Page 102 of Claimed By the Damned

They’re surprised. We’re not running; we’re attacking. Their coordinated assault falters. One SUV tries to flank us. Theo, with ice-cold precision, takes out the driver. The vehicle careens intoa tree. Two men charge on foot from the darkness. I drop one, Bastian gets the other.

Grim lets out a roar, advancing. Another grenadethumpsfrom his launcher, turning a clump of attackers behind a disabled vehicle into a cloud of smoke and screams. He follows it up with a sustained burst from his rifle, cutting down anyone who tries to scatter. Bastian moves with him, a deadly shadow, his shots methodical, each one finding its mark. They work in tandem, an unstoppable force of destruction, systematically eliminating every remaining threat.

It’s brutal. Swift. We move like a well-oiled killing machine, covering each other, advancing. Kolya sent his best; they weren't good enough. They came for a hunt; they found a hornet’s nest.

In minutes that feel like an eternity, it’s over. Silence descends, broken only by the crackle of Ethan's burning SUV, the fading groans of dying men, and our own harsh breathing. Grim walks the perimeter, a final grenade punctuation mark ending a last twitch of movement from the wreckage of an enemy SUV.

"Clear!" Bastian calls out, his voice ragged. "Clear!" Theo confirms, kicking a weapon away from a downed enemy. "All clear," Grim adds, his voice a low rumble as he reloads. "No one's following us from this party."

I walk through the carnage, making sure. Three vehicles disabled. Seven tangos down. No more threats. From this crew, anyway. "It's done," I say, rejoining them at our SUV.

Lila

The furious barrage of gunfire outside had been terrifying. ButI pressed to the floor, my hands aching, slippery with Ethan's blood from the constant, desperate pressure I kept on the blood-soaked gauze against his side. Each gunshot, each explosion had sent a fresh wave of terror through me, not just for myself, but for him, for the fragile life I was desperately trying to hold onto.

Then, silence. A heavy, ringing silence, broken only by Ethan's shallow, rattling breaths beside me. I leaned closer to him, my lips near his ear, oblivious to the stickiness of his blood on my skin, on my clothes. "Ethan," I whispered, my voice cracking, tears blurring my vision as I pressed harder on the wound. "You have to live, do you hear me? You have to. I love you. And… and you have to meet our baby. Youhaveto." A faint sigh, a slight shift of his head against the seat. I looked at his face, so pale, eyes still closed. Then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered. His gaze, hazy with pain, found mine, and the corner of his lips, chapped and bloodied, quirked upwards in the faintest, weakest smile. It was enough.

The door opens. Ryker stands there, backlit by the distant flames. He’s covered in dirt, sweat, and what I know is blood that isn't his. He looks like a warrior god, terrible and beautiful. "It's safe now, Lila."

Bastian helps me up. My legs are shaky. My hands come away from Ethan sticky and red, but the smile he gave me is branded on my heart. Theo is leaning against the SUV, his chest heaving, but the cold fury in his eyes has been replaced by a grim satisfaction. Grim is reloading, a silent, imposing sentinel.

Ethan groans from the backseat, his face contorted in pain as Ryker immediately moves to check on him, but the weak smile he’d given me moments before is a tiny beacon of hope. The reality crashes back. They won the fight. They annihilated Kolya's ambush. But Ethan…

"He's fading fast, Bas," Ryker says, his voice tight with urgency, his hands already working to apply a pressure on a freshbandage over the now completely saturated one I’d held, barking orders for more gauze, for someone to find the damn quick-clot. "You need to call Dr. Evans now. Tell him to meet us at Safe House on Mark Street. He'll need his team and a full surgical setup. Ethan doesn't have time for a hospital transfer."

Bastian nods, his expression grim as he pulls out his satellite phone. "Grim, get us to Mark Street. Everyone else, secure your gear." He’s already dialing. "Evans? It's Cross. Code Red. Ethan's down. Massive wound to the right torso, probable arterial bleed, massive blood loss, signs of shock. We're en-route to Mark Street, ETA fifteen. Need you ready for immediate surgical intervention." His voice is clipped, professional, but the underlying strain is unmistakable. "We'll deal with the 'who' and 'why' of them knowing our route later. Right now, Ethan's all that matters."

Grim is already behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life. The atmosphere thick with adrenaline, exhaustion, and the metallic tang of blood. The phone is pressed to Bastian’s ear as he relays vitals Ryker calls out, Ethan’s pulse weak and thready, his breathing dangerously shallow.

As we speed away from the scene of chaos and death, leaving behind the burning vehicles and the bodies of Kolya's slaughtered men, one thought consumes me. They fought off a coordinated ambush, eliminated a squad of trained killers, all while one of their own was bleeding out. These weren't just men. They were a force of nature. And tonight, in a small, terrifying way, I’d been part of that storm.

And Ethan, pale and groaning beside me, his life hanging by a thread, was the reason they’d unleashed it.

Chapter 30: Scars Heal, But Never Fade

Lila

The moment we stumble into the sterile interior of the Mark Street safe house, exhaustion hits me like a tidal wave. Relief is there, sure, the stark white walls a brutal contrast to the chaos outside, but it’s a raw, untethered feeling, not the familiar scent of home. The lingering heaviness is different now, tainted by the smell of smoke clinging to everyone and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. The near-loss of Ethan vibrates in the air alongside the relief of Kolya’s demise.

My knees tremble slightly, a delayed reaction to the adrenaline crash. A noise by the door draws my attention. Grim and Theo stand near the doorway. Grim, having driven like a bat out of hell while Bastian directed emergency care for Ethan in the back, looks exhausted but alert. Theo...

Theo looks shattered, his gaze fixed on the room where Ethan was just carried. My throat tightens. “Thank you,” I say, my voice raw, barely a whisper. “For coming to get me. For... for getting Ethan out.”

Grim gives a nod. Theo doesn’t seem to hear me at first, lost in his own private hell. I reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “Theo… please stick around. I want to catch up with you properly. When things... settle.” My gaze flicks toward Ethan's room. "He'll need you."

Theo flinches, as if pulled from a nightmare. He finally meets my eyes, the pain there a raw wound. His nod is small, jerky. “Yeah. I… I’m not going anywhere.”

Bastian barely let anyone take a breath once we got to this temporary haven, barking orders the moment we arrived. A private medical team Dr. Evans had on standby converged on the vehicle the second we pulled into the secure underground bay, taking charge of Ethan with practiced efficiency. Theyrushed him inside to a prepared room, already converted into a makeshift infirmary.

The initial assessment was grim: a severe concussion, a nasty gash across his forehead that needed immediate stitches, his left arm broken and twisted at an unnatural angle, and a deep wound to his side requiring surgery to address potential internal damage. But he’s stable, for now, and most importantly, alive.

Now, with Ethan sedated and the medical team monitoring him, Bastian turns his attention to me. “I want the doctor to check you and the baby, but let's get you cleaned up and relaxed first,” he says, his voice leaving no room for refusal, though the lines of fatigue around his eyes are deeper than I’ve ever seen.

Despite the harsh edge in his earlier tone, his touch is gentle as he guides me toward a small, functional bathroom attached to one of the sparse bedrooms and runs me a bath. The simple act of him turning the faucet, the sound of the water, feels like a balm against the raw edges of the last few hours.

“Let me take care of you, Little One,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. A promise wrapped in words. He helps me out of my ruined clothes, stiff with dried blood and grime, his eyes dark with a complex mix of relief and lingering fury as he takes in the bruises marking my skin alongside Kolya's blood. He doesn’t say anything about them. He doesn’t need to. His hands, usually so decisive and commanding, are impossibly gentle as they trace the lines of old and new hurts, not with judgment, but with a quiet, fierce tenderness that speaks volumes.

The warm water is a shock, easing aching muscles but doing little for the turmoil inside. Bastian kneels beside the tub, the hard lines of his face softened by concern. He takes a washcloth, dips it in the warm water, and begins to gently cleanse the blood from my skin. Each stroke is slow, methodical, a silent apology for what I endured, a tangible reassurance of his presence.

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