Page 27 of Claimed By the Damned
I know how to handle men who bark orders, who throw their weight around—but this? This quiet, patient scrutiny? It feels dangerous. There’s something unreadable in his expression, a quiet intensity settling between us in the dim light. He doesn't speak. Just tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing further.
Then, his voice, when it comes, is low, devoid of its usual teasing rasp. It’s a flat, measured tone that sends a shiver down my spine. "You gonna tell me about the bruises, Baby Girl, or am I gonna have to guess?"
My stomach clenches. I drop my gaze. Too late. He already saw the tension in my shoulders, the exhaustion, the ghosts of nightmares I clearly haven't shaken off.
His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking. Something darkens in his expression, a shadow creeping behind those sharp eyes. He gestures with his chin toward the first aid kit sitting open on the counter. His movements are deliberate. "Sit."
I hesitate, my own jaw tightening. Defiance bubbles up, hot and automatic—No. Don't touch me.But his gaze hardens, his expression shifting to sheer, immovable will. The air around him seems to crackle with unspoken threat. "Not a request."
My throat closes. My body tenses like a sprung wire. Bracing. Every instinct screams: Run. Fight. Lash out. I could spit sarcasm, tell him to go to hell, try to shove past. But the fight drains out of me as fast as it flares.
It's just bone-deep weariness. Even resistance feels too hard right now. Maybe letting this happen is easier than fighting another losing battle. Wordlessly, feeling hollowed out and numb, I move towards the stool he indicated.
Because that’s Ryker. Unpredictable. Intense. Unrelenting. He thrives in chaos, faces danger without a second thought, throws himself into the fire for what he decides is his.
But right now, he isn't the reckless storm I first assumed him to be. As he watches me with that unnerving, steady patience, his presence is different—measured. Intentional. His gaze doesn't waver as I approach. He moves quietly, pulling up his own stool nearby, reaching for medical tape, his actions are precise. His touch is careful when he starts to work. His actions precise.
Steady. Familiar, almost.
And maybe—just maybe—a little bit safe. For now.
Later that morning, after the confrontation with Ryker and a silent, tense breakfast where Bastian announced a doctor was coming "for a check-up," I sit rigid on the edge of my bed. Bastian and Ethan had offered privacy, stepping out into the hall, but Ryker refused to leave.
"Not happening," he'd stated flatly, crossing his arms and planting himself near the doorway. His reasoning was unspoken but clear: no stranger, not even their trusted doctor, was getting near me alone. So now, while the others hover just outside, Ryker's intense presence fills the room.
Dr. Evans arrives, introduced by Bastian who briefly steps back inside with curt professionalism. Dr. Evans is an older man, kind eyes sharp with intelligence behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carries a worn leather bag, his movements calm and efficient. He acknowledges Ryker with a slight nod but doesn't question his presence. He doesn't ask me questions abouthowI got hurt either, just focuses on thewhat.
His examination is gentle but thorough. The cold stethoscope against my skin makes me flinch, his fingers probing carefully along my ribcage. I bite back winces, staring fixedly at a spoton the opposite wall. Ryker remains near the doorway, silent, arms still crossed, watching every single movement with that unnerving intensity. His presence is a heavy weight in the small room.
"Well," Dr. Evans says finally, straightening up. He pulls the stethoscope away. "Without an X-ray, we can't be absolutely certain of the number or extent of the fractures, but based on the examination and the tenderness here," he gestures gently towards my side, "I strongly suspect two, possibly three fractured ribs. Hairline, most likely."
He meets my eyes briefly, then glances towards Ryker. "Honestly, an X-ray wouldn't change the treatment plan at this stage, so I don't think subjecting her to that trip is necessary unless complications arise. Nothing seems punctured, which is the main concern, and that's good news. They’ll heal on their own, but you have to be careful."
His gaze returns to me, serious. "That means rest. Seriously. No strenuous activity, no heavy lifting, avoid twisting motions. Pain medication if you need it, but mostly, time and rest."
He pulls out fresh bandages and antiseptic wipes. "I'll re-wrap these for you now, tighter for better support. Show you how to do it yourself."
The process is awkward, intimate in a clinical way I despise. His cool fingers work efficiently, cleaning the skin around the worst of the bruises – still ugly blooming colours – then winding the elastic bandage snugly around my torso. It feels tight, constricting, but also oddly supportive, holding everything in place. I try to breathe evenly, ignore Ryker's unwavering stare.
"Alright," the doctor says, securing the bandage. "You'll want to re-wrap it daily, keep the skin clean. Like this..." He starts to explain the technique, angling so I can see.
"It's fine," Ryker's rough voice cuts in suddenly, startling me. He pushes off the doorframe, stepping closer. "She doesn't need to know how. I can handle it."
Dr. Evans pauses, looking from Ryker's resolute face to mine. I stare back at Ryker, surprised, maybe a little annoyed. His confidence is absolute, bordering on possessive.I can handle it.As if I'm another task.
The doctor seems to weigh the situation for a second, then gives a small nod. "Alright then. Just make sure it's snug but not cutting off circulation. And call if the pain worsens significantly or you have trouble breathing." He packs his bag, gives me a final, kind look, and leaves Ryker and me alone in the strained silence.
Ryker doesn't move immediately. Just stands there, his gaze fixed on the fresh white bandage stark against my shirt. His earlier assessment in the kitchen, now validated by a doctor. And his casual claim…I can handle it. Another layer of control, another person deciding what's best for me. Exhaustion washes over me again. Too tired to argue. Too tired for anything.
Chapter 10: A Wild Thing, Cornered
Ryker
Over the last week, I’ve watched Lila settle in, bit by bit. Not like she’s suddenly carefree, twirling around the kitchen singing. But there’s a shift—the tension she carries like armor is loosening.
It’s in how she moves, how she no longer hesitates before stepping into a room, how she doesn't flinch now when Ethan claps me on the shoulder a little too hard behind her. She leaves mugs on the counter instead of washing them immediately, as if she’s not afraid someone will lose their shit over it.
She even lets Ethan pull her into hugs, rolling her eyes but no longer stiffening like she’s bracing for a hit. He’s always been the softest of us, our resident golden retriever, but it means something that she lets him in first. And Bastian? That broody bastard sneaks into her room most nights when she has nightmares. He thinks he’s subtle, but I notice. Always do.
