Page 83 of Claimed By the Damned

I see how she clutches that letter like a lifeline. Even from this distance, through this grainy feed, I see the conflict etched in the line of her shoulders, the slight tremor in the hand that isn’t gripping the paper. That’s the beauty of it, the war inside her. The part of her that yearns for Theo, for the past, battling the ingrained fear I so carefully cultivated. It’s almost tragic, the way she believes she’s slipping through the cracks, making a choice. Thinking she’s in control. She glances over her shoulder, hesitation flickering across her face. A last, desperate check for the shadows that always follow her. Good girl. Let that sliver of doubt makes the fabricated hope shine brighter.

Doubt makes people easy to manipulate.

Luke murmurs something comforting to her, and she nods, shoulders straightening with forced resolve. I wonder what she’s telling herself right now. That Theo wouldn’t lead her into a trap? That this is finally her chance to see him. That the carefully chosen words in my letter, mirroring Theo's known phrases of reassurance, are genuine.

I press my thumb lightly against my lower lip, a tremor of cruel amusement curling through me.

She chases the illusion of hope, doesn’t she? Right into my hands.

Luke steadies her with a hand on her arm as she climbs into the dark interior of the SUV, his grip firm but unthreatening. The moment she settles onto the plush leather seat, I know she feels it—that instant shift in the air.

The sudden, heavy quiet within the insulated cabin seals off the sounds of the alley like a vault door swinging shut. The city's hum, the distant traffic, even the sound of her own footsteps—gone. Replaced by a silence so profound it presses in, amplifying the frantic thrum of her own heart. I watch her subtle intake of breath, the way her eyes dart, trying to adjust to the tomblike stillness. The walls of her fragile, false reality begin to crack.

She sniffs delicately, brows furrowing, head tilting slightly as if trying to place something familiar yet deeply unwelcome. It begins. The first tendril of recognition. The scent of the Italian leather, meticulously maintained, an aroma she knows from countless journeys beside me. Then, the almost imperceptible coolness of the air conditioning, a specific temperature I always prefer, even on a mild night, a subtle chill against her skin that I’m sure raises gooseflesh she tries to ignore.

Woven through it all, the faintest, most damning trace of my signature cologne—sandalwood and smoked vetiver—a scent so deeply burned into her memory, so inextricably linked to fear and pleasure and pain, that her body recognizes the danger before her mind catches up. Her posture stiffens. A small, almost imperceptible tightening, but I see it. The hunter always sees the first sign of the prey tensing.

Luke hesitates for just a breath—a flicker of guilt? Second thoughts? —but then he remembers who holds his leash, whoowns his pathetic future. He steps back quickly and slams the heavy car door shut beside her. The solidthunkechoes in the enclosed space, a definitive sound of finality, sealing her in with the rising tide of her terror.

Her breath hitches, sucked in on a panicked gasp. Her body goes rigid, pressed back against the seat as if trying to melt through the leather—sensing the trap spring shut. Her eyes are wide now, no longer trying to place the scents or the chill, but staring into the oppressive darkness of the cabin, the realization dawning.

Hesitantly, she turns her head towards the shadowed corner where I sit, utterly still, radiating calm. I watch the exact moment her eyes adjust, focus, and recognize me.

Terror bleaches the color from her face, leaving her skin pale, translucent under the dim interior lights. Her fingers spasm, tightening convulsively around the crumpled letter, that useless symbol of false hope, like it might shield her. As if it wasn't just another tool, I wielded to break her precious, fragile will.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across my face. The silence stretches, thickens, pressing in on her, amplifying the scent of my cologne, the soft hum of the engine, the sudden, terrifying isolation.

"Welcome home, my Pet."

Instinct seizes her. She jerks violently away, slamming her shoulder hard against the impenetrable door, scrabbling desperately for a handle that offers no escape. It's useless. The central locks engage with a softclick-click. She's trapped.

Her lips part, but no words come. She trembles, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. My beautiful, fragile little bird.

I reach out deliberately, letting her see the movement, giving her nowhere to escape my touch. My fingers, cool against her feverish skin, trail down the delicate line of her jaw before drifting lower, over the frantic pulse in her throat. They come torest with firm, unwavering pressure against the gentle, almost imperceptible curve of her stomach.

Touching what is mine. My smile widens, cruel, eyes locking onto her terrified ones, reflecting none of the expression on my lips. Pure satisfaction.

She lets out a choked gasp, flinching violently beneath my hand, trying to twist away, but there's nowhere to go.

“Did you really think you could keep this from me?" I murmur, my voice a low, intimate threat vibrating in the claustrophobic stillness. I begin rubbing deliberate, possessive circles over her abdomen with the flat of my palm. "My child. That I wouldn’t know?”

Her breathing stutters, but then she lifts her chin, defiance hardens in her eyes. “It’s not yours,” she whispers, her voice tight with barely restrained fury.

For a moment, something inside me cracks. My vision tunnels, pulse roaring. This single, infuriating lie. My grip tightens, fingers pressing into her stomach as if I could will the truth from her body.

“Lies,” I snarl, my voice ice. How could she think...? She ismine. Every part of her. This attempt to wound me, to suggest another man could touch what belongs solely to me—it’s pathetic. Futile. She doesn’t understand. Iknowher.

My control snaps back into place. She wants a reaction? Wants to see me unravel? Foolish girl. I am in control.

Tears brim in her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. That fire inside her sparks faintly in the dim light.

Good. I want her to fight. I want to break her all over again; the thought gives me a thrill.

She swallows hard, her voice barely a whisper. “You won’t win.”

I tilt my head, considering her. Then I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Oh, my Pet,” I whisper back. “I already have.”

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