Page 30 of Claimed By the Damned
Instead, she shifts slightly, just enough that her knee brushes against mine, deliberate but subtle.
And maybe that’s enough. For now.
Bastian’s in her room again. I hear him leave around four in the morning, closing the door softly enough that even my trained ears barely catch it.
Caught him a few times, but he never says anything. Just pretends like it’s nothing, not a big deal. But I see it—the way he lingers outside her door sometimes, listening to make sure she’s okay before walking away. The way his hand settles on the small of her back when she’s struggling to breathe, grounding her without a word. The way he looks at her like he’s trying to carry her pain for her.
See hisDaddyinstincts kicking in, the way he wants to fix this for her, take it all on so she doesn’t have to. And yeah, I fucking hate that it can’t be me.
Want to be the one she turns to when the nightmares hit, the one she reaches for in the dark. Want to be the one who pulls her back from the edge when she’s slipping. But I get why it hasto be Bastian. He’s steady. Controlled. Won’t push her too hard, won’t let her drown in it, but he’ll be there, unwavering when she needs him.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
But when her PTSD hits, when something small—too many people in a room, a loud noise, the scent of cologne she doesn't recognize—triggers her, that’s when I step in. I remember the first time it happened, the way her breathing turned shallow, eyes darting like she wasn’t in the room with us anymore. I’d seen that look before. That sudden blankness, eyes going glassy, staring at something a million miles away only they can see.
I’d fucking lived that look before.Staring at the four walls of that cell until they started closing in, the darkness swallowing everything until I wasn't there anymore either.So, I did what I wished someone had done for me back then—what Bastian and Ethan eventually figured out worked forme. Didn’t try to talk her through it, didn’t push or ask questions that would just drag her deeper.
Just sat with her, steady, unmoving, planting my boots flat on the floor, feeling the solid goddamn ground beneath me to remind myselfIwas here,now. An anchor in the storm until she found her way back. Keeping her steady anchors me, too.
When she did come back, she didn’t say anything—just let out a shaky breath and curled in a little closer to my side. That was the moment I knew I’d be whatever she needed, for as long as it took. Her not running fromme? It chipped away some of the ice around my own shit.
She’s still waking up in a cold sweat, still gasping for air, probably choking on the past, reliving whatever hell he put her through. And it pisses me off in a way I can’t even put into words. Not at her. Never at her. At the bastard who did this to her, at the memories that won’t let her go.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, jaw clenched, my mind circling dark thoughts. One day, I’ll find him. One day, I’ll make him pay. And when that day comes, I won’t hold back.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. Friday night, Ethan calls for a house meeting—which, considering the last time we did this was to decide if we were killing a guy or letting him live—makes me glance at Lila, wondering what she thinks this is about. She doesn’t know how these things go, but she still straightens, cautious, like she’s waiting to be blindsided.
She’s on edge, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, shoulders drawn tight like she’s bracing for impact. I don’t like it. Takes me a second to realize why—she thinks this is about getting rid of her. A month has well and truly passed, and she probably assumes we’re about to hold her to some unspoken deadline, tell her it’s time to move on. That we gathered here to say she’s overstayed her welcome.
Ethan leans forward, all puppy-dog eagerness, completely oblivious that she looks like she’s about to be kicked to the curb. "I want Lila to stay for as long as she wants."
She flinches, just a little, just enough for me to see the conflict in her. I can tell she wants to stay, but she’s forcing herself to resist, putting up some kind of wall between herself and us.
“I agreed to a week, I didn’t expect to stay a little over a month,” she says finally, voice steady but cautious. “I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness."
Bastian, silent and unreadable as ever, simply nods once, like he already knew this was coming.
Ethan, on the other hand, looks seriously exasperated. “Angel, come on. No one thinks that. You’re not freeloading, and we’re not about to let you run or have to find somewhere to hide that won’t be as safe just because of some imaginary rule you made up.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You don’t want to leave,” I say, watching her jaw tighten. “So don’t.”
She exhales sharply, crossing her arms as if trying to hold herself together, bracing for the catch. It’s in her eyes—the doubt, the fear that if she accepts too easily, it’ll all be ripped away. Like wanting this, staying here, is too good to be true.
“Okay, just for a little while,” she concedes. “Until I can find a job, save up, and then find a safe place to hide out permanently.”
Bastian nods again, which means he’s in.
I roll my shoulders, giving her an easy smirk. “Fine by me. But only if you stop stealing Ethan’s hoodies.”
That gets a reaction—a small, reluctant smile. “No deal.”
Ethan grins like an idiot. Bastian exhales like he’s already regretting this decision.
And me? I’m in way more trouble than I thought.
That night, Lila insists on cooking dinner—not just for tonight but every night going forward topull her weight. The guys don’t argue, though Ethan looks far too pleased, probably already planning his next ten meals. Even Bastian, who rarely reacts to much, gives her a small nod of approval. And I? I lean against the counter, watching her like she’s some mystery I can’t quite crack.
After dinner, she goes to town in the kitchen, baking her heart out, saying she wants to surprise everyone with tasty treats when they wake up. Ethan hovers for a while, shamelessly sneaking cookie dough when he thinks she isn’t looking. Bastian passes through once, mumbling about how it ‘smells good’ before disappearing again. I stay, watching her work. There’s peacein the way she moves, a sureness in how she measures out ingredients, in the way she hums under her breath. It’s the most at ease I’ve seen her since she got here, and I'm not about to ruin that.
