Page 13 of Claimed By the Damned

“You’re planning on running.” It’s a statement, not a question.

My fingers curl into a fist. “What makes you say that?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, looking entirely too relaxed for someone confronting a flight risk. “Because I’d be planning my exit too, if I were you.”

I bristle. “I don’t need saving.”

“I believe you,” he says easily, no challenge in his tone, just simple truth. “But maybe sticking around isn’t the worst idea. Just until you get back on your feet.”

I scoff. “And then what? You think I’ll just integrate into your little security clubhouse?”

Ethan shrugs. “We’re not offering you a job. Just a safe place to land.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “There’s no such thing.”

His easy-going warmth vanishes, replaced by something more sombre, more familiar. “I know it doesn’t seem real right now, but you don’t have to keep your fists up all the time.”

I swallow hard. My throat is tight, dry. “Yeah? And what happens when I drop them?”

His jaw tightens, a shadow passing over his face. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more certain. "Thenwedeal with whatever made you put them up in the first place."

I look away. I can’t let myself believe that. They don't owe me anything.

Before I can shut him down again, a voice cuts through the room. “For crying out loud, Mercer, you having a therapy session in there?”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing my expression into something unreadable before I turn.

Bastian stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching us with the same cool calculation as last night. There’s no outward concern, no softness, but something about the way he holds himself feels deliberate—held back. Like he’s keeping something in check.

He fills the doorway—sharp, unyielding—stealing the air Ethan’s patience had given. He’s assessing me, not just as a liability, but as something else—something he hasn’t quite decided on yet. He’s sharp edges and cold logic, the kind of man who views the world in terms of risk and reward.

“What’s the verdict, Little One? You planning a midnight getaway?”

Little One. The name registers, unexpected from this cold, calculating man. A strange flicker, something almost warm, sparks briefly in my chest at the odd endearment, hinting at something softer beneath the steel. I squash it instantly, refusing to acknowledge the name or the feeling.

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze defiance. “What’s it to you?”

His expression doesn’t change. “You run, you make yourself a target. That makes you my problem.”

I clench my jaw. “Your problem? That’s funny. I didn’t ask to be here.”

“And yet, here you are,” he says smoothly.

I cross my arms, ignoring the way my chest tightens. “So what? You're gonna lock me up?”

His gaze holds steady. “No. But running on shredded feet with nowhere to go? That’s a damn stupid plan.”

I want to argue. I want to tell him to go to hell. But he's right—I have no plan. No next move. Just the desperate instinct to run with nowhere to go.

The silence between us thickens, stretching long enough that its weight settles into my bones. Then, without another word, Bastian turns to leave, but there’s the briefest pause—so small I almost miss it. His eyes flick to my feet, then back to my face, something unreadable flashing behind his cold exterior. It’s gone in an instant, the mask of detached control snapping back into place. But I see the flicker, the hesitation, even as he walks away.

Ethan sighs. “He’s not as much of an asshole as he comes across as.”

I shoot him a look. “Hard to believe.”

He grins, stepping away from the doorway, stretching like he's shaking off the weight of the conversation. "Just don’t make any impulsive decisions, alright? Take a breath. Think it through. Your feet are wrecked—you won’t get far like this. Give yourself a chance to heal first, please."

I watch as he leaves, closing the door behind him.

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