Page 8 of Claimed By Rage

Rebel may search my house for answers, but Ruin searches my body, piecing me together like a puzzle, each orgasm a mere flip of a piece to reveal the picture hidden underneath.

It’s something that Rage, for all his righteous declarations of possession, doesn’t understand.

You can’t claim something without understanding it.

I want Ruin to kiss me, but he never does. Once sated, the ache of lust morphs into an ache of longing—for tender moments, warm breaths against pillows, the shift of skin against skin as our legs tangle in the sheets, the caress of morning light across our cheekbones, whispers of affection that go beyond the needs of the flesh.

But those pieces are the ones Ruin doesn’t know how to give, much how I wouldn’t know how to ask.

I fall asleep to the feel of his body weight over mine, his hand pressed firmly against my pussy, his face hovering over mine as he watches my consciousness slip away.

When morning comes, I’m always alone, gifted a few hours’ peace where I can try to detangle my thoughts. My body wars with my mind as I peer in the vanity mirror and take stock of the marks the men have left. Fingertip bruises on my thighs, a deep hickey along the column of my throat, a flush across my chest, the remnants of last night still slick in the curve between my thigh and my sex.

A shiver rolls down my spine, my eyes delighting in the traces of them that remain. A body that’s been touched—devoured—is a welcome sight.

But my stomach twists at the implications behind it. Their touch doesn’t come free. This isn’t a relationship, but anownership. A way to claim my body as theirs and ward off others’ attention.

To leave me alone with no one but them for comfort, and the comfort they provide is only skin-deep.

Something gold and gleaming on my dresser catches in the morning light. Even before turning my head, I know what it is. Still, I stare at the envelope like it’s an unknown—like it could be anything else. I dream of other possibilities, imagining winter galas bathed in faux fur coats and glittering crystal curtains, or a new bride’s luxurious wedding deep in the heart of snow-tipped mountain ranges, or perhaps a sudden, spur of the moment getaway vacation to the Bahamas where the sea and salt are my only company.

But the vision shifts every time, fading back into the grim reality of vaulted ceilings shrouded in darkness, masked dancers grinding their bodies against one another, deep crimson silks draped over beams and cascading down walls. I know what I’ll find, because I’ve been there.Midnightis the dirtiest secret of the city—but once you’ve tasted it, once you’ve experienced the rush, it gets into your bloodstream.

Shit like that is hard to shake.

As I tear open the envelope and finger the thick cardstock inside, a rush of excitement washes over me. The rules of the club state that all guests must remain anonymous, utilizing code names and masks to remain secret to one another. That in itself is a thrill. It’s easy to get caught up in that—the surreal atmosphere, the way everything feels like a dream. But nowthat my personaBeautyhas been claimed by three mafia men, alongside that excitement comes dread.

Because in the light of day, only one truth remains: if I don’t break free now, I’ll be theirs forever.

Theirs to own.

Theirs to steal.

Theirs to break.

Chapter 3

Rage

There arefew problems I can’t solve with my fists. Taking things, breaking things… it’s all the same, with the same result, as long as I get my hands dirty.

Things always go my way.

That’s why Celia is an enigma. I’ve touched her. Tasted her.Fuckedher.And yet… she stillresists being mine.

I roll my shirt cuffs higher over my forearms, controlling my breathing as I ignore the pleading stare from the man strapped to the rickety metal chair in front of me. Jimmy’s one of our worst men, stuck on the front lines doing grunt work that even a ten year old should be able to handle, yet somehow, he always manages to fuck up the job.

The only reason he isn’t dead yet is because of some S-tier sheer fucking luck, but my patience is running thin. “I don’t tolerate failure,” I remind him, tilting my head to the side until my neck cracks with several shortpops. “You know this, Jimmy.”

If there weren’t a gag in his mouth, I’d have to hear the same old whimpering sob story he tells me every time he ends up in the chair. His car broke down. He got mugged. His gun jammed.He ran out of ammo. His shoelace was untied. Different lies, same story.

There’s only one part I care about: he didn’t get the job done.

I level him with a stare that does exactly as it’s intended: makes the man quake in his tiny fucking boots. “How many times are we gonna play this game, hm? How long has it been, now? Five, six years? No, that can’t be right.” Placing my hand on the back of his chair, I lean in close and get a good look at his eyes.

Clear as a summer sky. Sweaty in his armpits and across his shoulders, but that started when I entered the room, not before. Twitchy with his fingers, but he’s always like that. He’s still little more than half a shit stain wrapped in a body, but at least he’s not huffing our product.

Jimmy recoils away from me, not that he can go far. The ropes binding his arms and legs to the metal chair creak as he shifts his weight. I’m used to this part, too, the part where he flinches like a little bitch when I close in.

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