All My Rage Pdf Novels & Stories

Now it overflowed with crushed filters and gray ash, a silent testament to the hours I’d spent staring at her face. Still, my eyes never left the photographs. I wasn’t stressed. No. Stress made people lose control. I had absolute control. What I felt was something far uglier. Rage. Cold. Patient. Suffocating rage. The kind that settled beneath the skin instead of exploding from it. The kind that sharpened every thought until all that remained was a single, obsessive certainty. Someone had dared to interfere with what belonged to me. A slow smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, though there was nothing remotely human about it.

Lyra’s POV: Rage never came to Lyra in bursts. Like all her emotions, it simmered and burned, and it lasted just enough to settle deep into her bones until it became something colder and far more dangerous. And when she woke up this morning, the rage was unbearable. She dressed up quickly and stared at her reflection in the mirror with rage in her eyes. Of course, she was as perfect as always, not one strand of hair was out of place on her head, but she still couldn't see her reflection without feeling the need to scream and curse at herself.

_*]:min-w-0"> This was really happening. I was going to face Alpha trial with no support from my father and testimony from my mate that would probably seal my execution. _*]:min-w-0"> All because I'd let rage override reason for five minutes.

It was locked. Rage, hot and raw, surged through me, scorching away the remnants of fear. The nerve of the man! To treat me like a pet, a plaything to be kept and discarded at his whim. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. I wouldn't be another pawn in his twisted game. I wouldn't be silenced, not easily. A guttural growl escaped my lips, a primal sound of defiance echoing in the sterile air. I kicked the plush armchair, its velvet upholstery offering no resistance against my fury. Tears, hot and angry, streamed down my face, a testament to the fire still burning within.

Chapter 76: No One Touches My Son Jace’s POV I sent the pictures and locked my phone. For exactly three seconds, I allowed myself to breathe. Then the rage came. It was quiet at first—cold, precise, settling into my bones instead of exploding outward. The kind of anger that didn’t need noise to be lethal. Funny how it took me time to feel the rage. How I first made sure Aurora wasn't mad at me before the rage overtook me.

"And as far as kicking my ass, you don't have any idea how part of me wants you to really try. My mom says I need to release some of my rage. Pounding the dog shit out of you might go a long way towards doing that. Now, if you're done, get the fuck out of my office. Go work on your resume or something." Like I said, Allan is six four. I just barely made it to six. And he outweighed me by sixty pounds. But the thing he didn't have was rage. He grabbed me, spun me around, opening his mouth to say more. I didn't give him a chance, swinging instantly. I gave it everything I had, putting all the pain and rage I had into one punch. It landed right between the eyes. He went down like an imploded bu

Rage boiled within me as I stormed into Oracle Sage's room, my heart pounding with fury and desperation. How could she, with all her supposed foresight, not have foreseen something as catastrophic as Mathew's disappearance? "I'll kill you!" I screamed, my voice laced with venom as I lunged towards her, intent on exacting revenge for my son's vanishing. As I charged towards Sage, ready to rip her head off her body, she remained eerily calm, her expression unfazed by my accusation. In spite of my rage-fueled advance, she stood her ground, her demeanor unaffected.

I'd come away without a scratch, but her white dress was soaked in blood. Rage climbed up like a living thing in my gut. I saw the blurred edges of the world through tears and fury. I snatched the tailor's shears from the nearby workstation, rushed up to Milo, and drove them into his abdomen.

The moment we stepped inside, something in me snapped. With a loud scream, I grabbed the nearest stack of books and threw them across the room. They slammed against the wall. I kicked the chair in front of me, sending it tumbling over. My hands moved on their own, swiping everything off the desk, sending papers and glass statues crashing to the floor. The sound of breaking glass filled the air. Farrell said nothing. I knocked over another table, sending it falling to the ground, and then another. My breathing was heavy. My chest heaved up and down with the force of my rage. My vision blurred. My throat tightened. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

"They are mine. I made them in the dark while you were busy playing God with the stock market." Rage’s hand shot out, not to hurt her, but to grip the back of the chair she was leaning against, effectively pinning her between his arms and the wall. "Everything you have is mine," Rage hissed. "The air you breathe in this pathetic shack is mine because I chose not to burn it down the second I saw it on the thermal scan. The blood in your veins is mine because I allow it to flow." He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. She could see the faint silver flecks in his irises.