Page 5 of Claimed By Rage

He won’t shoot until I’m far enough away for the bullet to clear me.

I glance up at Mikhail. This is the first time I’ve seen him in weeks. I don’t linger, because one look at the fury in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: despite coming to my rescue today, he’s still pissed at me for ignoring him over the past few weeks.

Well, I’m still furious, too.

I feel the anger like a second heartbeat all the way from my head to my toes. It pulses through me like lava, making me feel violated from within. I don’t normally get angry like this but when your brother and his mafia buddies hold a wedding party hostage and terrorize the guests for hours of ruthless interrogations, you get a little frustrated.

For the first time in my life, that anger and frustration overpowers all other emotions. I might be annoyed with Rage’s persistence in making me his, but I’mfuriouswith Mikhail for acting like what he did on his wedding day was okay.

When our eyes meet, I see my own staring back at me. Being twins means that we share a lot of physical traits, from our chestnut brown hair to the same tip to our noses. But in this, we willalwaysdiffer.

I will never agree with being part of the bratva if it means terrorizing innocent people, regardless of thewhy.

“Go home, Mikhail.”

He freezes, the hard line of his mouth pressing tighter, nearly disappearing altogether. “He’s bothering you, Celia.”

I know that Mikhail coming to my rescue is likely some kind of divine intervention. A sign from God that Rage is just as bad as I think he is—that I should walk away right here, right now, and let my brother splatter his brains all over my boutique. Iwould finally escape his eyes—his tongue—his wicked claim over my heart.

However.

What my brother doesn’t know is that Rage isn’t one man—he’s a package deal. There arethreeof them itching to get inside me, and if Mikhail shoots Rage today, he’ll have two more psychopaths to contend with.

As pissed I am at Mikhail, I’d rather he not die at my expense.

“I can handle this. Go home to Valentina.”

It’s no secret that the bratva’s Queen is finally home where she belongs after her unexpected disappearance—I’ve heard whispers of her return throughout the shop as gossip trades hands over shifting hangers and clutched handbags. Mikhail should be with her right now, not with me.

Mikhail finally shifts his gaze, looking between me and Rage. “I’ll go when he goes,” he says gruffly, “not a moment before.” His warm brown eyes pierce mine, screamingI’m not leaving you alone with this asshole.

For that, Iamgrateful.

When I turn back to Rage, he’s not staring at the gun anymore. There’s the slightest curve to his lips, a confident smirk in place that makesanotherkind of heat rush through me. My face warms all over again as he reaches up to touch the pink flush blooming across my cheeks.

I cringe away from his touch, my lips twisting into a grimace. “Don’t read into this.” The words rush out as one long string of syllables. “I don’t want your blood all over my floor.”

“Mhm.” Rage’s grip tightens as he holds me steady and ducks his head toward mine. “I think you just chose me,krosotka,” he rumbles, the tips of our noses brushing, “and that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” He devours my mouth in a searing kiss, one that steals the breath from my lungs. His tongue slips between my lips, and I can taste it—the desire he took from me,spilling back inside my mouth. He groans, suddenly pulling my hand to his crotch to feel the thick outline of his cock, hard and hot and eager, and he cups my palm around his length, forcing me to touch him,tofeel him, to acknowledge how much he wants me, even now, with a gun aimed at his head.

Mikhail curses behind us. “For fuck’s sake, man, get the hell off of her!”

I pull away first, not wanting to linger on the hummingbird flutter of my heart or the way his hard length feels rocking into my palm.Jesus, the heat of him is gonna imprint on my brain.

Thankfully, Rage decides to play nice. He chuckles and presses a hard kiss to my forehead. “Don’t worry, I’m fully loaded for you anytime, anyplace.” He winks as he saunters away, clapping Mikhail on the shoulder as he walks past him to the exit. “Good to see you, brother.”

Mikhail’s face twists. “I amnotyour brother.”

The bells over the door jingle as Rage leaves, but I don’t miss the way he hovers outside, watching me through the massive front windows.

My brother glares at me, tapping the butt of his gun against his thigh in short, jerky bursts. “You have theworsttaste in men.” He glares out the window at Rage. “Do you need me to take care of him?”

The light, fluttering feeling in my chest deflates instantly, my hands balling into fists. I’m not ready to admit that Rage makes me feel good—physically, at least—but the crash back to reality hits hard, like a sledgehammer to the gut. Bile rises in the back of my throat, and when I look at my brother, I see him for what he is.

He’s no longeronlyMikhail Monrovia, the man who has kept our family safe since Dad died, but one of the bratva’svors, a captain willing to get his hands dirty tokeepme safe, even now, a decade later.

He would kill a man like it’s barely worth the time it takes to consider doing it. That’s who he is now. Bratva-made, like most of the men in this city.

I’m pretty sure he’s only asking because he knows that if he kills Rage without my consent, I’ll never forgive him.

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