Page 4 of Claimed By the Damned

My instincts screamfight, but my limbs remain unresponsive. Terrifying helplessness. I need help. But needing help from a stranger, especially a man built like this one—that might mean trading one cage for another.

My breathing turns ragged, my chest tightening with familiar terror. Who is he? Every fiber of my being screams that finding out could be fatal.

Panic surges through me like a live wire, raw adrenaline overriding the exhaustion. I thrash wildly, my body acting on instinct.

My knee jerks upward, connecting with solid muscle; the impact barely registers against the unyielding wall of my captor’s chest.

My limbs flail, a mess of tangled motion, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. My arms shove at him, my fingers clawing for purchase, desperate to break free. And then the world tilts, and I am falling.

Pain explodes through me, a shockwave of agony stealing my breath. My ribs crunch, fierce fire lancing through my side. My feet—raw, shredded—pulse with every frantic heartbeat.

My hands skid against rough concrete, the sting jolting through my nerves. The force of the fall knocks the wind out of me, leaving me gasping, my vision a chaotic swirl of light and dark.

Another burst of pain radiates from my ribs, unrelenting, as my scraped palms throb where they hit the ground. A sound, part groan, part whimper, escapes before I can swallow it down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a voice growls. Footsteps crunch against the pavement as the man looms over me. “You done?”

I force myself onto my elbows, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest. My head snaps up. I finally get a good look at him.

He is tall, easily six-four, and built like a wrecking ball stuffed into a worn leather jacket, broad shoulders straining the seams. His messy, dirty blond hair looks perpetually windblown, strands falling into vivid green eyes—the green of moss in deep forests, shot through with flecks of gold, holding a restless, near-feral light, like he thrives on chaos.

Thick black ink scrolls up his forearms and disappears under his sleeves—glimpses of tribal patterns, scarred-over skulls, something resembling military insignia—almost indistinguishable from the older, faded scars mapping his skin.

His leather jacket hangs open, revealing the collar of his t-shirt and the prominent ridge of a thick, puckered scar slashing diagonally, partially visible above the fabric near his shoulder. It isn't faded—an angry, raised welt, the kind left by a wound that probably should have killed him.

And then there is his crooked grin, tilted and totally unapologetic, as if he’s always five seconds away from causing trouble. His voice, when he speaks, is a low, gravelly rumble that scrapes against my nerves.

I suck in a breath, still half-convinced he is some kind of threat.

“Who the hell are you?” I rasp, voice rough.

"My name's Ryker." His gaze sweeps over me. "Found you half-frozen and unconscious by the road that borders my property. Figured carrying you inside was better than letting you die on my damn driveway.”

My pulse hammers. Thoughts tumble, flipping between terrible scenarios. Did Kolya find me? Traded one danger for another? I don't trust this. Don't trust him.

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "Look, fighting me isn't helping. You're half-frozen and can't stand. Take a breath."

I glare up at him, scowling. "I’m not some stray you can just scoop up off the street."

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

My entire body screams for relief, but my mind refuses to stop spinning escape plans. My feet are shredded, my ribs ache like they’ve been through a meat grinder, yet accepting help from a stranger makes my stomach turn.

But what choice do I have? My body is useless, every inch battered and exhausted. Run? Where? Stumble aimlessly through the freezing night again, only to collapse somewhere even worse? The idea churns in my gut, a bitter reminder—I don’t have options right now.

Ryker watches me, his gaze unreadable, though something lurks beneath the rough exterior—frustration, maybe even concern. His fingers twitch at his sides. No pity in his eyes, just observation. That should unsettle me more than it does.

Without warning, he crouches, shifting toward me faster than I expect. My body locks up, instinct kicking in—a sharp flinch I can’t suppress. He freezes for a half-second, realizing he moved too abruptly, then reins himself in, adjusting his grip as he lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I barely get out a sound before he is walking toward the house.

“Put me down,” I protest, weakly pushing at his chest.

“Nope.”

I scowl. “I can walk.”

“You sure about that?” His voice is flat, unimpressed.

I grind my teeth but say nothing. Because no, I am not sure. And I hate that he knows it.

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