Page 8 of Claimed By the Damned
Maybe he has carried people before, perhaps some who never had a choice. The thought creeps in unbidden, but I push it away. I can't think about what these men have done, what they’re capable of; it won’t help me right now.
The room he brings me to is dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting shadows along the walls. A large bed dominates the space, impossibly soft, too inviting for someone who’s spent years on edge. The air carries the scent of clean linen and something undeniably masculine—cedarwood, or leather. Strangely comforting, though I won’t admit that out loud. Ryker sets me down, stepping back immediately like he knows I might bolt if he lingers. Smart man.
I pull the covers over me instinctively, more for the illusion of security than actual warmth. My gaze fixes on Ryker as he props himself in the doorway, broad chest blocking much of the opening, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask if I’m okay—just watches, gauging whether I’ll actually let myself rest. “Get some sleep, Lila.”
Then he’s gone, and for the first time in years, I don’t fall asleep terrified of what will happen when I wake up.
Voices wake me before the sun does. Low but distinct, carrying through the walls like the rumble of a distant storm. My room is tucked down a short hallway, the door slightly ajar; from my angle, I can see into the open-concept living space where the men talk.
The kitchen light spills into the open space, casting long shadows across the floor. Tension thickens the air between them, their postures rigid despite the casual setting.
Ryker sprawls lazily across the couch, but even in his relaxed position, alertness radiates from him. Ethan perches on the armrest, his head tilted, expression thoughtful. Bastian stands near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his jaw tight, his presence as immovable as a damn mountain.
I keep my breathing slow, steady, straining to catch every word. My body is still sore, my feet a constant dull throb, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the tension curling in my stomach.
“She’s skittish,” Ethan says, his voice the closest thing to soft in this house. "Not a threat. Just someone who needs a break."
"Yet," Bastian counters, his tone edged with skepticism. "We don’t know what she’s running from. Could be a setup."
Ryker scoffs. "If it was, she’s doing a shit job at it. She’s not exactly playing the femme fatale role, Bas."
I weigh my options. Stay curled in this bed, hidden? That won't get me anywhere. They’re talking about me like some stray they picked up, an unknown variable to assess. Maybe they’re right. But I can’t afford to let them decide my fate.
A pause. Then Bastian sighs. “I don’t like unknowns.”
“She’s not an unknown,” Ethan argues. “She’s a woman who’s clearly been through hell.”
“She’s a liability,” Bastian corrects, voice clipped. “We don’t know who’s looking for her. We don’t know if keeping her here puts us in someone’s crosshairs.”
Ryker lets out a low chuckle. “We’re always in someone’s crosshairs.”
Ethan doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, his voice is steady. "She’s scared of men." His tone carries a certainty that stills the room for a beat.
He exhales, rubbing a hand along his jaw. "Look, I don’t know anything about her, but I know what fear looks like. The way she flinched when I sat next to her. The way she tracks every one ofus like she’s waiting for something bad to happen. That kind of fear... that's survival, not deception."
Ryker lets out a low whistle, stretching an arm over the back of the couch. "Damn, Mercer. You got all that from, what? One meal and a few words?"
Ethan doesn’t waver. "Yeah. And you saw it too, even if you won’t admit it. The second I walked in, she tensed up. But you? You grabbed her, carried her, and she barely fought you. That means something. Whether she knows it or not, she trusts you, even if it’s a little bit."
Ryker's expression falters just slightly before he covers it with a shrug. "Maybe she was too exhausted to claw my eyes out this time."
Bastian watches Ethan closely, his expression unreadable. "You trust her?"
Ethan nods without hesitation. "Yeah. My gut says she’s not our problem. She’s running from something—or someone—bigger than us. And I’ve learned to trust my gut."
Another pause. Then, begrudgingly, Bastian sighs. "I’ll give her a week."
That’s my cue.
I push back the blankets, ignoring the sting in my feet as they hit the cool floor. Inhale deeply, steadying myself. I hate this vulnerability. But if they’re going to talk about me, I’d rather be part of the conversation. Their voices dip for a second—did they hear the shift?—but they keep talking. I straighten my spine, roll my shoulders, then walk down the hallway, stepping into the doorway of the lounge room.
Three sets of eyes snap toward me the moment I appear. Ryker, draped lazily over the couch, grins as if he expected me, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes—like I’m an interesting puzzle. Ethan leans forward slightly from the armrest, his expression open, laced with curiosity and perhapsconcern. Bastian remains rigidly still near the kitchen, arms crossed, his sharp hazel gaze sweeping over me with cold calculation, assessing me like a ticking bomb.
"You’ve got opinions about me," I say, stepping fully into the doorway. Their gazes sharpen, locking onto me as I speak. "So, let’s get one thing straight—I’m not your problem. And I sure as hell don’t need you deciding my future for me."
Ryker lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "You sure do have a way of walking into a room and setting the rules, Baby Girl."
My head snaps toward him, a glare hardening my expression."And I told you not to call me that."
