Page 54 of Claimed By Rage

Because shechose me.

Her outfit is cute, the skirt high enough to show a solid two or three inches of warm skin where her stockings end halfway up her thighs. The sweater hugs her tits. Her boots are worn but clearly well-loved, the soles scuffed but not torn apart. She put effort into her appearance this morning, spending what little time she had between our messages and my arrival to put together an outfit that I would enjoy.

No, notme.

Rebel.

The fucker.

“Where is he, anyway?” Celia picks at the flaking crust of her toast, trying to look casual. But there’s a tension in her shoulders that gives her away. The way she wrings her hands together when they’re not clutching her mug. Her knee bouncing up and down.

“Who?” I lift an eyebrow, knowing damn well who she’s talking about. I want to hear her say his name.

Meeting my eyes, she straightens her spine, her mouth twitching as she wrestles with how to respond. We’re in public, so I doubt she would make a scene. Her upbringing would have conditioned her to be polite when out in the city. Really, it should have conditioned her to be polite all the time, no matter what I do or say to her.

Apparently she trained herself out of that.

“The better brother.” She traces a manicured nail along the edge of her cheek as she brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Obviously.”

I lean across the table toward her, crowding close enough that I can smell her perfume. She holds her ground, looking up at me from beneath her long lashes with a wide-eyed innocence that Iknowis as fake as my smile. “I assure you…” Brushing my knuckles up the back of her forearm, I bring my lips to her cheek. “Whatever fantasies he’s put in your head won’t live up to the real thing,krosotka.” I press a gentle kiss to her skin, holding her jaw to keep her from moving away. My mouth lingers long enough that I’m tempted to claim her lips, too.

But I don’t.

I release her, enjoying the simmering outrage sparking in her amber eyes as I go back to lounging on my side of the booth.

“You’re full of shit,” she says casually, like this is just another conversation. I suppose that’s a skill she perfected, too. Despite the fire in her eyes, she’s no longer nervous or twitchy at being alone with me. She’s in control, putting on a perfect show for anyone foolish enough to eavesdrop.

“I will never lie to you, Celia.”

“You’re so threatened by your own brothers—” her smile is fuckingdazzling—“that you can’t let them win, can you? Not even for a moment. I bet they’re suffocating, living with you.Under your rule.” She takes a slow sip of her coffee, letting her words sink in. “How does it feel to be the reason your family is so fucked up?”

I let her think that she’s right for a full minute. She preens like a bird ruffling its feathers, a cat-like glow to her eyes. She’s fighting back—not with her fists, but with her words.

I fuckinglovethis side of her.

“We look out for each other. We always have. That’s why I agreed to share you with them. Not because Iwantto—” I hook my foot around her ankle and pull her leg closer to mine—“but because Ihaveto.”

All three of us need her, but I still don’t think she understands that.

She tries to pull her leg back, but I trap her thigh between my knees and squeeze. If my hand were under the table, I’d slide it up her stockings and beneath the cheeky ruffle of her skirt.

Those red fucking panties are atease.

I know she wore them for Rebel, but I’m the one who’s going to enjoy them while he’s locked away in his room, unable to get out. Ruin will return home eventually and shove the furniture I used to barricade his door out of the way, but until then… Celia is all mine.

The flash of anger in her eyes turns me on.

“You’re so full of yourself! Like you’re God’s greatest gift to the world.” She laughs loud enough to turn a few heads, but they see the same thing I do: a diamond sparkling in the sunlight. Warm rays bathe her honeyed skin, highlighting auburn streaks in her hair. I wonder if they’re natural or if she goes to the salon. Her nails are perfectly manicured, too, but she could do them herself. I could see her being picky enough that anything less than perfect isn’t acceptable.

Will she turn that perfectionism onto our children, or will she love them in spite of their flaws?

Oh yes, I remember our little texts from last night. I’ll never forget them. She let a secret slip—revealing the lie she told the other night.

Shedefinitelywants children.

And I’m going to give them to her.

Celia is still on a verbal rampage, though, so that conversation will have to wait. “They don’t need you to take care of them?—”

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