Page 95 of Claimed By the Damned

I shift my gaze to the desk—to the steel letter opener resting near his scattered paperwork. One of his favorites. Its edge gleams wickedly.

I don’t think. My pulse hammers in my ears, a deafening reminder of everything at stake. My body screams at me to freeze, to reconsider, but the image of my baby, of freedom, propels me. I move.

While he’s still cursing, still lost in his fury, I step closer to the desk. My fingers close around the handle, cool and solid in my grip. My heart pounds, but I force my face to stay neutral.

Kolya is still ranting, still blinded by his anger. He doesn’t notice.

I slide the letter opener behind me, tucking it against my lower back. Hiding it.

I swallow hard, my free hand pressing lightly over my stomach again. It’s not just about me anymore. I will survive. For myself. For my baby.

My breath is slow, measured, though every instinct screams at me to run. The weight of it pressing against my back is cold reassurance. Kolya's fury still crackles in the air like a stormabout to break, his curses venomous as he rages. Glass crunches under his boots as he paces wildly, his hands shaking with barely contained violence.

I stay still, invisible in the chaos, every fiber of my being focused on the next move. My fingers twitch near my newly acquired weapon, my heartbeat hammering like a war drum. The scent of whiskey, sweat, and pure rage clogs the air. He won’t see me coming.

Not this time.

This time, I will win or I'll die fighting.

Ryker

The plan is brutal in its precision. We hit Kolya’s estate fast and hard. Two strike teams—one breaching from the south entrance, the other cutting power to the estate before flanking from the east. No room for hesitation, no room for mercy.

We neutralize guards with ruthless efficiency—silenced takedowns where possible, brutal force where necessary. Bastian leads the charge, moving with precision, a blade to the throat before a body even hits the ground.

Theo and Grim clear rooms with calculated sweeps, quick, methodical. I don’t waste time. I carve through the enemy like a storm, my blade slicing through soft tissue, my gun silencing anyone who so much as flinches in my path.

We move through the house with lethal synchronicity, and by the time the alarms are blaring, it's already too late for Kolya’s men. We extract Lila before Kolya even knows what hit him, or at least, that’s the plan.

Bastian, Theo, Grim, and I move in with the core strike team, navigating through the narrow, man-made tunnel Kolya had built for his own escape. Just as Theo said, it’s not on any blueprints, a secret artery burrowing directly beneath his private quarters. Now, it’s our way in.

Ethan is outside in one of our SUVs, monitoring security feeds, disabling cameras, and relaying enemy positions to us through comms. The ground above us trembles as the first explosion detonates outside, shaking loose dirt from the passage walls. The diversion is starting.

We hit the hidden entrance to his bedroom, weapons raised, anticipation coiled like a spring in my chest. Lila will be here. She has to be.

The moment I step into the room, a snarl rips through my throat. The bed is unmade, the scent of whiskey and cigars lingers—but no Lila.

“She’s not here, Kolya moved her,” Theo mutters, sweeping his gun across the room. His voice is tight, clipped, but there’s certainty beneath it.

I spin, slamming my fist into the nearest wall. Drywall cracks beneath my knuckles.

“FUCK!”

“She’s still in the house,” Grim grits out. “She has to be. We know Kolya wouldn’t leave her alone or unprotected. Find him or that idiot, Dimitri.”

“Then we find her.” My voice is raw, venomous. “Spread out, clear every fucking room.”

The plan shifts on the fly—Theo and Grim take the west wing, the rest of the team sweeps the lower floors. I go alone.

The estate shakes again—another explosion, this one closer. The walls tremble violently, dust and debris raining from the ceiling, choking the air. For a sickening, disorienting moment, the scentsoverlay—acrid gunpowder mixing withthe phantom stench of rot and stale sweat from my cell.

My heart slams erratically against my ribs, too fast, skipping beats,the phantom pressure of the rope tightening around my neck making my breath catch.Blood slick on skin,the rough scrape of restraints...

A violent shudder rips through me.No.My fists clench so hard my knuckles crack, nails digging into my own palms, the searing pain a welcome anchor tonow. Grit scrapes between my teeth.Not now. Not here.I force a ragged breath into my lungs, focusing on the dust motes dancing in the dim light ahead, the immediate reality. I'm not in that cell. I'm not restrained. I have my weapon in hand. The mission priority isLila.

Her name cuts through the fog like a beacon. The past recedes, shoved violently back into its box, though the adrenaline edge remains. I am not trapped. I am the storm breaking down the door. I am not leaving without Lila. My heartbeat steadies, finding its rhythm in the violence still echoing around me. Ready.

I push forward, cutting through every obstacle in my path. The first man barely has time to register my presence before my knife buries deep into his throat. Another lunges at me, his gun raised, but I’m faster; I slam the butt of my pistol into his temple, feeling the sickening crunch of bone beneath the force.

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