Page 28 of Claimed By the Damned

Then there’s me.

I should fight this. Push back against the way she’s settling into my head, making a home where I never intended to have visitors. But I don’t. Maybe I can’t. It feels like she cracked something in me I didn’t know was locked shut. And fuck, I don't know whether to be pissed or just accept it.

I don’t do soft. Never have. Never will. But somehow, she’s getting to me. The way she’s starting to meet my teasing head-on. The way she looks at me sometimes, like she’s trying to figure me out. The way she laughs at my bullshit like I’m not completely unhinged.

Damn it.

I notice her new ease one morning when she finds me in the kitchen, digging through cabinets for the protein powder Ethan swears we have but never stays in the same place twice.

The clatter of cans echoes in the large kitchen, mingling with the low hum of the industrial-sized refrigerator and the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs outside.

“You losing a fight with the pantry again, Ryker?” She leans against the counter, arms crossed, amusement dancing in those bright eyes. That right there, initiating the banter, a glint of challenge in her eyes instead of the fear I saw weeks ago, that’s new. That’s her pushing back, testing the waters.

Of course, she’s wearing one of Ethan’s hoodies again—despite him taking her shopping weeks ago, making sure she had enough clothes to last a lifetime.

I glance at her, then back at the pantry. “Did Ethan’s money offend you, or do you just like stealing his shit?”

She smirks. “Can’t help it. His stuff is just so… cozy.”

My eyes narrow. “Cozy, huh?” I step closer, resting one hand against the counter beside her, boxing her in. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift away. Instead, she tilts her head, gaze steady, like she's figuring her angle.

“Careful, Baby Girl,” I murmur, dropping my voice low just to see if I can get a reaction. “You keep walking around in another man’s clothes, and I might start getting ideas.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark of laughter there. “Relax, Ryker. If I wanted to wear your hoodie, I’d just take it.”

A low chuckle escapes me. I push off the counter. “Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

She hums, a slow, knowing sound, and slips past me, brushing her shoulder against my arm as she goes.

Later, I find Ethan and Lila sprawled on the couch, absorbed in some ridiculous reality show where rich housewives hurl drinks and scream over imagined slights. Ethan looks invested—probably more into the chaos than the actual show—but Lila... she’s different. She’s curled into his side, her body relaxed in a way we rarely see her, like she actually belongs there.

And I hate how much that thought messes with me.

Ethan’s arm drapes loosely around her shoulders, fingers tracing the fabric of the goddamn hoodie she stole from him a few days ago. She leans into him without hesitation, finding comfort in his easy warmth in a way I know she can't with me. Not yet.

I can't relax like that when everything inside me is still wired tight, waiting for the floor to drop out. A sharp twist hits my gut. Not possessiveness. Not quite.

It’s the raw scrape of seeing something good, settled, and feeling like it’s just out of reach for someone like me. Like watching freedom through bars you can't break. Damn if it doesn’t sting.

I drop onto the couch beside her, maybe a little harder than necessary, stretching out my long legs. My boots land on the coffee table with a solid thunk that makes Ethan wince. Good.

Lila side-eyes me, her lips already twitching like she’s gearing up for a fight she knows she won't win. “Wanna take your shoes off the table, you dirty bastard.”

I wiggle my toes inside the worn leather, offering a lazy smirk. “Nah.”

She lets out a long-suffering sigh but doesn’t push it. Doesn't flinch away from me being close either. Another small win.

Then Ethan, the absolute menace, casually tosses a handful of popcorn at my head. It bounces off my temple and lands in my lap like some disrespectful peace offering.

Lila lets out a soft giggle, the sound startlingly real. It tightens something in my chest, unexpected and fierce. Not the deep, belly-aching laughter I want to pull from her though—the kind that makes her forget the past, even if just for a moment—but it’s something. A step in the right direction.

And that should be enough.

Except it isn’t.

Because as much as I tell myself I don’t care who she gravitates toward first, there’s that undeniable twist deep down that makes me want to crowd closer, to remind her that I’m here, too. That the chaos isn't all I am.

I don'tdojealousy. Never have. Jealousy means you think you earned a right to something you don’t own. I learned the hard way you don’t have the right to shit in this life, least of all someone else's time or affection. But the thought of her choosing just one of us? Of her presence here, something that’s starting to feel vital, becoming exclusive to Ethan’s easy comfort or tucked away under Bastian’s smothering but caring control? That’s different. It’s not about ownership ofher. It’s about the thought of this fragile thing we’re building, this circle, being fractured. Losing access to a part of it, or watching her slip away frommespecifically while I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck she does to my insides… that feels like a threat. Like something precious being taken away before I’ve even figured out how to hold onto it.

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