Page 29 of Claimed By the Damned

That sits heavy in my gut, cold and sharp. I tell myself she won’t, that this messed-up thing between us is too complicated for her to just pick one of us. Yet, there’s a gnawing part of me, forgedin darkness and isolation, that wonders, what if she does? What if she decides I’m too much, too broken, too damn unpredictable to hold onto?

Maybe the steady ground Bastian offers or Ethan’s easy kindness feels safer than the goddamn minefield I carry inside me. And fuck, I hate that thought. The idea of her choosing either of them over whatever the hellIam scratches at something raw, buried deep.

Not that I expect her to pick just one. That would be... complicated in a whole other way.

At least, I hope she won’t.

But that’s a talk for later, one I won’t push when she’s still figuring out where she fits, still healing from wounds I don’t fully understand yet.

Determined, I wait for my moment. When Lila least expects it, I lean in, lowering my voice so only she and maybe Ethan can hear over the TV drama. "Forget this trash, Baby Girl," I mutter, nodding at the screen. "We could make a better show right here. Call it 'Wicked Sanctuary: Tactical Housekeeping.'"

I see the corner of her mouth twitch, so I press on, painting the picture. "Episode one: Watch Bastian try to alphabetize the spice rack under simulated mortar fire. Episode two: Ethan hacks the damn toaster 'cause it keeps burning his bagels, maybe accidentally takes down NORAD in the process. Episode three: You attempt to teach me basic kitchen safety, specifically why using C4 to open a stubborn pickle jar is 'counterproductive to preserving the pickles intact.'"

I pause, giving her a deadpan look. "Ratings gold. We'd make millions. Might even afford better snacks than this shit Ethan bought."

She blinks at me for a second, then bursts into laughter—full, unrestrained, the kind that shakes her shoulders and leaves her gasping for air. Fuck, that sound—it does something to me. Ihaven’t heard a laugh like that in years, not the kind that’s real, unguarded, not laced with pain or forced to make someone else comfortable. It settles in my chest, unexpected and warm. Realizing just how badly I want to be the reason she does that again. Ethan stares like I’ve just performed a miracle, and even I can’t help but grin. That sound? That’s mine.

So I shake off the feeling, roll my shoulders, scoop up a handful of popcorn, and launch it back at Ethan.

“Hope you’re ready to share, pretty boy.”

Lila smirks, her gaze flicking between us like she’s taking notes, filing away every small reaction. There’s something calculating in her expression, sharp and knowing.

And I wonder if she’s already figured me out.

If she knows just how far I’d go for her.

She’s still careful around me. Still hesitant. But I see it—the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking. Like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Expecting me to turn on her, like everyone else probably has. Like maybe she senses the potential for darkness in me and assumes I'll break.

She hasn’t figured out yet—I don’t turn on the people I care for. Not after knowing the cost of being left behind, surviving alone in that fucking darkness. Being trusted andreallyseen past the damage… fuck, maybe that matters more than I admitted. Somehow, in a few damn weeks, she’s carved out a place in all of us, getting under our skin like she always belonged. It’s almost shocking how easily she settled, how quickly she became part of something none of us realized we were missing.

There’s something about her that calls to all three of us in different ways—Ethan’s protectiveness, Bastian’s steady control, and whatever the hell she’s awakening in me. I would destroy anyone who tries to hurt her. Them. And whether she knows it or not, she’s part of our circle now.

I hold back the urge to claim her outright.

“So, what’s your deal, Baby Girl?” I ask, my voice low as we sit on the porch. The night air is crisp, salt-tinged from the ocean beyond the cliffs. The waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm against the silence stretching between us.

She’s curled up in one of Bastian’s chairs, knees pulled up under one ofmyhoodies, and damn if that doesn’t do something to me. It’s just fabric, something I threw on the back of a chair and forgot about—but seeing her in it? That feels different. Like some small claim neither of us has acknowledged. I’ve got a beer in my hand, half-forgotten as I watch her.

She doesn’t meet my eyes, tracing the rim of her mug with her fingertip like she’s trying to smooth out a thought that won’t settle. “What do you mean?”

I tap my fingers against my thigh, thinking. “I mean, you gonna tell us what happened to you? And who’s after you? We can’t protect you if we don’t know.”

She goes still. Not like she’s gonna run, but that frozen way that makes my gut twist. Like she’s suddenly back there—whereverthereis.

Her grip tightens around her mug, knuckles going white. The silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on. The fire pit crackles, filling the space where words should be.

“Not tonight,” she finally says, voice barely a whisper.

I watch her, my fingers tightening slightly, jaw clenched. That answer should piss me off. But it doesn’t—not really. Because I see how her chest rises and falls, how she’s forcing herself to breathe evenly, to keep herself here instead of wherever her mind tries to drag her.

I nod, taking a slow sip of my beer. “Alright. But one day, you’re gonna have to let us in.”

She exhales softly, a breath she probably didn’t realize she was holding. Her shoulders don’t relax, but something in her expression shifts—like maybe she wants to believe she could. That she could trust us. Trustme. Maybe see that I'm not the monster the darkness tried to make me.

She still doesn’t answer.

But she doesn’t run, either.

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