Page 446 of Rage

She throws the discolored rag into the sink. I see blood still coating her chin, her chest. Someone got her nose good.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her bleeding and broken. Certainly not the second, either.

Dozens of times, I’ve seen this: Maeve injured from something she won’t tell me about. It’s always when I’m leaving. Tonight, I went looking for her, just to make sure she was stillalive. She stopped caring for her wounds in the common areas leaving me to chase her.

Much like her, the bedroom is a dark fortress of gothic books, pictures, and taxidermized bugs. She’s always had this beautifully dark, poetic side, a part of her where I somehow felt oddly at home. Her darkness is like mine; there, under the surface, ready to take us under if allowed.

But we fight it back, give it just a little taste with every heinous act in this life, enough to keep it happy. Enough to let us live without succumbing to it entirely.

“Get out,” she demands, throwing her hair over her head. A few dark strands cup her sharp jaw.

Ignoring her, I grab the rag. “Here. Sit.” I push her toward the toilet.

She stares at me, glaring. Maeve isn’t the most trusting, and she’s injured. She’ll strike out like a scared, cornered animal if I push too much. Something she’s done on more than one occasion.

Oh, well, I’ve always been a little off. Her fight is as intoxicating as the drugs her father pushes.

“Get the fuck out of my room, Killian.”

I cross my arms, eyes daring her. “No.”

She turns, readying a punch. I see it coming. Before she can make contact, my hand goes to her throat and the other locks her arms down at her sides.

“Easy, Maeve. I’m not here to fight.”

“Could have fooled me,” she spits. She is all hellfire and rage and I lap it up. She is a sight.

Shoving her onto the toilet, I narrow my eyes.

“Shirt. Off,” I command. She snorts, crossing her arms defiantly.

I see the wince. Her back is soaked red, damaged flesh pulling with each movement. How much more of this can she endure? If she doesn’t listen, she’ll get an infection.

“So you can see me in my bra?” She shakes her head. “Not happening.”

Lowering to my knees, I part her thighs, positioning between them.

She tries to bar my entrance, but we both know I’m stronger. My fingers dig into her legs, and she hisses out a curse, relenting.

She’s nineteen and I’m barely twenty. This isn’t exactly the best position to be caught in. Hell, I should really hit up a few of the clan cousins who are so keen to share my bed. Keith has always been willing, and Angie has been begging for just one night. At least it’d kill some of this coiled tension inside me whenever Maeve is around.

But I’m drawn to her, always have been. Even when I thought of her only as a rival.

“I could take it off you myself, Princess.” My voice has dropped, and I see the reaction—the goosebumps, licking her bottom lip, the intrigue in her eyes even as the pain masks it. “I thought I’d at least give you the chance.”

“You wouldn’t…” Her eyes narrow.

My smirk grows into something sinister. “Oh, I most certainly would.” Gladly. Anything to help her.

Biting her bottom lip, she wrestles with her decision. It’s a brief moment, and then she whips the shirt off, tossing it over my head. Better to get it done and over with. “Happy?”

Exceedingly so. The lacy black bra is a bare scrap of fabric holding her full chest. Her dusty nipples pucker just out of reach.

For being so petite, Maeve’s body is meant for sin.

Gulping, I focus on my task. She’s the heir and I’m a reaper, I have to remind myself. This isn’t my place. Looking at her would be just wrong.

Even if a pretty blush has covered her cheeks and her green eyes are bleeding black with desire.

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