Page 38 of Claimed By the Damned

I let myself sink into him, into the afterglow, the rare peace. The questions, the fears—they can wait. Because for tonight, I feel warm. Satisfied. Safe.

My eyes drift closed. I hold onto the feeling, hoping it lasts.

Chapter 14: The Game Begins

Kolya

She thinks she’s safe.

The idea is amusing, pathetically so. She folds herself into this new life like a wounded animal burrowing into dirt, as if I wouldn’t find her. As if my network hasn't spent weeks meticulously charting the digital trail her supposed protector, Theo, worked so hard to erase.

He was clever, obscuring his path west, but ultimately predictable. My resources stretch far beyond both of their attempts at escape. Pinpointing her general location in the Pacific Northwest was tedious enough; then weeks were spent scouring digital footprints and cross-referencing sightings across the coast—a patient, meticulous process that finally yielded fruit: Yachats. My patience, however, has its limits, especially when a possession defies me. Once that insignificant coastal town was known, confirming her precise location within it, identifying her employment, her ridiculous alias, her pathetic pretence of normalcy—it took my local assets mere hours. The final pieces of the puzzle clicked into place this morning when my informant verified her presence at that flower shop. The time for observation ended. The game of hide-and-seek had run its enjoyable course. Now, it is time for the reckoning. Any fool she might have encountered, any fleeting alliance she might have imagined she'd formed, would be no match for my reach. They are gnats, easily swatted.

Resources were already primed; the instant Yachats was confirmed, the plan activated. Surveillance focused on the shop—the obvious vulnerability. Her attempts at building a 'normal' life there made it the perfect stage for her reminder.

Why waste an immediate effort tracing her back to some hidden residence when her predictable routine offered a directpath? Snatching her near the shop, isolated and panicked after receiving my gift, is efficient. Lila was never skilled at hiding her fear, especially not from me. The outcome was never in doubt.

She always has tells—tiny, unconscious signals. The way she hesitates before lying, the glance over her shoulder when she feels watched. She believed she could disappear, but she fails to understand: the world bends to men like me. It isn't power alone. It’s inevitability. I was always going to find her. Because she belongs to me. No one, certainly not some small-town hero or misguided brute, possesses the capability or the will to truly shield her from me. They would be flies caught in my web, their efforts futile.

I let her imagine she had a head start. Allowed her to breathe. Let her settle into the illusion of freedom. Because that’s the key to breaking something properly—granting just enough hope to make the fall more devastating.

Hope is a sickness. It deludes people into believing they have a chance when none exists. Makes them think they can outrun fate when fate already has its fist around their throat. My Pet was always destined to return to me. Whether she walks or crawls, begs or screams, shewillreturn. Because I demand it.

She’s playing at life in Yachats now, employed at some quaint little flower shop,The Blooming Nook. A fragile name, apt for a life she was never meant to have. A fantasy where she’s ordinary, untouched. She isn’t ordinary.

The idea that these intervening weeks hold significance, that she might have sought comfort or connection elsewhere... but that's absurd. She remains mine.

No time apart, no pathetic pretence of freedom alters the fundamental truth: she belongs to me. I shaped her. Sheismine. A possession, a reflection of my desires. Her body, her fear, her very essence responds tome.

Not some simple woman suited for quiet existence among delicate petals and the sickly-sweet scent of blooms. She was designed—conditioned—for something darker, intrinsically mine. This brief taste of 'freedom' is irrelevant.

She doesn't grasp what she has taken from me. The disrespect. The insult. She believes she escaped, but all she achieved was delaying the inevitable.

I am a patient man.

I’ve permitted these delusions long enough.

She is mine.

It’s time for a reminder.

From the car, I watch as a courier steps inside the flower shop, a neatly wrapped package in his hands. I selected the packaging precisely—black silk ribbon, expensive paper, designed to draw her eye, force a pause before opening.

Inside, she’ll find a bracelet.

Delicate silver, shaped like an infinity symbol—an anniversary gift from years ago. She wore it daily, until the night she fought me, days before she fled. That night, in a rare display of defiance, she lashed out, fingers clawing, voice raw. The bracelet snapped from her wrist in the struggle, forgotten. She must believe it lost forever. I never lose anything that's hers.

Alongside the bracelet, a letter. Handwritten, naturally. Typed words lack the personal touch of a well-formed threat.

I imagine her reaction. The tremor in her fingers, the catch in her breath. The blood draining from her face, leaving her pale, chilled by the realization that she was never out of reach. She’ll look around, pulse hammering, searching for eyes upon her. She will find them.

Because I’ve ensured it.

The men I’ve stationed are not careless. They won't approach too closely—yet. Just enough to unsettle her. A flicker at the edge of her vision. A man lingering by the shop window. A shadow nearthe trees outside the shop, distant enough to seem a trick of the light. A presence she can’t pinpoint but feels.

Nothing overt. Nothing she can report. The law offers no protection from ghosts, from whispers, from the encroaching certainty of being watched.

The note, the bracelet, the observers—they aren't mere threats. They are reminders. She knows the consequences of defying me. She remembers. That fear is the first step. It makes people careless. Predictable.

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