Page 59 of Rage's Heart

Rage rolled off the doorframe and crossed the room, catching my wrist as I reached for another hanger. “Hey. Take a breath.”

I froze, feeling the warmth of his hand against my skin. His dark eyes locked with mine.

God, how did he always manage to be so calm?

“My brother is going to hate you,” I blurted out, voicing the fear that had been eating at me all morning. “He’s going to take one look at you and freak out.”

Rage’s lips quirked into that half-smile that made my stomach flip. “Probably.”

“This is serious!” I protested, though I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “You don’t understand. Jack can be impossible.”

Rage shrugged, completely unfazed. “Baby, I don’t give a fuck about your brother. He can hate us being together all he wants, but it won’t matter. You’re mine.”

“Ugh!” I growled. That’s what he always said, ‘You’re mine’. Like my brother would hear those words and be all, ‘Oh, well that changes everything’.

“You sound very confident for someone who’s never met Jack Davis in full protective brother mode,” I sighed, glancing at the clothes scattered around us. “He’s going to interrogate you like a criminal.”

“I am a criminal,” Rage pointed out unhelpfully.

I smacked his chest. “Baby, please! You’re not helping.”

His laugh was deep and rich, filling the room as he pulled me against his chest. “Mac, look at me.”

Pouting out my lip, I tilted my chin up, meeting his gaze.

“I love you,” he said simply. “Your family’s opinion of me matters to you. Not me. And, no matter what happens, we’re still coming home together. Got it?”

The tightness in my chest eased slightly. “Got it.”

“Good.” He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before releasing me. “Now, wear that green dress—the one with the little flowers.”

“Why the green one?”

His eyes darkened. “Your tits look fan-fucking-tastic in that one.”

I rolled my eyes. Why did I even ask. “You’re such a shit.”

“You love it,” he shrugged.

How did he always do that? One minute I was spiraling, and the next he had me laughing and completely at ease.

I retrieved the dress in question—a knee-length sundress with tiny white flowers scattered across emerald green soft fabric and held it against my body.

It was pretty, and it did make the girls look good.

As I slipped it on, Rage started rifling through his side of the closet. To my shock, he pulled out a clean, pressed black button-up shirt I’d never seen before.

“Is that new?” I asked, pausing in the middle of smoothing down my dress.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Got it yesterday.”

My heart squeezed.

He’d gone shopping for a shirt to wear to meet my family. My tough, tattooed biker who wore nothing but t-shirts and jeans had bought a button-up shirt because he wanted to make a good impression.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbled, catching my expression as he shrugged off his t-shirt. “It’s just a damn shirt.”

We both knew it wasn’t just a shirt. It was his way of trying for me, of showing he cared.

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