Page 32 of Claimed By the Damned

I want to deny it, but… he isn’t wrong. My shoulders have loosened, my breathing isn’t so tight. Maybe I'm not as broken as I thought. It’s the first time I’ve laughed and meant it in longer than I can remember.

The warmth of that moment lingers as I walk into the kitchen later, only to find Bastian waiting with a plate of food. His arms are crossed, eyes steady, pinning me in place.

“I’m not hungry,” I try.

Bastian raises an eyebrow, his voice calm but firm. “Eat.” No impatience, no threat—just quiet insistence.

The command makes my stomach twist. My body tenses instinctively, the old habit of bracing for a fight surfacing. But there’s no sharp edge to his voice, none of the warning signs I learned to fear. It isn’t a demand, not exactly. More like… certainty. As if he already knows I’ll give in, it’s just a matter of when. He must have noticed I haven’t eaten all day—maybe even since last night. My appetite has been unpredictable, but skipping meals is becoming a habit, and apparently, Bastian has decided it won’t fly anymore.

I hesitate, the scent of warm food hitting me—savory, with a hint of butter and herbs. My stomach clenches, reminding me I’m hungrier than I want to admit. Stubbornness wins out. I stay put. “I’ll eat later.”

“No, you’ll eat now.” His voice softens slightly. For the first time, a flicker of what might be concern—or protectiveness—crosses his expression before vanishing. He pulls out a chair, nodding at it. “Sit.”

Something in me bristles. Maybe it’s the way Kolya used to order me around, but I fight the urge to refuse purely out of defiance. Bastian must see the internal battle, because he sighs and leans forward, his voice dropping lower, more patient. “You need to take care of yourself, Lila. Whether you feel like it or not.”

I swallow. “I’m not a child.”

“Then don’t act like one.”

Oh, that does it.

Fire flares in my chest, hot and indignant, but before I can snap back, Bastian moves. He takes the plate, sets it aside, then points to the corner of the kitchen. “Five minutes.”

I blink. “What?”

“You don’t want to eat? Fine. Sit there and think about why you refuse to do something as basic as taking care of yourself.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

No, he does not.

I scowl but stomp over to the spot he indicated, crossing my arms as I face the wall. Silence stretches. I become hyper-aware of my pounding heart, the tightness in my throat. This isn’t about control, not like Kolya. It isn't about taking something from me. It's about… something else. Accountability?

Damn it, I hate that it works.

When the five minutes are up, I turn, expecting smug satisfaction. Bastian just hands me the plate again, his demeanor still calm and steady. “Eat, Little One."

The endearment sits strangely in my chest. Not a command—just… steady. Something I don’t know what to do with. I almost flinch at the softness in his tone.Almost. Instead, I pick up the fork and eat.

The first bite hits my tongue, and I hate how good it tastes. Hate how much my body craves it, even while my mind resists. I set the fork down, trying to remind myselfIam still in control. A few seconds later, I pick it up again. One bite. Then another.

The rest of the night settles into a comfortable rhythm, but I can't shake the feeling of being watched. Not like Kolya used to watch me, his gaze a leash tight around my throat. This is different. Lighter. I catch Ethan watching me, noticing the way I relax, as if making sure I’m not retreating. Ryker keeps tossing playful remarks, nudging me just enough to keep me engaged, his way of making sure I’m still present, still fighting. Bastian? He watches, his gaze level, unreadable, but not unkind. For the first time in a long time, I’m not being scrutinized—I’m beingseen.

It makes me uneasy in a way I can’t name. Not discomfort, precisely. Something smaller, quieter. Something that hints at belonging, maybe, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

Not fear. Not danger.

Just… change.

The gentle chime of the bell above the door ofThe Blooming Nookis becoming one of the few sounds that doesn't immediately put me on edge. Stepping inside feels like entering a different world, leaving the gray coastal town behind for a small space bursting with vibrant color and life.

The air feels different here—cool and humid, thick with the layered perfume of blossoms: lilies, roses, the sharp green tang of fresh stems. Beneath it all lies the rich scent of damp earth from potted plants, sometimes mixing with the comforting smell of roasting coffee from the cafe next door. Sunlight streams through the large front window, lighting up dust motes dancing in the air and casting shadows from hanging ferns.

A small part of me whispers a warning with every step I take toward this place, a cold reminder that this normalcy, this quiet routine, is built on borrowed time. Kolya is still out there. The men, for all their protection, can’t be everywhere. This peace I find among the petals is fragile, a thin glass dome that could shatter with the slightest tremor. But I push the thought down. For these few hours, I let myself breathe.

Physically, I'm healing. The worst bruises have faded, though a wrong move still sends a sharp reminder through my ribs. Here, surrounded by life that demands gentle hands, feel… capable. Stronger. It isn't just about recovery anymore.

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