Rage is the residential psycho of the club. Tormented by his own demons he lives in pain and agony, a constant state of rage. Everyone knows him as the Hellhound of the Riders of Tyr , known for his cruelty and the joy he gets from causing pain. To...
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Iris
I am still mid-laughter when Rage picks me up and takes me to the bathroom. He puts me down gently and then turns the tubs on. I stand there in the middle of the small room looking at him as he is making sure the water is in the right temperature. Then he turns to me and takes the sheet away before picking me up and putting me in the middle of the tub. I had always been small as if all the growing up stopped when I was thrown into a life of torture. I was always insignificant next to the all the men around that were like giants against whom I stood no chance. Rage is huge against me but instead of fear, him handling me so easily, picking me up as if I am nothing, makes me feel nice and cozy. He lets me down, water running over me.
"Is it warm?" he asks.
"It is, thank you."
"I need to take the blood off, Iris."
"Rage?" I ask as he kneels on the tiles letting the water wash off the blood.
"Hm?"
"What is your real name?"
He shoots his head up to me. His eyes are burning and I see his face melt with grief and regret.
"Rage," he barks.
"No, it's not."
"You mean how my mother called me?" he gasps.
I nod.
"Why you want to know? Don't like Rage no more?" he focuses back into the job at hand.
I try to send the question in my mind away and bring my attention to the fact of what has happened to me the last hour, the fact that Rage and I made love, that I am standing in the middle of the bathtub as he washes me. But as much I try to focus on them I can't. For me it was all natural. Him being so close to me, me needing him even closer. When he sheathed himself in me, I felt a pang of pain but it was all forgotten in the haze of pleasure I was lost in. I knew I loved him the moment I saw him and as I was lost in the ecstasy his body gave me all I could think was him. It is natural for me to be with him like that.
"I don't mind calling you Rage if that's you want. But to me you are more. And I would like to know your name."
His arms drop and he looks down at the tiles on the floor. I know Rage is struggling with his demons all the time. The fact he kept them at bay long enough to make love tells me how far he has come. But he is a long way from home. And I need him to come to me the same way I am walking up to him one step at the time.
"Ryan," he whispers. "That's what I remember my mother calling me. My little brother called me Ry."
"Your brother? You have a brother?"
He digs his nails in my skin but I do not react. He isn't breathing. I do not move, giving him time. If he doesn't want to share, I will wait. Maybe one day he will take out that big rock that weighs his soul down and maybe he will let me help him tear it down to sand slowly.
