Page 12 of Claimed By the Damned

I don’t need their help.

That thought hammers through my skull, an unrelenting beat drowning out reason. Crashing inside me, restless and insistent, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Not yet. So I push it aside, shoving the idea into the mental pile of things I don’t have the space to deal with.

My room has an ensuite, a small luxury I hadn’t expected. I took advantage of it when I got back to the room, letting hot water scald away the grime and tension, scrubbing until my skin felt new, until the weight of filth and sweat no longer clung to me.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I’m clean. When I stepped out of the shower, a neatly folded pile of clothes sat waiting just outside the bathroom door.

I clutch at the fabric of my borrowed clothes. The detergent scent is too clean, too foreign. It jars against the grimy memories of being the run.

I didn’t ask for them, but at some point, someone—Ethan, no doubt—left them outside my door. No words, no expectations, just another quiet attempt to make things easier for me. The material is soft, slightly oversized, the kind of well-worn comfort that speaks of years of use.

Worn cotton brushes my skin—soft, real—a shock after years of cold silk or Kolya's harsh grip.

It smells like Ethan—subtle hints of soap and something warm, grounding.

Comforting.

I hate that I register it. My fingers curl tighter, gripping the fabric like a lifeline as I fight to steady the chaos inside my head.

Their argument still echoes—Bastian’s sharp assessment, Ethan’s quiet defense, Ryker’s detached amusement. The weightof their words presses down, settling heavy in my chest. It's clear where they stand: Ethan, the hopeful one, sees something worth saving; Bastian, the pragmatist, sees only a problem, a liability; and Ryker? He just sees entertainment, a new variable disrupting their routine.

And me? I’m still deciding if they’re a worse problem than the one already chasing me.

I wrap my arms around myself, pressing my palms into my ribs, grounding myself in the dull ache of too many days without proper rest and without real food. I need to run. If I stay, if I get comfortable, I risk forgetting that this pseudo-safety isn’t real. Not for me.

Except… where the hell would I go?

The thought sends a wave of nausea rolling through me. I suck in a breath, digging my nails into my forearms as if pain will sharpen my focus. I need to think. I need to plan. But every road leads back to the same dead-end reality: I have almost nothing. A little cash from Theo, but not enough to get very far. No car, no plan. Just the clothes on my back, a body littered with invisible wounds, and a past that will hunt me down the second I step outside.

The worst part? The part I hate admitting even to myself? The thought of being alone again—truly alone—chills me more than whatever danger I’m in.

Cold tile beneath my knees. The sharp sting of a slap. Kolya's voice, low and lethal, dripping with amusement. 'You think silence will save you, Pet?' Fingers curl around my throat, squeezing just enough to remind me who's in control. 'There is no escape. Only me.'

I gasp, jolting upright, the phantom pressure of fingers still tight on my throat. Cold tile ghosts beneath my knees. The room spins. My breath hitches—shallow, useless—heart slamming against my ribs.No escape. Only me.The echo of his controlsuffocates. I was alone then. Am I choosing that loneliness again now?

I clench my jaw, shoving the weakness aside. No. I won’t let fear dictate my next move. I refuse to be someone who waits around, hoping for mercy that never comes. I have survived too much, endured too much, to play the helpless victim now.

The walls press close, my thoughts a knot too tight to breathe through. My breath stutters, still uneven from the memory’s grip—then, a knock.

“Lila?”

Ethan. Of course.

I don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him. The door cracks open, slow and careful, as if he’s testing the waters before stepping inside. His face appears in the dim light, cautious but steady, a mix of patience and quiet determination.

“Hey, just checking in.” His voice is soft, but not patronizing, measured in a way that shows he’s trying not to spook me.

I level him with a glare. “I’m not a damn prisoner. You don’t have to check on me like I’m on lockdown.”

Guilt pricks at me the moment the words leave my mouth. He’s just trying to help, his voice gentle, but the defensiveness is automatic—a shield fused to my skin after years of needing it. Kindness feels like a trick I haven't learned to decipher yet, so I lash out instead.

He huffs a quiet laugh, seemingly unfazed by my harsh tone, shifting his weight against the doorframe. “Good to know. But you looked pretty wiped, and you barely ate. Thought you might want something more.”

I hate that my stomach twists at the mention of food. I hate even more that he paid attention. My pride wants to snap at him again, tell him to shove his concern, but my body betrays me—my fingers twitch against my knee, my throat constricts, and a loud grumble erupts from my stomach, breaking thetension. Ethan hears it, and his lips twitch with barely concealed amusement.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing steel into my voice.

Ethan tilts his head, studying me with a gaze that’s too sharp for my liking. His ice gray eyes flick over my posture, my clenched fists, the way my body leans just slightly toward the door like a caged animal looking for an opening.

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