Page 25 of Claimed By the Damned

The line clicks dead. I pocket the phone, a cold certainty settling in my gut.

I continue down the stairs. The smell of food drifts from the kitchen. Normalcy. I walk into the kitchen where Ryker and Ethan are waiting, leaning against the counter. Ethan glances up, observant as always. Ryker looks coiled, impatient.

"Just got a call," I state, keeping my voice low, leaning against the doorframe. "Intel source. Mikhailov's network is getting restless. He's escalating operations in LA."

Ethan pushes off the counter, his expression immediately serious. "How solid?"

"Solid enough," I reply. "He's making noise. Trying to put pressure on anyone who might know something about his missing wife, maybe one of his rivals took her. Along with some unexpected movement among his associates."

"And Ryker," I add, my voice dropping to a near growl, a clear warning. "Not one word about her ribs tonight. Not a hint. We handle that tomorrow when Doc Evans can check her properly. Tonight, we give her peace. Understood?"

Ryker's jaw works, the muscle ticking violently. He stares back, rebellion warring with the ingrained habit of following my orders. Finally, he gives a jerky, resentful nod. "Understood," he bites out.

"Good," I say, pushing off the doorframe. "Keep it light. Keep it normal." But nothing feels normal anymore.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Strained. They follow my orders – keep it light, keep it normal. Lila picks at her food, exhaustion still clinging to her like a shroud, but she doesn't flinch away from conversation. She even answers a few of Ryker’s less abrasive questions, though her eyes keep darting towards me, seeking… reassurance? Confirmation? I keep my expression neutral, controlled. Ryker honors his word, his explosive energy simmering just beneath the surface, held in check by my earliercommand. Ethan tries to bridge the gaps, drawing her out gently. It’s a fragile truce, this semblance of normalcy.

After dinner, she disappears back to her room almost immediately. The rest of us disperse, Ryker likely hitting the gym to burn off steam, Ethan probably diving back into the digital world.

I retreat to my office. Pour a scotch. Stare at the financial reports on the screen, but the numbers blur. My thoughts remain fixed on the too-fragile woman down the hall. Control feels like sand slipping through my fingers. Restless energy thrums beneath my skin.

Hours pass. The house settles into the deep quiet of night. The only sound is the low hum of the security systems. I haven’t moved from my desk, nursing the same scotch.

Then I hear it.

Soft at first. A choked gasp. Then a whimper, sharper this time. Cutting through the silence just like before.

My eyes close for a brief second. Again. A weary resignation settles over me.

No hesitation this time. The internal debate that once raged about lines crossed, control lost is silent. The chair scrapes softly against the floor as I push back from the desk, my body already moving, drawn by an invisible cord. Her need is a command I no longer question.

Her door is slightly ajar. Did she leave it open subconsciously? Seeking safety? I push it open wider. The scene is achingly familiar – tangled sheets, frantic movements, the scent of fear already starting to permeate the air. She’s trapped in the terror again.

I don’t speak her name. Don’t try to wake her with words. Instinct, sharp and overriding, bypasses thought.

I move directly to the bed. She’s whimpering steadily now, small, broken sounds that twist something low in my gut. I slide ontothe mattress, the dip causing her to still for a moment, trapped between fear and the sudden awareness of presence.

Then, deliberately, I reach for her. Gather her against my chest, pulling her back against my warmth. One arm slides around her waist, holding her securely. The other tangles possessively in her hair, anchoring her head.

She gasps, body rigid with panic for a heartbeat, fighting the unseen. "Shhh," I murmur, the sound low, vibrating against her skin. A command. An anchor. " You're safe now."

And just like before, the fight slowly drains out of her. The frantic trembling eases into softer shudders. Her breathing hitches, then begins to deepen, evening out against my chest. The rigid lines of her body soften, melting into mine. This time, there’s less resistance, a quicker acceptance. As if some part of her already knew I would come.

I hold her steady, staring into the darkness over her head. The unwelcome heat stirs again, low and insistent, but tonight the usual reprimand in my mind doesn't surface. It’s still a betrayal of control, yes, but one that now feels... inevitable. A consequence rather than a transgression.

This closeness. Her vulnerability, settling into the curve of my body as if it belongs there. My own, dangerously exposed by the simple act of holding her in the dead of night. It’s rapidly becoming the most uncontrolled, necessary thing in my life. And that thought is more terrifying than any Russian mob boss messing up the nearest city.

Chapter 9: A Crack in the Armor

Lila

Warmth wraps around me, solid and steady. It’s a cocoon pushing back the bone-deep chill, seeping into my skin, loosening muscles I hadn't realized were clenched so tight. The sensation lulls me into a strange, almost forbidden comfort. My mind wakes slowly, heavy, caught somewhere between dream fragments and the sharp edge of waking reality.

When did I last wake up feeling this… held? Shielded? The thought crashes in, jarring me fully awake.

Panic ignites in my chest. My body stiffens instinctively before my brain catches up. A heavy arm is draped over my waist, possessive. The powerful warmth presses my back against his hard and unyielding body. Right against the curve of my spine. A steady heartbeat thrums nearby, slow and even, completely unaware of the chaos erupting inside me.

Bastian. His name is a silent breath against the tightness in my chest.

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