Page 50 of Claimed By Rage

Celia

I tossand turn all night long, my body fluctuating between too hot and too cold at the flip of a coin. I picture a golden dollar spinning on its edge, flicking between the two opposites in flashes of muted gold. I count its rotations, thinking it will help me sleep. Hot. Cold. One. Two. Three. Four. Hot again. Shivering. Sweating.

With a groan, I switch on my bedside lamp and sit up against the padded headboard. If I stare long enough at the doorway, the shadows bleed into shapes. I picture someone walking through, stepping into the light and taking true form.

But I can’t tell who it is. Huge and muscled like Rage? Lean and long like Rebel? Or a bit of both, striding into the room with the grace of a panther, the eyes of a predator glowing behind his mask.

I don’t know which is worse: knowing that I keep thinking about them, or wondering if Iwantto.

Even their ghosts help block out the hollowed loneliness rattling through the house. It’s a skeleton of my former marriage—and all the promises that came with it.

We were supposed to have children within our first year of marriage. Ted promised me that if I quit working, he wouldprovide all I needed to be happy. The money came easily. The friends flowed like wine. But family? The one thing I really wanted?

It never came.

I wrap my arms around myself and stare into the darkened hallway until the sun begins to rise. The shadows lift from the deepest blacks to midnight blues, the promise of tomorrow turning everything into a fuzzy gray.

Even the daylight looks depressed today.

Skipping my morning shower, I shove my feet into my slippers and pad down the stairs. My eyes catch on the empty wine glass in the living room. The throw blanket still piled on the swivel chair. The sunlight suddenly shifting to a harsh pink, painting the room in an eerie, blood-red glow. I stare at the pillows hiding my phone.

Did they text me all night?

Were they annoyed that I didn’t answer?

Biting my lip, I drift from the living room to the kitchen. The bottle of vodka on the counter absorbs the rusted sunlight, turning its contents a bitter orange. I unscrew the top and pour what little remains down the sink, crinkling my nose at the sudden waft of alcohol this early in the morning.

I think I’ll skip breakfast.

My gaze lingers on the empty bottle, the white label peeling at its edge. How many of these have I seen? Just as empty. Just as bitter. Without thinking, I snatch the bottle by its neck and fling it to the ground, shrieking as it shatters. Shards of glass skitter past my feet, but I’m already climbing onto the countertop and reaching for the cabinet over the fridge.

Rebel has raided this cabinet numerous times, but there are still bottles shoved all the way to the back. All of them are open, their labels peeling from age. I have to stand on my tiptoes toreach the furthest one, but I drag them all out and toss them to the floor.

Thecrashechoes through the empty house. Goosebumps rush down my arms. The vodka spills across the tile floor from one square to the next, flowing like rivers of rust, turning yellow with the sunrise.

Once morning breaks, everything turns clear again. The broken bottles sparkle. The trickle of spilt alcohol slows to a stop, looking as innocent as water. The light loses its color, fading back to its normal, crisp white.

I feel like I can breathe again.

Careful to avoid stepping on glass, I swing into the pantry to grab the broom and start sweeping. Then comes the mop. I lose myself in cleaning, the first hour of the day slipping past. Then the second. There’s a familiarity to it that’s comforting. Cleaning up after parties became a chore I enjoyed. It kept my hands busy and my mind occupied.

Most of all, it kept my husband locked in his office all morning. He offered to hire someone to handle it, but never followed though. Truthfully, I’m grateful. It kept me distracted enough to ignore how often his secretary came by toreview the week’s progress.

As I carry the bag of broken things to the trash can by the street, something red in the front window catches my eye. At first, I think that Rebel left one of his beanies in the house, but as I walk back up the driveway, something glitters in the light beneath it.

I walk up to the window and stare into my dining room. Sitting in the center of the table is the largest bundle of red roses I’ve ever seen, arranged inside a spiraling crystal vase.

Not a forgotten hat.

Agift.

I look around my front yard, half expecting one of the brothers to be standing behind me. That would be just like them—watching me work all morning without lifting a finger to help, all because they’re itching for me to notice therealgift they’ve left out for me.

Rolling my eyes, I walk through the kitchen to the dining room. The scent of roses hits me like a freight train. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it when I first came downstairs, but after trashing those bottles in the kitchen, the harsh burn of alcohol in my nose could have blocked out everything else. When did they drop this off?

Was it after our group text?

Nerves skitter down my arms, but I lift my hand to rub a soft petal between my fingers. It comes loose, floating down to the table.

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