Page 14 of Claimed By the Damned
The room is silent again, but my head certainly isn’t.
I pace, tension crackling under my skin, my body wound tight like a coiled spring. Every second here is a risk, a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I should run. I should get as far away from here as possible before I start thinking these men are any different.
But my body aches, my feet raw and useless and pacing isn't helping. There's no denying I wouldn’t make it far. And the truth gnaws at me—the truth I don’t want to face. Running means pain. Running means exhaustion, hunger, loneliness and fear. I’ve lived that nightmare. I remember the bitter sting of desperation, of bruises forming beneath grasping hands, of the way fear locks in my throat until I can’t breathe.
I was a prisoner in my marriage, a possession, a thing to be used and discarded at Kolya’s whim. What if I end up in the same position again? What if trusting the wrong people puts me right back in a cage, only this time with three men instead of one?
I stare at the window, my way out. But doubts creep in, whispers like ghosts from my past. What if they’re different? What if they don’t hurt me? What if, for once, staying is the smarter choice?
Trust them or not, I have a choice to make.
And I’m running out of time.
Another knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. This time, it’s firmer, more deliberate. I hesitate, expecting Ethan again, but when the door swings open, it’s Bastian.
He steps inside, carrying a tray with a glass of water and a plate—something warm and steaming, the scent of roasted chicken and seasoned rice filling the room. My stomach clenches painfully, and I hate how my body reacts before I can stop it.
"Eat, Little One," he says simply, placing the plate and the glass on the nightstand. Beside it, he sets down a small blister pack of painkillers, still sealed in their foil backing with the brand name clearly visible. "For your feet. Take themafteryou eat."
I don’t move, staring first at the food, then at the medication, wondering if they're part of some elaborate trick. "Why do you care?"
His jaw tenses. "Because you’re under this roof, and I don’t let people waste away under my watch. Eat. Take the damn pills. You need to heal."
The words escapes before I can stop it, quiet, almost lost in the space between us. "Thank you." Maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe just sheer relief at the food, maybe just old habits dying hard.
He nods once, a flicker of surprise perhaps, quickly masked. Satisfied, he turns toward the door. But just before leaving, he hesitates—just for a second. As if debating saying somethingelse. Then, with a quiet exhale, he mutters, "Get some rest. You’re safe here." Without another word, he’s gone.
Safe. A word that should bring comfort but instead sends an unfamiliar current through me. I don’t thank him. I don’t trust him. But as I take another bite, the warmth spreads, not just in my stomach but somewhere deeper—somewhere I refuse to acknowledge just yet.
Sleep offers no real escape. Hours later, I can’t breathe.
Every time I start to settle, every time I let my guard slip, Kolya’s voice snakes into my head, whispering reminders of who I am. What I am.
His.
I shake it off and force myself to focus. This place—the warmth, the illusion of security—it isn’t real. It’s a dream, one I don’t get to have.
My burner phone buzzes with a text message. It's an old flip phone, something I picked up at a gas station just outside of Los Angeles. No internet, no GPS— a number only I knew. At least, that’s what I assumed.
My stomach plummets. The cheap plastic of the phone suddenly feels slick in my palm, my fingers going numb. The screen glows with an unknown number, and an icy wave washes over me, so cold it steals my breath. A choked gasp escapes me. It can’t be. It justcan’t. But the dread blooming in my chest, suffocating and absolute, tells me otherwise. Hope flares—Theo? Then dies instantly. Theo wouldn't contact me this way. Deep down, the truth is a cold, sharp stone in my gut. I don't need to read the message. The noose is tightening around my throat.
Unknown number: Did you really think I wouldn’t find you, Pet?
No. No, no, no.
My fingers tremble around the phone. My lungs refuse to work. How? How did he find me? How? How did he get this number? Is Kolya’s network just that vast, his eyes everywhere? It doesn’t matter. I’ve been careful. I’ve done everything right.
But it doesn’t matter. Kolyaalwaysfinds what belongs to him.
I move before I can think, my body reacting on pure instinct. I grab the duffel bag Theo left me and shove in the essentials—cash, a jacket, the switchblade Theo tucked inside with the rest of the things I needed. It’s heavy in my palm, a cold reminder of the danger I'm still in. My heartbeat is a war drum in my ears, pounding out a single, terrifying truth.
I have to go.
The guys can’t get caught in this. They don’t know who he is—what he’s capable of. He’ll destroy them, just to prove he can.
My steps are careful as I creep down the hallway, hands shaking as I reach for the back door. No lights, no sound—just the quiet press of my bare feet against the cool floor initially. Near the entryway, my eyes snag on a pair of plain sneakers tossed haphazardly by the door, likely Ethan's.
Without hesitating, I snatch them up. A brief, sharp pang of guilt hits me, stealing from Ethan, the one who just tries to be kind. But survival screams louder than conscience right now. They'll be too big, clumsy, but better than shredding my already raw feet on whatever lies outside. I shove my feet into them quickly, the extra space awkward but bearable. I don’t have a car. But I have shoes now. I’ll run. It’s the only option.
