Page 66 of Claimed By the Damned
The doctor’s office is small, tucked away where no one would look for me. Grim parks, fingers tapping the steering wheel before he turns to me. "So, why are we here, princess?" I just shake my head, unable to form words. He watches me for a long moment, then exhales sharply. "Last chance to back out."
I shake my head. No turning back.
He sighs. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”
My legs feel weak stepping out of the car, my breath uneven.What if I’m right? What if I’m wrong?I don’t know which answer terrifies me more. Being wrong means facing how broken I still am, unravelling over nothing. Being right means... my body isn’t even my own anymore….
Grim follows me inside, a silent wall at my back. He doesn’t press, but I feel him watching. Always watching.
Checking in, my hands won’t stop shaking. I shove them into my pockets, willing myself composure.
Soon, I’ll have an answer. And then?
No idea what comes next.
The exam room is cold. Too cold. My hands are clammy, my leg bouncing uncontrollably. Every breath feels shallow. The paper crinkles beneath me on the exam table. Rising nausea makes grounding myself impossible.
Grim sits in the corner with his arms crossed, his watchful presence anchoring me slightly despite his unreadable expression. I know he won’t leave me alone; he's here.
The doctor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes but a clinical air, finishes her examination and steps back, tapping on her tablet.
"We ran tests based on your symptoms," she says, reviewing the results. "And Lila... you’re pregnant."
The words float, unreal.
Pregnant?
I stare, waiting for the correction, the punchline.
She offers none.
A wrecking ball slams into my chest, stealing my breath. My heartbeat stutters, then roars. My hands clench. I shake my head violently, a choked laugh escaping me. "No. That’s… that’s impossible. I have an implant. Ican’tbe—"
The horror hits like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
My implant.
My hand flies to the inside of my left bicep, fingers scrabbling past the fabric of my hoodie sleeve to frantically press against my skin, searching. Where the small rodshouldbe, a familiar subtle ridge beneath the skin, there’s nothing. Just smooth, unblemished flesh.
No. No, no, no.
My blood runs cold. My breath catches, a strangled sound in my throat.
A memory, sharp andsickening, flashes through my mind: one night, months ago, waking up in Kolya’s bed, my arm achingwith a dull throb. He’d been sitting beside me, watching me with that cold, possessive gaze, a small, bloody gauze pad on the nightstand. When I’d asked, groggy from whatever he’d given me, he’d just smiled, that chilling smile that never reached his eyes, and said, ‘Just a little adjustment, ??? ?????. For your own good.’ I’d been too out of it, too used to unexplained pains and his control, to question it further. I’d dismissed it, like so many other violations.
But it wasn’t just an adjustment. It wasthis.
He had been told he was infertile. He'd flaunted it, even. This wasn't about him wanting a child. This was about control. About taking even this from me, ensuring I could be a vessel if and whenhedecided, or perhaps even setting me up for... for what? To be a bargaining chip? To break me further when I eventually found out? The layers of his cruelty are a labyrinth.
A laugh tears from me—sharp, bitter, teetering on the edge of hysteria. My chest heaves.
The doctor gives a sympathetic look. "I assure you, it is. Results are conclusive. You're about two months along."
Breath rushes out in a sharp exhale.Two months.Relief hits so fast my head spins.Not Kolya’s.My chest tightens between hysteria and disbelief.
But panic crashes back immediately. If not Kolya’s…whose is it then?
"Lila?" Grim’s voice is low, cutting through the fog, edged with something I can’t quite place—not concern, not exactly, but… attention.
