys into the wooden bowl on the bar, frowning at his own set already nestled snugly within. It’s like hewantsto live here. Nothing about Rebel screamsdomesticated, though. He’s all dark tattoos and lean muscle, black skinny jeans slung low over his hips, a charcoal gray v-neck exposing the intricate ink curving across his chest. Despite sharing midnight hair and dark eyes with his brothers, he stands out by the glint of metallooped around his bottom lip and the soft beanie slung over his head.

That, and the distinctdick piercingI remember rubbing against my tongue that night I sucked him off at the club.

He doesn’t have the grace to pretend he isn’t snooping. Flicking his gaze in my direction, he slips something silver inside his front pocket before hopping off the counter. “Everything here is interesting, baby.”He sets the vodka down on the counter before slinking toward me, wrapping his arms around my waist like vines. “It’s yours.”

The sincerity in his eyesalmostmakes me believe him.

I settle my hands over his hips and take a deep breath. Even this part is foreign: the sweetwelcome home. My heart aches for the little things it’s missed from my marriage—things that I haven’t lost, but things that I neverhad.This is one of them.

Rebel’s lips brush my cheek as he bends down to my height. With only a few inches between us, he doesn’t have to stoop far. “Missed you today.”

There’s no telling how long he’s been waiting for me, only that this has become routine just as much as Rage’s morning visits at the boutique. I never gave Rebel a house key; he finds a way inside on his own, likely breaking a lock in the process. He dips lower and mouths a tender spot on my neck, humming against my skin. “You feel tense. Rough day?”

A shiver rolls down my spine as he sucks the mark he left yesterday, pulling blood to the surface to darken it some more. That’s the thing with these men—they enjoy marking their territory. “You could say that.” Rage was rougher than usual today, not stopping after his morning snack, breaking routine to get on my nerves and take more than was on offer. The memory of his fingers pulsing inside my heat forces a blush to my cheeks. “I think I made your brother mad.”

Rebel scoffs, lifting his head to peer into my eyes. His lips shine with saliva, the snakebite gleaming silver in the light. “Rage is always mad. I swear he was born with a huge stick up his ass.” Rolling his eyes, he pulls me away from the kitchen and into the hallway, toward the stairs to the second level. “C’mon, let’s strip you outta these clothes.”

“I can do it myself.”

He keeps a hand wrapped around mine as he leads me up the stairs. When we reach the landing, he spins us and pins me to the wall, crowding me with his warmth, his scent. The glint of mischief in his eyes is the only warning I get before he dips, sealing his lips over mine. I can feel the smirk in his kiss, the way he buries a piece of himself within everything he does, including this.

If Rage’s kisses are an all-consuming fire, Rebel’s are the smoke that lingers long after he’s gone.

“It’s more fun when I watch,” he murmurs, sucking my bottom lip between his. With a groan, he pulls back completely, leaving me dazed as he gestures toward the bedroom. “After you, beautiful.”

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