Page 42 of Claimed By the Damned
My jaw clenches. I turn to face the door and lean my forehead against it for a split second, gathering my frayed composure.
"She’s falling apart, Bas. Give me a minute." My voice is rough, strained. "We'll talk. Alone."
There’s a pause, then the sound of footsteps receding. He understands. Right now, Lila needs grounding more than an interrogation.
I turn back to her. The brief interruption hasn't lessened the fear in her eyes. If anything, Ethan mentioning Kolya's name has made it worse. "Look at me," I repeat, softer this time, but no less firm.
She refuses; eyes fixed on the floor.
I gently grip her chin, tilting her face up. "Look at me, Baby Girl."
A tremble runs through her, but she obeys. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted.
I soften my hold, my thumb brushing her cheek. "You’re safe. Do you hear me? No one touches you. No one takes you. Never again."
Tears burn at the edges of her lashes. "He won’t stop."
"Then neither will we."
Her breath hitches. Something cracks in her expression—raw, desperate. It resonates deep in my bones. The need to protect, to shield, to erase that look from her face consumes everything else. I need her to know she isn't alone.
I kiss her.
Not soft. Not careful.
Possessive. Claiming.
She gasps against my lips, fingers twisting into my shirt. I tilt her back, deepening the kiss, my grip firm but steady.
She responds with a broken, breathless sound, pressing closer, as if she needs this as much as I do. This heat. This demand. Something solid to hold onto in the storm.
I pull back just enough to whisper against her lips. "You're ours to protect. Ours. He doesn't get to fucking win."
Her breath shudders, and for the first time since that phone call, I see it flicker in her eyes—fire. Not fear.
My grip tightens on her waist. "Say it."
She swallows. "I’m safe."
"Who keeps you safe?"
"You. All of you."
A measure of calm settles inside me, a temporary dam against the fury, but only just. I press my forehead against hers, exhaling shakily.
"That’s right, Baby Girl. And I’m never letting you go."
I don't let go. Can't. My grip stays firm on her waist as I pull her closer, our breaths mingling. The need between us burns too hot to ignore, crackling like a wildfire.
She trembles in my arms, chest rising and falling unevenly, her lips parted as if she wants to speak but can't find the words. Her hands clutch at my shirt, but I feel the hesitation in her muscles—the war between fear and need.
Good. I am not in the mood to talk anymore.
Still holding her, I loosen my grip just enough to pull back and let her see me, feel the tension crackling between us. Then, I take a slow, deliberate step backward, creating space between us, a silent question hanging in the air. It’s her choice. Her move. Even though every fucking cell in my body screams to pull her back against me, I want her to feel the pent-up aggression humming under my skin, to know what she's choosing. My fingers twitch, desperate to touch, to claim, to burn myself into her until she forgets everything but me.
Her eyes track my movements, pupils wide, a war of need and hesitation flickering across her face before settling into that delicious mixture of anticipation and submission. She wants this—wants me to take control, to anchor her, to remind her nothing can touch her while she is in my arms. And fuck, she’s going to step forward. I know she is.
“Come here, Baby Girl.” My voice is a low growl, raw and demanding.
