Page 129 of Rage

When she turns again, her dark blue eyes narrow as though he’s stepping close to an edge he shouldn’t linger near.

A low growl creeps up her throat, “Tread carefully, man.”

“Steele,” he tells her and waits for her to allow him to continue. “What happened to you?”

Before he knows what happened, she’s upon him, holding him aloft by her claws, the sharp talons stabbing him in the neck. “Don’t. Ever. Ask. That. Again.”

Breath flees his lungs, and he waits for death to claim him. Her breath is hot on his cheek, and her blue eyes are even with his.

And yet, inside those rage-filled eyes, he sees that woman in the portrait, cowering inside the beast who’s claimed her life.

What curse would lock a beautiful woman such as she inside a ravenous beast?

Chapter Five

Reverie

Ihold my breath hostage as I flee his wing and make it back to mine.

For weeks, I’ve studied him. I’ve watched him succeed in the manor’s nefarious games and he’s surpassed all my expectations of him.

He’s strong and fierce, yet gentle and kind.

He’s known loss—far more significant than I can fathom—even though I can’t remember who I lost.

The ghosts of something I can scarcely grasp have corpses anchored to my subconscious. The place inside me where that woman exists is vast, yet she lingers there, bleeding and bloody and clinging to my skeleton.

And when I held him aloft in my talons and my lungs pulled full of his scent, his piercing eyes, rich with the molten color of firewood, skewered me, and I swear he saw the girl within.

I’ve been so mad, hardened, and scrupulous for longer than my memory stretches, but I know there is not much left that’s soft and tender in my heart. It’s hostile and hardened and looks for war, even when peace is presented as a gorgeous man reading one of my favorite books. It’s usually impervious to things like caring, which is a dangerous territory, no matter howfar my mind drifts. The harder you care for something, the more fragile the world becomes.

All the other times I’ve watched him—seen him fall victim to the manor’s moving rooms, enchanted furniture, and monsters in the garden—tonight I could not fight approaching him any longer.

While the monsters of the manor are real and should be frightening, they are the only things I’ve had for company in what feels like centuries.

But tonight… tonight, I watched him climb the ladder and pull down one of my favorite books. I witnessed him sit in my favorite chair and get lost in the world that’s cradled me in my darkest hour. His thick and calloused fingers strummed the pages like a guitar, and his beard, adding a rugged texture to his already robust appearance, jostled as he moved his lips to mouth the words—a sign of dyslexia—exactly like me.

It was at that moment I glimpsed a flaw, effortlessly beautiful amid the immense energy radiating off him, pressing against me with such intensity that it stole the air from my lungs. When he spoke, his voice—dense and unyielding—pierced through my soul like flint striking stone, scattering sparks that crackled through my icy veins in the most unsettling way.

I pace around my chambers, rage warring with want and the desire to dissect these thoughts. The rage doesn’t want company. It takes up too much room in my being for fickle, silly feelings such as lust and desire.

My talons itch to shred the black drapes even more, though ninety percent are nearly shredded to bits. The manor waits until there’s no more fabric on the rods before it replaces them with new ones.

“Why don’t you just ask him to dinner?” Edmund asks, my butler bringing me my nightly elixir—and right on time.

Whatever he puts in here always calms me down.

I swipe the pewter goblet off the silver tray and slam back the icy cold liquid, wiping my face with the fuzz on my arms. “What?!” I question him, pushing the mug back onto the tray with such force that it buckles his knees a bit.

“You’re clearly thinking of him,” he states, treading carefully as he edges toward the exit. “It’s been longer than I can recall where you’ve had another young person to talk to. Your childhood was filled with?—”

“ENOUGH!” I shout, and he shrinks away from me, my voice gravelly and low, soaked with the beast within. “I don’t need you to tell me about me, Edmund.”

“Yes, m’lady, I know, it’s just?—”

“Edmund!” I shout, falling to all fours as my hackles rise.

He taps the tray, and the mug fills, and he sets it on the ground in front of me.

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