Page 135 of Rage

I nod, unsure of what to say. The vulnerability in his voice and the love captured in that image tell me more about him than he likely realizes.

“What happened? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He glances up at me, impaling me with his cool, blazoned stare. “I could say that I do mind you asking since you share so little of yourself with me. But I’ll make you a deal.”

I cringe, knowing what he is going to ask of me. I move away from the drawing, but he grasps my arm, and suddenly, I’m caught off guard by him.

My self-guarded armor dissolves. His eyes harden on me like molten ore dropped in a bed of snow. “What is your deal, sir?”

He pulls me over to the couches situated next to the fire. “I tell you a bit of my story; you tell me a bit of yours.”

Chapter Eight

Steele

Steele feels her simmering frustration, heavy and electric, like a storm cloud swelling and thickening the air with static tension.

Her bushy, furry brows hike up to her forehead, like the thoughts threading through her mind are too big—a swirling maelstrom of emotions spelled to be tethered to her bones.

“Alright,” she concedes, scrunching herself up on the couch.

It’s easy to see the woman inside the beast.

In fact, if Steele looks hard enough, he sees just that.

He inwardly asks the house to project her as she is inside, and the beast transforms before his eyes.

The maiden within is sitting next to him on the couch, her skin the soft color of caramel and her eyes a dark blue of a midnight sky.

She doesn’t know that he is seeing the true her at this very moment.

Steele’s breath catches, and he wonders if the manor’s magick is somehow amplifying the gravity of her presence—or if it’s just her.

The woman beside him leans back, her nails flexing absentmindedly against the cushion, unaware that he’s nolonger seeing the beast but her true form. It’s like something from a fairy tale, yet it’s real.

She’s real.

Her lips move, and he blinks, realizing he hasn’t heard a word she’s said.

“What?” he asks, voice hoarse. She flits back and forth in his vision, between the beast and the maiden—like she’s glitching. He can see the maiden inside the beast, like the beast is a see-through armor.

“I said,” she repeats, her frustration edging toward something softer, “are you going to keep staring at me like that, or do you have something to say?”

A faint smirk tugs at her mouth—a mouth that is both hers and not, as if the beast and maiden share the same sly humor. He feels the pull of her as if tethered by an invisible thread.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the words slipping free before he can stop them.

Her eyes widen, her claws retracting as if startled by the sudden intimacy of his tone.

“Beautiful?” she scoffs, but there’s no anger behind it, only disbelief.

Steele leans closer, unable to help himself. “Yes. You are.” His fingers brush against hers, and her breath hitches.

The tension between them thickens, a live wire sparking with possibility. His hand slides to her wrist, and he feels her pulse beneath his fingertips—rapid, strong, alive.

“You’re not afraid of me,” she whispers, her voice a mix of wonder and something deeper, darker.

“No,” he replies, his lips so close to hers now that he can feel the warmth of her breath. “You make me feel more alive than I’ve felt in years.”

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