Page 26 of Claimed By the Damned

Heat flares low in my stomach, sharp and unexpected. The hard press of his body against mine is undeniable, a wall of muscle and heat curved protectively around me.

His scent—dark, expensive soap, clean male musk, a thread of woodsy spice—clings to the sheets, to my skin, branding itself onto my memory.

But it’s that hard ridge of his large cock pressed into the curve of my backside that sends a jolt straight through me, pooling low and heavy. My breath hitches, thighs clenching involuntarily.

It's been so long since I’ve felt desire—not fear, not obligation, but raw, unthinking want. A traitorous part of me grinds back against him instinctively. The friction sends a sharp shockwave through my core, a spark of pleasure coiling deep and insistent.

Then, like ice water, fear slams down, extinguishing everything.

Realizing where I am—whoI'm with—and my own body's treacherous reaction sends a freezing cascade through my veins. My breath catches high in my throat, locking me in place. His closeness, the intimacy of his sleeping form, suddenly feels suffocating. My pulse hammers violently in my ears, drowning out the steady beat against my back. A memory flashes—

Kolya’s arms around me, his voice low, soothing, apologies whispered against my skin after the first time he hurt me. I was so young, so desperate to believe him when he swore it wouldn’t happen again. For a while, he was kind, attentive, holding me just like this, making me think the pain was a fluke—a mistake I deserved. But the kindness was always temporary, a trap to keep me tethered.

How did I let this happen? How did I get here?

Eyes squeezed shut, I force the pieces of last night together—the nightmare, my body betraying me, shaking, gasping as old memories clawed their way into the light. He was there, steady and unshakeable, holding me, anchoring me when I felt like I was shattering.

Now I’m here, in my bed, his arms still around me, surrounded by a warmth that feels both foreign and dangerously comforting. I shift slightly, glance at the clock beside the bed: 3:00 AM.

The weight of him behind me, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the firm but gentle hand resting around my waist—it’s all too real. Too solid. My breath catches again, I’m torn between pulling away and the desperate urge to lean back in, to believe, just for a second, in this illusion of safety.

My stomach twists, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. I need to move. I have to escape before I start believing this is real—or convince myself that I somehow deserve it.

No. That kind of stupidity I can’t afford.

Carefully, I test the space, calculating the smallest movement required to slip free without waking him. But as I ease back,his hold tightens instinctively. His arm flexes, fingers splaying across my lower stomach in a quiet, unconscious claim.

A gasp catches in my throat, my whole body locking up. Instinct screams: Run. My pulse pounds. Breathing stutters. Every muscle goes rigid, braced for… something.

But then—

He makes a sound, a quiet, sleepy grumble, his breath brushing my hair. He shifts slightly, radiating even more warmth. Closer. His lips graze the top of my head—a barely-there touch, soft, unthinking. A shiver runs down my spine, confusing and electric.

An ache flares deep in my chest, sharp and insistent. I want to tilt my head back, brush my lips against his, see if he'd meet me. During the nightmare, he was my anchor; would he be now if I reached for him instead of pulled away?

A moment later, his arm tightens again, pulling me firmly against him like I belong there—like letting go means losing something important. He’s holding me like I’m worth keeping close, grounding me in a way I haven't felt in years. The warmth lingers, seeming to unravel the protective walls I’ve built over years. It's terrifying—how easy it would be to believe in this feeling.

I don't know what to do.

I force myself to take slow breaths. My chest feels tight. My heart beats hard against my ribs—flight or surrender? I could stay. Part of me wants to stay, curl into him, let this safe feeling last. But wanting something has never made it safe.

Moving cautiously, I try again, easing away inch by painful inch. His grip loosens just enough for me to slip free. The sheets feel suddenly cool against my skin where his body had been. An odd pang of loss settles in my chest as I slide carefully out of the bed.

He shifts slightly but doesn’t wake. A faint frown creases his brow for a moment before his breathing evens out again. Iswallow hard, ignoring the tightness in my throat, the lingering ache in my chest. I can't stay here trying to figure it out.

Turning, I slip out of the room, pausing outside the door, pressing my back against the cool wall. I drag in a slow, measured breath. My hands are shaking slightly. My chest tightens again; the ghost of his warmth still lingers on my skin. I count to five. Then ten. Forcing my racing heart to slow. After years of training myself to hide everything, my body still betrays me with these reactions. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to ground myself, then push off the wall.

I need space. Need something mundane to anchor me. I head down the dim hallway, my feet moving on autopilot toward the kitchen. Maybe water. Or just somewhere without the confusing intimacy I fled. I listen hard. Any sound? The house stays utterly still. The floorboards are cold beneath my bare feet.

I don’t expect anyone to be awake. But as I step into the kitchen doorway, the illusion of solitude shatters.

The air is cooler here. Tinged with the smell of stale coffee grounds and the sharp lemon polish from the steel countertops.

Ryker leans against the counter. Waiting? His sharp gaze locks onto mine the moment I appear.

There's none of his usual restless energy, no smirking, no subtle fidgeting. He’s utterly still, a coiled stillness that’s more unnerving than any overt aggression. His green eyes, usually flickering with chaotic amusement, are narrowed, fixed on me with an unblinking, predatory focus. The set of his jaw is hard, his powerful frame exuding a quiet, contained menace I haven't seen from him before.

His stare drags over me, slow and assessing. His usual smirk is nowhere in sight tonight. There's an edge in the way he looks at me, like he sees right through the surface, peeling back layers I try so hard to keep hidden. His eyes flicker—not just with concern, but something sharper. Understanding. Like he knowsmore than I want him to. It makes my skin prickle. The weight of his stare is unsettling in a whole new way.

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