Page 443 of Rage

But I do. We have an uneasy competitive relationship. And she hates me for usurping her place.

At least, I think she does. She did threaten me the first night I showed up. But that’s just Maeve.

This is new for me, offering to help.

She takes the towel, pulling away from me. My hand hovers, not sure I should move away just yet.

Maeve has been nothing but a hindrance since I got here and yet…

I hate seeing the haunted look in her eyes. It’s far from the calculating heir I’ve watched grow over the years.

“Anything you want to tell me, Princess?”

She glares, but it’s lacking its fire. Maeve hates the nickname, and I learned early on that the best way to unnerve her is to piss her off.

After all, she’s the heir to a king in this world. Princess seems fitting.

“No.”

I tsk, rocking back on my heels. I run a hand through my dark locks, smirking as her eyes narrow.

“That’s not very nice.” I gesture to the towel. “And even after I tried to help.”

“I never asked for your help, Killian.” She stands, throwing the towel back at me. Ice scatters all over the white tiled floor. “Stay out of it.”

My smirk just grows at her irritation. Pissing Maeve off is an art form that I enjoy too much to be healthy.

Instead, I wink. “As you wish. But…” I lick my lips, watching as her eyes linger on my tongue. “You might want to ice that down. Only one person is allowed to wring that pretty little neck, and it’s not some guy you met on the street.”

She knows I’m teasing, but her cheeks flush. “Fuck off.”

Maeve shoves past me and I inhale her violet and juniper scent like it’ll give me strength. Years ago, Maeve was my rival in so many ways.

Now I can’t stop the rage from filling my chest at someone hurting her.

Chapter Three

Maeve

2 years ago

Iwhimper against the grinding of my aching ribs.

Ribs I’m pretty sure Michael broke earlier that day.

I’m eighteen, far from the stubborn thirteen-year-old my father gave to his best friend. Now I’m considered a woman, and forced to endure unspeakable acts as is my place in this world.

Unfortunately for my future husband, I don’t go without a fight.

Today is just another endless day where Michael acts like he owns my body. For my refusal, he stomped my ribs and crushed my left hand. I’m right-handed, but I shoot better with my left so this is an annoyance at best.

He knew what he was doing when he aimed. It’s not enough to take my body, he’s trying to break my soul.

Leaning back on the white suede couch, I pull my black shirt up over my stomach, seeing the first signs of bruising around my sides. If they’re not broken, they are certainly bruised.

Fuck, it hurts. I can barely breathe.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

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