Page 452 of Rage

And seeing her in that outfit?Hell.

That outfit looked better on the floor next to my jacket. Her moans would drift over it as I went back to her, time and time again, making her forget whoever she was going to see. I’d have her begging, wishing for me to stop, but I wouldn’t be able to.

Because once I had her, I’d lose myself completely in her.

Fuck.My cock twitches against my zipper.

The idea that someone getsthat,getsher,and it’s not me, is unfathomable.

Spinning on my heel, I dart back upstairs. No way in fucking hell was I going to let her go to someone else like that. I don’tcare if she’s in love. She belongs with me and only me. She’ll love me too. Eventually. Even if I have to force her.

The landing is empty, but a light down the hall pulls my attention. Voices drift out and I know Michael is there.

When I get close enough, I hear his words, fury lining my hands.

“You’re almost twenty-one. I’ll admit, I do miss that young body of yours, but this version certainly comes with perks.”

My vision narrows, chest heavy as ruthless rage boils up, tasting of black tar and promises of retribution.

All the cuts. All the broken bones. Everything slips into place.

I’ll slice him into tiny pieces for ever thinking he had a right to Maeve.

I dart into the bedroom, ready to do whatever it takes to end thisnow.

I stop short, momentarily shocked at what I see.

Maeve straddles the man, towel pooled under her. If not for the knife hanging in the air, I might have shot the man dead and dragged Maeve away by her hair, consequences be damned.

She plunges and stabs relentlessly, with a ferocity that can only be described as religious. She’s expunging her demons, making Michael take them to hell. Blood sprays around her in a holy arc, flowing over the entire room. It hits lampshades and curtains, covering walls and the clock by the mantle.

It’s fucking poetic.

Her barely clothed body is painted with it.

She looks absolutelybreathtaking.

When she stops, she stumbles off him. She sobs once, but it’s a broken laugh of relief more than one of sorrow, relief that her tormentor, the man who used her, defiled her, is dead.

How did I not see it until now?

How could I? I was never here. She never told me. But I should have seen it. I should have known. Because I knowher.

“Maeve.”

She spins, her wide green eyes wavering as she looks at me in fright. Her bottom lip trembles, and her hands shake as she drops the knife.

“Killian, I—” Her words fail. She tries again, voice hoarse, as if the words are being forced out. “I won’t apologize for what I did.”

Why should she? It was justified.

I grab her, pulling her body close. With the adrenaline spiking and dropping, she’s a shaky mess of limbs, and I hold her face between my palms. She smells like vengeance and wrath and,fuck, if that doesn’t make me want to drop to my knees for her.

“You don’t need to apologize.” I shoot the dead body a glare that I hope his soul feels in the fires of Hell. “He deserved so much worse than this.”

“He deserved to suffer,” she agrees. Her words are brutal, much like the small woman in my arms. “But I needed to end it. All of it. Before my birthday.”

I nod once, rubbing my thumbs over the blood quickly drying on her skin. Of course. The decree. I was lucky enough not to be born into the clan and therefore missed the tradition.

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