Page 111 of Claimed By the Damned

Epilogue 1: Home is a War We Won

Lila – Five Years Later

The kettle whistles, a cheerful shriek that’s almost drowned out by the beautiful chaos of a Saturday morning. Tiny feet thunder down the hallway, a familiar duet of running steps belonging to our almost-five-year-old son, Leo, and his three-year-old sister, Charlotte. A shriek of pure, delighted giggles follows close behind—Charlotte. It's a symphony I never knew I craved until it became the soundtrack of my life.

I smirk and lift my mug from the cupboard just in time for her to come barreling into the kitchen, dragging a battered stuffed wolf—affectionately named "Wolfy"—by one arm, her dark curls flying. Leo follows at a slightly less frantic pace, already looking exasperated in a way that's achingly, wonderfully familiar, pure Bastian. His little brow is furrowed, glasses slightly askew on his nose, a miniature version of his father contemplating the utter madness of his sibling.

"Mommy! Daddy Ryker said pancakes are a food group!" Charlotte announces, triumphant, big green eyes—just like his—wide with conviction.

"Hedid," Leo confirms gravely, pushing his glasses up his nose with a seriousness that belies his age. "He said it was vital for energy."

I pour hot water over a teabag, a small, knowing smile playing on my lips.Typical Ryker.It's a small wonder, then, that their combined energy is relentless—Charlotte, my tiny hurricane, and Leo, her slightly more serious older brother—both fueled by sugar and Ryker's particular brand of wonderfully bad influence.

From the living room, Ryker’s voice carries, thick with mock innocence. "Hey, don't knock it! Pancakes have carbs, protein... shit, it’s practically health food!"

Charlotte, who has apparently followed the sound of Ryker’s voice closer to the living room doorway, gasps dramatically. Her little feet patter back towards the kitchen island where Bastian is now leaning, nursing a mug of coffee. "Daddy Bastian!" she exclaims, her voice full of childish scandal. "Daddy Ryker said a bad word! He said... thepoopword!"

Ethan laughs, that big, bright sound that still feels like sunlight after a long, dark winter, a sound that chased away so many of my lingering shadows. Bastian, however, fixes a stern gaze towards the living room. "Ryker," he calls out, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable edge of command. "Language. Children present."

From the other room, Ryker’s unperturbed voice replies, "Relax, Bas! It's educational! Expanding their vocabulary!" followed by a loud, undignified snort that is clearly his own laughter.

Bastian just sighs, the sound a mixture of exasperation and resignation, his eyes flicking towards me before returning to his coffee. It's the signature sound of a man who has long since accepted that logical arguments, and apparently requests for clean language, don’t stand a chance against Ryker in this house, especially when the kids take his side or, in this case, report his transgressions with glee while simultaneously adding his colorful contributions to their vocabulary. It's a familiar dance, one that fills our home with a vibrant, sometimes exasperating but always loving energy.

An energy now happily amplified by the frequent presence of 'Uncle Theo.' His redemption was hard-won, and he has not only become an indispensable part of the Wicked Sanctuary team, often working alongside Ethan, but is also Leo and Charlotte's adored uncle, the one who can always be counted on for a new story or a (slightly) more sensible adventure than Ryker usually instigates.

I lean back against the counter, mug warming my hands, and take it all in. The scuffed wood floors are a map of endless races and toy car crashes. The open windows let in the salty sea air from the ocean just yards away. The kitchen is wonderfully, beautifully cluttered with finger paintings taped to the fridge (Leo's more abstract, Charlotte's favoring glitter ineverything), half-eaten cookies on a plate, and a ridiculous number of tiny, mismatched socks that seem to multiply overnight. Chaos. Color. Life. A wonderful contrast to the sterile silence and opulent dread of Kolya's mansion, a place so far removed from this reality it feels like a half-forgotten nightmare from someone else's life.

Once, silence was my constant companion—heavy, suffocating, breeding fear.Now? I don't remember the last time this house was quiet for more than five minutes. And gosh, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. The ghosts of the past still whisper sometimes, faint and far away, but their power is diminished, drowned out by the joyful noise of my family.

Bastian comes up behind me without a word, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his chin lightly on my head. His familiar scent, sandalwood and something uniquelyhim, grounds me instantly, a safe harbor I can always return to.

"You look like you're thinking too much, Little One," he murmurs against my hair, his voice a low rumble.

I lean back into his strength, a small sigh escaping me. This simple touch, this easy comfort, is something I once thought I’d never deserve, never experience. His lips brush my temple, and his voice drops to a low, gravelly rumble meant only for me. "Does my Little One need some... special attention from Daddy later? Behind a locked office door, perhaps?"

A tell-tale shiver traces its way down my spine. I tilt my head back ever so slightly, my voice a breathy whisper against his throat. "Ialwayswant Daddy's special attention."

The arm around my waist tightens, a silent promise that thrills me to my core, even as the scent of pancakes and the sound of children’s laughter fill the air around us. Maybe I am thinking too much.Sometimes it still sneaks up on me, the faint, silvery scars that remind me of what I endured. But mostly? Mostly, it’s gratitude so big it could split me apart.

"Just counting my blessings," I say softly, my voice a little steadier now, the warmth of his private promise curling through me.

He grunts again, this time a little softer, the sound rumbling through his chest against my back, and presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

"You're our greatest one," he says so simply, so fiercely, that it still knocks the air right out of me, even after all these years. His love, their love, is the bedrock on which this new life is built.

Ryker crashes into the kitchen, carrying Charlotte perched high on his shoulders like a pint-sized queen surveying her domain. He winks at me as he plops her onto the granite counter. Bastian immediately mutters a protest that she shouldn’t be up there, but Ryker just grins, wide and wicked. Leo comes running behind them; he's never far from his little sister, already adopting Ryker's protective stance.

"Don’t worry, Daddy Bas," Ryker drawls, snagging a piece of bacon off a plate cooling nearby. "If she falls, I'll just catch her with my face. Probably break my nose. Again."

I snort into my tea, and Bastian growls something under his breath about bad influences and concussion protocols, but there’s no real heat in it. It’s just part of the morning music.

Ethan turns from the counter near the stove, a dusting of flour still clinging to his dark hair, making Charlotte shriek with laughter and point. He approaches the table, hands full of syrup bottles and a stack of warm, flour-dusted plates. He catches me watching him and winks—that warm, teasing sparkle in his eyesthat has never, ever failed to undo me. His smile is a promise of sunshine, a reminder of the gentle strength that helped piece me back together.

"Breakfast is served!" he declares, setting the items down with a flourish before executing a ridiculous bow, playing the part of the much-loved court jester.

We gather around the cluttered table, everyone talking over each other, food passed back and forth, syrup inevitably spilled, laughter constant. A glorious mess. A family. Ours. Each shared glance, each easy touch, is a testament to the love that healed us, that bound us together against the darkness.

Halfway through breakfast, Bastian leans in close, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear him over the lively noise.

---