Page 18 of Claimed By the Damned
"Go ahead, pick out what fits."
She stops, uncertain. "You’re just going to stand there?"
I smirk. "What, you want me to pick out your underwear too?"
She rolls her eyes but grabs a few things before heading into the changing room. I lean against a rack of overpriced jeans, idly flicking through hideous Hawaiian shirts, watching the curtain swing shut behind her armful of clothes. Waiting outside a dressing room has never been my thing, but for Lila? Yeah, I’ll do it.
She's in there a while. Long enough that unease starts to prickle. Then I hear it. A soft, frustrated sound from inside. Not quite a call for help, but enough to make me move.
“Lila?”
Nothing.
I don’t wait. I push the curtain aside and step inside the small space.
Air catches in my throat.
She stands before the mirror in nothing but a pair of snug jeans and a lacy black bra that does sinful things to her curves. The soft swell of her breasts over the delicate lace—fuck, she is all smooth skin and temptation. My cock hardens instantly, throbbing hard against my zipper, demanding attention. Every protective instinct in me wars with the primal urge to touch, to taste.
Her eyes go wide at my reflection behind her, her hands tangled in the top she was about to pull on.
“Ethan—”
I swallow hard, fists clenching. “Angel, you—”
Then I see them. And the world stops. The easy air in my lungs turns to ice. My smile, whatever was left of it, freezes and shatters. It’s not the lace or the skin that holds my gaze anymore. It’s the horrifying splash of color marring her side. My hand, halfway to reaching for her, stills in mid-air, fingers curling into a fist so tight my knuckles ache. A sharp, involuntary hiss of breath escapes me, but no words follow immediately. My gut twists, cold and violent.
The bruises.
Purple, yellow, and green, smeared across her ribs like a cruel watercolor painting. The depth of the discoloration, the sickening mottling over the bone... fuck, clear signs that some are probably broken, not just bruised. Ugly reminders of the brutal pain she's endured with every breath.
A flash: Dad’s heavy hand leaving similar marks on my little brother's small back, hidden under his shirt. The shame and pain in his eyes. The helpless, gut-sick rage that I hadn't stopped it, hadn't been there.This is that feeling, amplified untilit screams. Helplessness chokes me. Rage burns, white-hot, at the thought of anyone daring to hurt someone like that. Small. Defenseless. She's been carrying this pain in silence...
My stomach clenches, anger flaring hot in my chest. The sight steals my breath. She's been carrying this pain, flinching through every breath without letting us see. And that? That fucking guts me.
My blood runs cold.
“You didn’t tell us.” My voice is low, controlled steel, barely a whisper, but harder than anything I’ve said to her before.
She freezes. “Ethan—”
I step closer, my fingers brushing her side, tracing the edge of a bruise lightly. She flinches, a sharp, involuntary jerk, and something inside me snaps.
"Lila," my voice is strained. "Why didn’t you tell us?"
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Because I didn’t want you to worry.”
My jaw clenches. “Too late for that.”
She won’t meet my eyes, so I do the only thing I can. I gently, reverently, place my hands on her waist and go down on my knees, pressing the softest kiss just above the worst of the discoloration.
Her breath hitches.
I exhale against her skin, my forehead resting against her ribs as gently as I can. “We’re gonna take care of you, Angel. No matter what.”
She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers threading hesitantly through my hair. "I want to believe that."
I kiss her skin again, softer this time. Not lust. Just... a need to soothe.
