Page 17 of Claimed By the Damned

Today, tension rolls off her small form even in the dim hallway light. Peace lost. Her fingers grip the blanket like she’s bracing for a fight in her dreams. Her breaths come too fast, shallow and unsteady, as if she’s running from something even while unconscious. Her fingers twitch against the sheets, her brow damp with sweat, a soft, barely-there whimper escaping her lips.

Then she flinches. Just a little. A sharp inhale, her hands gripping the fabric tighter, her knuckles turning white. It's not just reflex—it's instinct. Sharpened by whatever hell she endured. A body still bracing for pain even in sleep.

She needs more time. She admitted it, reluctantly, a few days ago during a quiet moment in the kitchen, acknowledging that healing—physically and mentally—wasn't going to happen overnight. She'd mumbled something about being grateful, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder, unable to fully meet my eyes but accepting the necessity of staying longer.

Is that flicker of trust, that vulnerability she fights, why this ache to protect her has lodged itself under my ribs over the past week and a half?

Something about the helpless tension in her small frame, the way she braces even in her sleep, calls up an image. My brother when he was little curled up after one of Dad’s rages,pretending to be asleep but trembling just the same.That old need to shield him, to take it all for him, clenches low inside me. The connection hits me like a punch to the gut, twisting something deep.

I know what nightmares look like. I’ve had my share. Waking up in cold sweats, fists clenched, feeling trapped back in some hellhole overseas. But hers feel different—more visceral. This isn't battlefield trauma. This is something insidious, claws buried deep, refusing to let go.

I knock softly on the door first, waiting a few seconds before stepping inside. She doesn't stir, doesn't react at all. I step into the room, keeping my movements slow. Careful. The last thing she needs is someone looming over her while she’s vulnerable. But a shift, a tensing, tells me she senses me. Her eyes snap open, wild and unfocused for a second before locking onto mine.

She stiffens, dragging herself upright against the headboard, her breath ragged. Uncertainty flickers there: is she still dreaming? Am I another ghost?

“Relax, Angel,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “Sorry for waking you, but we need to head out.”

Her exhale is shaky, her hands pressing against the sheets to ground herself. She blinks a few times, disoriented, then frowns. "Where are we going?"

Her question hangs in the air, clipped and tense. Adrenaline and raw nerve hold her together, clear in the rigid line of her shoulders, the guarded alertness in her eyes. She's expecting a fight, not a shopping trip.

I run a hand through my hair with a sigh. "I know you don’t trust us, and I’m not expecting that to change overnight. But you need the basics—clothes, shoes, stuff that makes you feel like yourself again. Raiding Bastian’s closet isn't the solution."

Her gaze snaps back to me. Suspicious. Wary. But beneath that, something else—surprise. As if kindness is a foreign language,the idea of someone caring enough to help unfamiliar. For a second, her guard slips, a crack in the armor she so desperately maintains, but it slams shut just as quickly. The refusal is plain on her face, but she also knows she needs the damn clothes.

After a long pause, she huffs. “Fine.”

The town isn't much—a strip of quaint, salt-weathered storefronts clinging to the highway that snakes along the coast. The air hangs thick with the smell of damp asphalt, low tide, and the intensely sweet scent of cinnamon and yeast wafting from the bakery on the corner.

A mournful foghorn echoes faintly from somewhere out on the gray water, a sound almost lost beneath the closer cries of opportunistic gulls circling overhead. A few locals nod as we pass, their curiosity mild, unthreatening. Nothing fancy, but it has what we need. It’s quiet, almost sleepy under the overcast sky, which should feel calming.

Lila keeps close to my side as we walk, her arms wrapped around herself despite the warm breeze. She keeps her head down, shoulders tight, trying to make herself smaller. Every once in a while, she scans the people nearby as if expecting danger from nowhere. She hasn't said much since we left, but her discomfort is a palpable thing, a live wire humming between us.

The way she hunches into herself, trying to disappear—it flashes an image in my head:my brother, younger, smaller, making himself invisible in the corner during one of Dad’s rages. The gut-twist of old guilt tightens low inside me. I wasn’t there enough for him. I couldn’t stop it then.

A fierce protectiveness surges through me. I want to tell her she is safe. That no one is coming for her. That I won't let them. My jaw tightens, fingers flexing at my sides as frustration coils in my gut. But words are useless when the fear is still so fresh in her mind.

So I do the only thing I can—I stay close, keep watch on our surroundings, and let her take the lead.

First stop is a small convenience store, the kind crammed with everything in a tiny space. I grab a basket and hand it to her. "Get whatever you need," I say, her hesitation clear before she slowly moves through the aisles.

Shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant—just the basics, but she chooses simple things, as if she doesn't want to take up too much space, even here. I've never considered myself much of a shopper, but watching Lila flit through the aisles, grabbing things off shelves with that determined little frown, is damn near entertaining.

When she approaches the counter, basket held tight against her chest, I automatically reach for my wallet. It’s instinct, a simple gesture. But she sees the movement out of the corner of her eye and her head snaps up, a spark of defiance in her gaze before it quickly veils. She shakes her head sharply.

"No," she says, her voice low but surprisingly firm. "I have it."

Before I can argue, or even process the refusal, she pulls the worn envelope from her jacket pocket. My own hand pauses, halfway to my wallet. I watch as her fingers, surprisingly steady, dip into the envelope. Her brow furrows slightly as she thumbs through the thin stack of bills, and for a split second, I see her bite her lip, a fleeting shadow of calculation crossing her face. She carefully counts out the exact amount needed for the toiletries, each bill smoothed and placed deliberately on the counter. The small pile looks painfully meager. It’s not much. Barely a cushion.

Again, the urge to just swipe my card and make it easy, to take this tiny burden off her shoulders, rises strong. But I force it down, clenching my fist by my side. This small transaction, paying her own way for basic necessities... it’s a foothold. A scrap of the independence that bastard tried to steal from her. Taking that away feels wrong, like I’d be just another man telling her what she can and can’t do, what she does and doesn’t deserve.

She hands the cash to the cashier, pointedly avoiding my eyes now, perhaps sensing my scrutiny, or maybe just focused on completing the task before her pride wavers. She accepts her change and meticulously tucks it back into the envelope, folding it with a precision that speaks volumes about how precious those few remaining dollars must be.

"Okay," she murmurs, clutching the small plastic bag containing her purchases to her chest like a shield.

I give her a small nod, keeping my expression neutral, though a knot tightens in my chest. "Alright. Clothing store next?"

She nods, seeming relieved I didn't push the money issue, and we head out. The place has the kind of generic selection you’d expect—jeans, sweaters, and some sundresses. I gesture toward the racks.

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