Page 7 of Claimed By the Damned
Ethan straightens, stretching his arms over the couch. "By the way, Gerry the night guard told me that Old Man Harris was sniffing around not too long ago. Nosy bastard has already asked if we had a new houseguest."
My stomach clenches mid-bite. Someone already knows I’m here? How? How could they possibly know?
Ryker nods, unfazed. "That man’s got nothing better to do than poke around in other people’s business. He’s been sniffing around for years."
Ethan shrugs. "Small town. People notice when things change."
I tighten my grip on the fork, my appetite vanishing. Small town. That means eyes. Whispers. I’m not invisible here.
"Great," I mutter, pushing the food around my plate, appetite dwindling under the weight of these revelations. "So, I’m surrounded by highly trained killers. That’s comforting." Myvoice is flat, but my pulse kicks up, a low hum of unease threading through me.
Ryker tilts his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before a slow, amused chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Killers? Nah, we don’t do assassinations." He taps a finger against the armrest, considering his words. "We’re just very good at making problems disappear."
His voice is casual, but the weight behind it is anything but. A reminder that, while they might not be murderers, they’re still dangerous men, navigating shadows, choosing who gets to walk away and who doesn’t.
I swallow hard, unsure if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
Bastian finally speaks, his voice low and deliberate. "The question isn'twhoshe is. It'swhatshe brings." Then he looks directly at me and says "Are you a problem?" The room tightens. My pulse stumbles, just for a second. I force my spine straight, refuse to look away, but the way he watches me—cold assessment turning me into a liability—it makes my throat close.
I don’t answer. I don’t even know what the right answer would be. My throat is dry, my body heavy with exhaustion, but the tension in the room is thick enough to keep me upright. I glance at Ryker, then Ethan, then back at Bastian, whose stare remains fixed.
Silence lingers, stretching long enough that my head starts to swim. I need sleep. My body demands it, but my mind refuses to let go. Eventually, Ryker shifts, breaking the stillness.
"She’s not a problem tonight," he mutters, pushing himself up from the couch. "She’s exhausted. Barely holding it together. Whatever interrogation you’re running in your head, Bastian, save it for later."
Bastian doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t argue.
I want to say something, to assert myself and push back, but my limbs are too heavy, my thoughts too sluggish. I barely registerRyker moving before the world tilts, strong arms sweeping me up effortlessly.
I wake, a strange lightness infusing my exhausted body, as if I’m floating between dreams and reality. For the first time in a long while, the weight feels less crushing. The warmth surrounding me is unfamiliar but not unpleasant, like being wrapped in something solid and safe.
It takes me a second to understand why I'm not on the couch anymore. Instead, I’m cradled against something unyielding, a solid presence beneath me. A heartbeat thuds steadily beneath my ear, rhythmic and grounding.
Haze dissolves into slow, creeping awareness. Someone is carrying me. Again. Twice in one night. Am I just destined to be carried around this place? The moment that realization fully clicks, my body tenses, a spike of adrenaline momentarily cutting through the exhaustion.
Then his voice rumbles low against my ear, steady and sure.
"Relax, Baby Girl."
My body doesn’t listen. Every muscle stays locked tight, the instinct to fight coiling deep in my gut. But his grip doesn’t tighten. He doesn’t force me to submit. Instead, he just… holds me. Solid. Steady. Unrelenting. The war in my chest rages on, but exhaustion is a cruel thing—it steals choice, strips down defenses.
Against every instinct, my body begins to give in. Just a little. Something relaxes instinctively, despite running on high alert, reassuring and unsettling me all at once. I barely know this man, yet some part of my brain registers him as safe… or at least,safer than most. Ridiculous. This man oozes danger, wrapped in muscle and mischief.
"Just moving you to a real bed. Unless you’d prefer to drool all over the couch?" A teasing lilt colors his words, but underlying concern surfaces beneath the bravado.
I huff, still groggy but aware enough to roll my eyes. "As long as you don’t drop me. Pretty sure last time you carried me, I ended up on the ground, half-conscious and worse for wear."
Ryker chuckles, the deep sound vibrating through his chest. "Yeah, Baby Girl, you came at me like a feral cat. Surprised you didn’t break my damn nose."
"Don't call me that,"I mutter, the words sharp despite my exhaustion."You don't even know me."
He just grins, seemingly unfazed by my correction."Feisty.So, let’s try and keep the dramatics to a minimum this time, yeah? My skin’s not as tough as it looks."
I let out a breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, the absurdity of this moment settling in. I'm exhausted, bruised, carried like some damsel in distress by a man I should absolutely not trust. And yet, here I am, not fighting it. Not even really wanting to. Why isn't I fighting? The lack of resistance sends a cold dread through me. My instincts should be screaming—resist, fight, claw my way out of his arms like last time. But they’re silent.
Instead, something dangerously close to acceptance settles in, a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering that, for now, I am safe. It doesn’t make sense. I barely know him, yet my body registers his presence as something solid, steady.
His grip is steady, assured, firm without being forceful, holding me as if it's entirely natural for him, utterly effortless. He isn’t coddling me, isn’t treating me like something fragile. His movements are smooth, practiced.
