Page 22 of Claimed By the Damned

Ryker pushes off the counter, vibrating with barely contained violence. His body is tense as if he’s about to march straight to Lila’s room. Every instinct screams for action, for confronting the source of the pain, forerasingthe man who would do this. His jaw clenches, fists curling, needing an outlet for the sudden, brutal rage.

Bastian steps smoothly between Ryker and the hallway before Ryker can take another step. "Not like this," Bastian says, his voice calm but carrying the absolute weight of command. He hates bullies, hates those who prey on the weak – it offends his sense of order and control.

Ryker’s eyes flash, locking onto Bastian. "Get out of my way, Bas."

"And do what? Storm in there and demand answers she isn’t ready to give?" Bastian doesn’t budge, his gaze steady. "She let Ethan in today. That’s progress we can't afford to lose. Going in hot now will only terrify her, push her further away. We need her cooperative if we're going to help her." His focus is strategic, but beneath it simmers his own cold anger at the violation.

Ryker’s chest heaves, his breathing ragged. He looks trapped between the urge to violence and Bastian's logic. "So we just sit back while she’s hurting?" His voice is low, dangerous—a challenge to their inaction.

"I’m telling you to handle thissmartly," Bastian counters, his tone unyielding. "We’re not gonna let it slide, but she needs to trust us first."

Ryker exhales sharply, the sound like tearing metal, dragging a hand violently over his face. "Fine," he grinds out. "Fine. But one way or another, that bastard’s gonna pay for laying hands on her." The promise is absolute, fueled by righteous fury.

I don’t disagree. The image of those bruises, the thought of the deliberate pain inflicted, coils like ice in my gut. But Bastian's right; rushing in solves nothing. After seeing her flinch, afterseeing the hidden pain, I know this isn't just about punishing him. It's about ensuring she, or anyone under our protection, never has to endure that kind of fear again.

She let me in today, even a little. Progress. But trust isn’t built in a day, and whatever haunts her still weighs heavily. Bastian’s jaw clenches, his eyes flicking toward the hallway where Lila had disappeared. He radiates the desire to follow, demand answers, but he stays rooted, tension rolling off him in waves. I recognize that look—when something is out of his control, and he fucking hates it.

He exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair before turning back to me and Ryker. 'She’s not the only one who needs rest. Get some air, cool off. We’ll figure out our next move later.'

Ryker mutters something under his breath, his fists still tight at his sides. He’s pacing like a caged animal, tension rolling off him. His chest rises and falls sharply, nostrils flaring as he fights the rage clawing at him. With a sharp exhale, he turns on his heel and stalks off toward the back porch, shoving the door open with a little too much force. I shoot one last glance at the hallway before nodding.

Bastian stays where he is, arms crossed, his fingers flexing slightly against his biceps. His stance is solid, but the tension is visible in his shoulders, the way his jaw works as he listens to the quiet hum of the house. He isn’t just waiting—he is bracing, calculating. Preparing for whatever comes next.

I turn fully to face him, the image of those bruises still searing behind my eyes. "Bas," I say quietly, making sure Ryker is out of earshot. "About her ribs... I'm pretty sure some are broken. We need to get Doc Evans out here, or someone we trust. Soon."

Bastian's gaze sharpens, focusing intently on me. He gives a curt nod. "I know there's not much they can do besides tape them, maybe pain meds," I continue, "but it needs checking.Confirm the breaks, rule out complications, make sure nothing punctured..."

"Agreed," Bastian cuts in, his voice low and clipped. "I'll make the call. Discreetly." He files it away, another piece in the strategic puzzle.

I nod, but fresh air won't help much. Not when the image of Lila's bruises dominates my thoughts. Not when I know there is more she isn’t telling us.

We stand there for a moment, silent, the unspoken weight heavy between us, tension settling like a storm waiting to break.

Then the sound reaches us. Soft. Faint. A barely-there noise drifting through the silence.

A whimper.

Bastian’s head tilts slightly, his body going rigid, attention snapping toward the hallway. My stomach tightens.

Lila.

Bastian meets my eyes, holds my gaze for a charged second - an understanding passing between us - before he mutters, 'I’ve got it.' He strides toward her room, his movements smooth but full of purpose. I exhale, running a hand through my hair, but don’t follow. This is his moment.

Chapter 8: Nightmares Have Teeth

Bastian

A faint sound, barely registering, cuts through the silence like a blade, striking me deep in the chest and propelling me into motion before I can think.

She’s mine to care for now. Ethan knows to stay back—he understands the need for space and control. I appreciate his restraint.

Her door is closed; knocking would only delay things. I need to get to her, to assess and take charge of the situation. I turn the handle and step inside. A dim glow from the hallway slices through the darkness, but the air is thick with something heavy.

Chaos. Lila is tangled in the blankets, curled tightly, looking impossibly small as she shrinks away from some unseen horror. Even from the doorway, I can smell the sharp tang of fear-sweat mingling with the sweet scent of her skin. A damp sheen coats her temples, dark hair plastered against her head, and her chest hitches in frantic, shallow bursts—a struggle to draw enough air. Her fingers clench the rumpled sheets like a lifeline against a crushing tide.

This isn’t just a nightmare; it’s a haunting echo. Panic, raw and consuming, grips her even in sleep. She isn’t just dreaming; she’s reliving it. The stutter in her breath and the tremors racing through her limbs show she’s trying to disappear, to make herself smaller, unseen, unheard—a futile tactic in the face of fear.

I’ve seen these nightmares before on battle-hardened soldiers, men broken by war. But this feels different. They understood the risks; she was pulled into this nightmare without a choice. Now she’s trapped, even in sleep. This is unacceptable.

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