Page 5 of Claimed By the Damned
He carries me up the wide porch steps and into the house, kicking the solid oak door shut behind him. Warmth rushes over me, thick and consuming, melting away the bitter night.
The space is massive but inviting—clean lines, dark wood. On the right, a sleek staircase curves toward the second floor, while to the left, a floor-to-ceiling window frames the endless black ocean.
A roaring fireplace crackles nearby, casting dancing shadows over leather furniture. The scent of woodsmoke lingers in the air, rich and earthy, blending with something faintly spiced—clove, maybe, or cinnamon. Warm and lived-in. This isn't just a house. It feels... solid. Safe. Somewhere built to keep the world out.
He moves through the space with practiced ease, still carrying me, lowering me onto a deep, oversized leather couch. Before I can process sinking into something soft, he grabs a thick throwblanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over me without a second thought, almost by instinct.
He tugs it up higher, rough but careful. The material is butter-soft, molding to my exhausted body. I should resist, but relief is instant, overwhelming. My muscles go slack, my body betraying just how desperately I crave warmth and rest.
He disappears for a moment, returning with a first aid kit. "Let’s get you patched up," he says, kneeling in front of me. His hands are surprisingly gentle as he carefully lifts my battered feet, his fingers brushing against the raw skin with deliberate care.
He frowns at the dirt and dried blood caked onto my skin, then gets up again, muttering something under his breath before returning with a large bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. Without a word, he kneels, dipping the cloth into the water before gently pressing it against my foot.
The warmth seeps into aching muscles, but as he starts cleaning away the grime, a stinging pain shoots through me. I suck in a ragged breath, fingers clenching the couch. Ryker’s grip tightens slightly, steadying me. "Easy," he murmurs, his voice rough but not unkind.
"Hurts, I know, but I'll be quick." His touch, though firm, is gentle—more careful than I expect. He moves with quiet efficiency, methodically wiping away blood and dirt, his movements steady but unyielding. When my breath hitches again, his thumb brushes over my ankle in a brief, grounding motion. "Almost done," he says, voice lower now.
Once my feet are clean, he reaches for the antiseptic, dabbing it onto the raw wounds. A hiss slips past my lips as the cool sting sets in, my hands gripping the couch tighter. "Yeah, it stings," he says, voice softer now. He works efficiently, cleaning, wrapping, and securing the wounds with practiced skill. When he finally finishes, he leans back, studying his work. "Better?"
I nod, even though the pain still lingers. Manageable now. "Thanks."
He snorts. "Thank me now, but wait until you try walking. Might have to carry you everywhere. Try not to scratch me up this time." A ghost of that troublemaking grin touches his lips.
He studies me for a second, then tilts his head. "That everything?" His keen gaze sweeps over me. "Hurt anywhere else?"
My heart kicks up; I force my expression neutral. The deep ache in my ribs, the bruises hidden beneath my hoodie—I don't want him to see them, don't want to lift my shirt and expose how wrecked I am.
"Just my hands," I say quickly, holding them out as a distraction. "And my feet."
His eyes narrow slightly, doubt clouding his expression, but after a beat, he exhales and takes my hands, turning them over. His jaw tightens slightly at the raw scrapes.
For a second, just a flicker, something flashes in his eyes—frustration maybe. Gone before I can place it, buried beneath his usual gruffness. "Should've said something sooner," he mutters, grabbing another antiseptic wipe.
He works in silence, methodical but not rough, his calloused fingers surprisingly soft as he tends the small scrapes. He tends the wounds without comment. No demands. It feels... strange. Intimate. I shift slightly, uncomfortable with the mix of vulnerability and relief settling in my chest.
He finishes wrapping my hands and sits back on his heels, studying me. "Should help for now." His gaze goes over me again, sharp, seeming to catalogue every bruise hecansee. "Sure that’s everything?"
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. That's it."
"Right," he says, pushing himself up slightly from his crouch. "Still don't know who I dragged off my driveway. Got a name?"
My throat tightens. Sharing anything feels like giving away a piece of myself, a potential weakness.Delilahis buried deep, the name Kolya stole and twisted.Lilais who I am now—safer, anonymous. Maybe. After a tense beat where I weigh the risk, exhaustion wins out over paranoia. It's just a name.
"Lila," I finally force out, the name feeling thin and unfamiliar on my tongue, barely a whisper.
He just nods, accepting it without comment or further questions. That simple acknowledgment, devoid of probing curiosity, settles something uneasy in my chest, surprising me.
His gaze lingers, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His eyes flick to my ribs, weighing whether to push. But then, just as quickly, he exhales, letting it go. "Hungry?" he asks, already moving toward what I assume is the kitchen.
I hesitate. My stomach is in knots, but I haven’t eaten properly in days.
“…Maybe.”
His smirk returns. "That's a yes." Ruffling a hand through his already messy hair, he pauses just long enough to flick a glance back. "Rest up. Going to whip something up." The corner of his mouth quirks again. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns toward the kitchen, already rummaging through cabinets like this is just another normal night.
Be wary. Catalog escape routes. Note his broad frame. Assess the threat. Stay ready to run. That’s what I’ve always done. But my limbs are lead, my vision wavering every time I blink. For the first time, my body refuses to listen.
Exhaustion outweighs instinct, dragging me under like an anchor. My muscles don’t just ache—they surrender, each one sinking deeper, heavy, unmovable. Trusting him, staying here—it is like stepping off a ledge, unsure if I’ll hit solid ground or freefall into another danger.
