Page 10 of Claimed By the Damned

Shewasat the mansion last night. Secured. Locked away. Helpless.

Now?

She's gone. Vanished.

The silence in my penthouse office is absolute, broken only by the low, rhythmic tick of the antique clock on the wall—a sound usually soothing, but today, it's grating. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Los Angeles sprawls, indifferent. Inside, the air is cool, precisely climate-controlled, carrying the faint, clean scent of expensive leather and my own subtle cologne. Chaos doesn't leak in here. Not usually.

She had help escaping the mansion. Of course she did. The thought is an irritation, a loose thread in the otherwise perfect order I weave. Lila is many things—defiant, infuriating,mine—but she isn’t foolish enough to pull this off alone.

My men stand before me in the office now, eyes averted, bodies tense. They wait for the storm, expecting a child's tantrum. Fools. My anger is an icy precision, sharper, more refined.

I inhale deeply, slow and measured, the rage coiling beneath my skin. I rise from my chair, adjusting the cuffs of my suit. One of my men, Sergei, shifts his weight slightly—barely perceptible, but a sign of weakness.

“How?” My voice is even, demanding the details of the failureat the mansion. The tension thickens. It wraps around their throats like an unseen noose.

A beat of silence. Then Alexei, daring enough to speak, clears his throat. “The guard on the south entrance at the residence—Theo Mercer.”

Theo.

Before the name fully registers, Sergei adds, his voice low and tight, “He’s gone, Sir. Reports indicate he engaged other guards, bought her time, was subdued, but then vanished before proper interrogation.”

My attention sharpens. So, the traitor didn’t just run. He actively interfered. Caused a scene, a disruption inmyhouse. A slow, cold flicker replaces the humorless smile. Foolish man. The way he watched her, the way his focus lingered just a second too long. Weakness masquerading as chivalry. He thought he could take what belongs to me.

This changes nothing, except the urgency.

"Find him," I command, my voice lethally quiet now, cutting through the tension. "Activate protocols Delta and Gamma. Put his face out to everyone: every informant from here to Vegas, every dirty cop on the payroll, every lowlife who owes me. Ensure they all have his photo—immediately."

My eyes narrow. "There isn’t a hole deep enough for him to hide when my network hunts. When you find him," my voice drops further, promising retribution, "bring him to me. Alive."

I walk around the heavy, imposing desk, my footsteps silent on the thick rug. Reaching for the weighty crystal decanter, I unstop it with a quietthunk. I pour a precise measure of the expensive single malt—the rich, peat-smoke scent swirling upwards, a familiar comfort. Lifting the glass, I admire the deep amber color catching the light before swirling it slowly, watching the viscous legs coat the crystal. Only then do I take a sip, the warmth spreading deliberately down my throat.

Clever, but not enough. He believes he’s won—outmaneuvered me. He hasn’t. That’s the problem with men like him, weakness pretending to be righteousness. They mistake defiance for strength. I will remind him what true power is.

As if emphasizing the point, Alexei steps forward again, holding a tablet. “Sir, we have confirmation from last night. One of our informants flagged late activity at a gas station off the highway, north of the city. Security footage captured Lila, alone. Fueling the vehicle, purchasing supplies including a new burner phone. Our team applied… significant pressure to the attendant. He was cooperative. We also have a network alert system that flags newly activated anonymous SIMs purchased from that specific distribution batch within a twenty-four-hour window. Cross-referencing with the attendant's information gave us this.”

The footage also showed her entering the restroom; she emerged later with significantly shorter hair, dark strands were recovered from the trash confirm she cut it there.” Alexei meets my gaze, a grim understanding in his eyes. “The attendant was leaned on. We have the number she activated.”

A flicker of satisfaction, cold and sharp.So predictable.Running, hiding, thinking a cheap piece of plastic offers safety. Silly little girl. Believing a slight change in appearance and a burner makes her invisible? Amateur. She belongs to me. She always will.

I set the glass down, the whiskey barely touched. Instead, I reach for my own burner phone – one kept specifically for untraceable communications. Unlocking the screen with a flick of my thumb, I access a pre-written message, drafted the moment I knew she was gone, anticipating exactly this. I input the number Alexei just provided and I hit send.

My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, confirming delivery. Good.

I lower the phone slowly, the small device feeling insignificant compared to the weight of the message it carries. The seed of fear is planted.

I picture the moment she reads it, the illusion of safety crumbling. She will start looking over her shoulder. Herparanoia will set in. That’s the advantage of this manipulation—I don’t need to touch her to remind her she belongs to me. Yes, to remind her that she is mine, and there is no escape from that simple truth.

I lean back in my chair. “Start applying pressure. Uncover who else was involved.”

Sergei hesitates. “Sir?”

I sigh, already bored of his hesitation. “Find out who got her the IDs, the money. Lean on the usual channels. If someone so much as gave her directions, I want their blood painting the pavement. Now, go!”

They scatter, eager to escape the room, but not before fear glints in their eyes. They should be afraid.

Because if they fail me again, I won’t just kill them. I’ll make them an example.

Hours pass. Reports come in. Sightings, false leads, whispers of a woman matching Lila’s description in the city. None amount to anything. My patience snaps thin, stretching taut like a wire.

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