Page 33 of Claimed By the Damned

Working here—feeling the cool slip of a petal between my fingers, carefully stripping thorns from a rose stem, the repetitive, calming rhythm of arranging bouquets—gives mepurpose. Structure. Somethingmine. It isn’t home, not yet, but the anxious feeling of just hiding out starts to loosen its grip, replaced by something quieter and steadier.

I wasn't actively searching for a job, but the need to contribute, todosomething other than wait for the other shoe to drop, led me here. The men have their missions, their intense world humming just beneath the surface. This quiet corner shop, nestled between the smells of coffee and old paperbacks, feels like my own small pocket of peace.

Stephanie runs the place like a slightly bossy mother hen. She's in her mid-forties, taller than me, with sun-kissed skin, bright blonde hair often escaping her ponytail, and a sturdy figure. Her laugh lines radiate warmth, and her voice carries with effortless authority. She has three kids, a plumber husband named Harry—“the best damn man to ever fix a leak”—and an uncanny ability to see right through people.

“Let me guess,” she said the first time I walked in two weeks ago, sizing me up. “You’re not just here for flowers.”

I blinked. “I—what?”

Stephanie just smiled knowingly. “You’re looking for something, honey. Purpose. Stability. Maybe just a reason to get up in the morning?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

“Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “I could use some extra help, if you don’t mind getting a little dirt under your nails.”

That was how it started.

Now, every morning, I make the roughly fifteen-minute walk from the house toThe Blooming Nook—unless one of the men insists on drop-off duty, which happens more often than not. I spend hours arranging bouquets, taking orders and learning the names of flowers I never knew existed. Stephanie teaches me their symbolism—red camellias for deep desire, lavender forpeace, daisies for innocence. It’s strangely soothing, working with my hands, creating beauty instead of just surviving.

Stephanie is easy to talk to. She doesn’t pry or push, but she makes me feel like Icouldtalk if I wanted to. As if I wouldn’t be judged for the pieces of myself I choose to share.

One afternoon, while we’re wiring delicate lisianthus stems for a wedding bouquet, a small clock on the counter softly chimes the hour. Checking the time, I glance through the large front window and see Bastian's sleek black SUV parked at the curb. He never comes in, but sometimes, if Ethan or Ryker aren't available, he handles drop-off and pick-ups. He waits, engine idling, gaze fixed on the shop door, waiting for my shift to end.

Stephanie follows my look, humming softly. "That one," she comments lightly, expertly twisting floral tape around a stem, not even glancing up. "He's the quiet type, isn't he? The kind that watches everything. Got that… intensity. Like he's carrying the weight of the world but trying not to let it show. Harry gets like that sometimes when one of the kids is sick, all focused and serious, but you can tell he's worried sick underneath." Her tone is casual, but her eyes hold a knowing glint when they meet mine. "Some men wear their hearts on their sleeves; others keep 'em locked up tight. Doesn't mean they're not there, though."

A flush creeps up my neck. I turn my attention fiercely back to the flowers. "He's just... careful."

"Careful, protective, a little bit broody," Stephanie chuckles softly, finally looking up with a warm smile. "Sounds like a man who knows what he wants to keep safe, if you ask me. Good on him for being persistent." She gives my shoulder a quick, friendly nudge before returning to her work.

Her observation hangs in the air, simple yet loaded. She didn't say he looks at me like I'm important, but the implication lingers uncomfortably in my chest. Small town. People notice routines, the pauses, how a car lingers just a moment too long.

I don’t know how to respond, so I focus on the flowers.

Stephanie doesn’t press. Instead, she hands me shears. “You ever think about what you want to do next?”

I hesitate. “Next?”

“Yeah. Life isn’t just about surviving, honey. It’s about figuring out what makes you happy.”

I’m not sure I have an answer yet. But for now,this—the flowers, the quiet companionship, the feeling of earning something—feels like a start.

Chapter 12: Hands That Heal

Ethan

The house is quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the steady rhythm of Lila’s breathing. She's curled up, fast asleep on the couch next to me, wrapped in a thick blanket, her chest rising and falling evenly. For the first time since she stumbled into our lives, she looks… peaceful.

We were watching some mindless action movie Ryker picked out—loud, chaotic, completely unlike the soft silence that now hangs over the room. Earlier, during a lull in the explosions, I reached for the remote, my arm brushing hers. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, angling her body slightly away from me. Just a few inches, but enough to feel like a mile. When I’d made a dumb joke about the movie’s plot holes, her usual quiet chuckle was absent, replaced by a clipped, "Yeah," her gaze fixed determinedly on the screen. She was pulling away, retreating into herself even before exhaustion finally claimed her halfway through the movie. Her body, still so fragile, just couldn’t fight it any longer. I haven't moved since she dozed off, just been watching her instead of the on-screen explosions. Eventually, Bastian mutes the TV and shuts it off, leaving only the warm glow of the fire.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. My gaze shifts to the security monitor on the table, its steady green lines a reminder of the work piling up. I should be reviewing feeds, tweaking the damn motion sensors Ryker insists need constant recalibration. A quick scan of the external access logs shows something odd—one ping from an unfamiliar IP, quickly masked, gone almost before it registered. Probably nothing. A script kiddie poking around. Still, I make a mental note to dig deeper later.

Instead of working, I sit here, every nerve fixed on the soft sound of her breathing, my chest tight with an unfamiliar ache. Watching overherwhen I should be working. Focusing on the faint line between her brows instead of potential threats.

Fool,part of my brain scoffs. But this feeling—this heavy, protective weight in my gut—refuses to budge.

It isn’t just about protecting her anymore. It’s deeper, stronger, threatening the careful control I try to maintain. The thought gnaws at me, an uncomfortable truth I’m not ready to face. Lila isn’t just the scared woman we took in; she’s burrowing under my skin in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

Her lips part slightly, a faint crease forming between her brows as if she’s fighting something even in sleep. Instinct moves me before I can think; I adjust the blanket higher on her shoulder. The moment my fingers brush the skin of her collarbone, warmth shoots up my arm, settling in my chest, making my breath hitch. It’s nothing—barely a touch. So why does it feel like too much?

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