Page 2 of Claimed By the Damned

Kolya’s house, his prison, is shrinking in the rearview mirror. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, breath sawing in my lungs. Every flicker of headlight in the rearview mirror sends a fresh spike of adrenaline through me, my gaze darting from side mirror to side mirror, half-expecting his black sedans tomaterialize from the shadows. A car horn blares in the distance, and I flinch so hard the car swerves. No, relief isn't washing over me; Kolya isn’t the type to let go, and the thought of what he’ll do to Theo if he’s caught makes my stomach churn. I should be crying happy tears or screaming in victory or something.

But all I feel is cold, bone-deep terror.

I grip the wheel, my pulse a deafening roar in my ears. Every red taillight ahead of me is a threat. Every pair of headlights in the mirror makes my pulse stutter. My hands tighten on the wheel. Kolya’s voice slithers through my mind—“You’ll never leave me, Lila. I own you.”I blink hard. No. Not now.

It’s irrational—I know that. But knowing and believing are two different things. The paranoia is already burrowing deep, wrapping around my thoughts like vines, suffocating.

I left, but Kolya’s shadow is still here. Lurking. Watching. Waiting.

A cold certainty settled in my gut—he’s already coming for me.

And this? This is just the beginning.

Chapter 2: Hunted in the Dark

Lila

The neon Vacancy sign flickers, its high-pitched whine a grating counterpoint to my frayed nerves. My legs are dead weight as I drag myself toward the motel room door, each step an effort, my breath hitching.

My ribs scream—a brutal echo from two nights ago.Kolya’s knuckles, swift and hard, after I met his gaze with a flicker of defiance he hadn't liked.

Barefoot on the sharp gravel of the parking lot, my soles are raw, stinging with every step. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the key. My fingers brush the crumpled envelope tucked deep inside my hoodie pocket – found on the passenger seat of the getaway car, nestled in a worn duffel bag.

Theo. He must have placed it there, part of his desperate, meticulous plan. Practical clothes – this soft grey hoodie, the black leggings I now wear, a godsend compared to the silk nightgown I fled in (though a quick glance confirms the one crucial thing missing: shoes) – and beneath them, this envelope stuffed with worn bills. A lifeline. His foresight is a small, bitter comfort.

I remember grabbing the envelope, shoving it safe as I threw the bag onto the floor, just before hitting the gas. The image of him back at the house, turning to face whatever was coming… that memory is a fresh stab of guilt, fueling the terror that still hasn't faded.

The key slides into the lock, stiff, then turns. The door groans open, too loud in the silence. I slip inside, pressing it shut with a shaky exhale, twisting the flimsy lock, sliding the chain. A pathetic joke compared to Kolya's fortress, but it's something. The faint ‘snip’ of the lock echoes in my mind—Theo disabling the camera feed to the east gate, the monitor flickering to blackfor just a second. Had they found the breach yet? Had they found him?

I don’t breathe. Don’t move. Just listen. The low, intermittent hum of old wiring. A distant TV. My pulse, pounding.

Empty. Thank God. But my ears strain. No shadows shifting under the door. No footsteps on gravel. That doesn’t mean I’m safe.

My gaze traces water stains blooming across the popcorn ceiling like grotesque flowers. The air conditioner shudders to life, rattling, spitting out air thick with cloying disinfectant that fails to mask years of neglect. This silence, broken by mechanical groans and the distant highway drone, feels heavier than any scream.

The room smells of stale cigarettes and mildew. The carpet is threadbare, the mattress sagging.The acrid tang of old smoke catches in my throat, sharp and sudden, and I’m back in his study. Expensive cigars smoldering nearby. Velvet chairs where he made me sit for hours, silent, observed like an object. The chilling weight of his gaze, stripping me bare without a touch. That suffocating feeling of being trapped under glass… it claws up my throat even now, tasting like bile.I swallow hard against it. This place, with its anonymity, might be safe. For now.

I press my back against the door and slide down, my body screaming. The second my eyes close, panic jolts me.“You’re not to be weak, Delilah,” his voice, a silken threat. “I detest weakness. Defiance. Anything less than perfect submission is… an invitation for correction.”

A tremor runs through me. My fingers curl into the gritty carpet, the friction a small, grounding pain against the phantom chill of his touch. Outside, the neon sign casts flickering red light across the cheap dresser. Shadows twist, morphing into his shape, lurking.

He found me. Fixated on me. Wanted me. Nikolai “Kolya” Mikhailov. Charming at first, lethally so. Gifts I didn’t want, touches that branded me as his. The walls rose slowly, possessiveness disguised as protection. Restrictions tightened—who I could see, where I could go, what I could wear—until there was no way out. Until the night he stopped pretending, locked the door, his grip bruising, tearing through my innocence. “I own you now, Pet,” he’d murmured, fingers digging into my wrist. “There’s no world where you exist without me.”

I jerk upright, breath catching. Had I drifted off? Exhaustion pulls, despite the terror. Sweat cools my skin. The motel room is silent but for the A/C’s hum, yet I swear I hear his voice, a phantom whisper.

I press my knuckles to my mouth. If I break now, I won’t stop.

A car door slams. My heart leaps. Muscles coil, ready to bolt. A black SUV? His men? Are they here already? I flatten myself against the floor, pressing into the dirty carpet, holding my breath, straining for footsteps.Kolya's fist connecting with my cheek, a blinding flash of pain. Is he here?

Silence returns, thick, heavy, punctuated by the frantic thrumming in my ears. Just a late arrival. Not him. Not yet. But adrenaline leaves me shaking, cold sweat on my hairline. Remaining still feels like surrender. I force myself up, crawling towards the bed, driven by exhaustion. The room suffocates.

I need to remember I'm not in that house.

I drag myself onto the edge of the sagging mattress, biting back a whimper as pain lances my ribs. The window again. Parking lot empty. No black SUVs. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t coming.

He always comes.

I grab the cracked motel glass, gulp stale tap water. My stomach is hollow. Nausea twists, an old, familiar ache. My body remembers.

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