Page 77 of Claimed By the Damned

A muscle ticks in Bastian’s jaw as he watches me, his expression softening fractionally. But I also see a flicker of respect in his eyes. He exhales, slow and controlled. "Fine, you canhelpwhere appropriate. But you follow orders. No unnecessary risks. Understood?"

I look up, meeting his gaze, and nod, finding my voice again, firmer this time. "Understood."

The tension shifts subtly, the sharp edges easing slightly. Now we have a plan. Direction.

The following day, the decision settles in my bones, solid and immovable. I am not waiting for Kolya to take me again. I am not sitting on the sidelines. This is my life, my fight, and I am going to be ready.

Finding the men after breakfast, the raw tension from the attack has shifted into wary vigilance, I lift my gaze, searching their faces. I expect hesitation, doubt—but what I see is understanding. They know. They see it too: my need todosomething.

Ryker offers me a training knife first. The dull, unsharpened metal is cool against my palm, the molded rubber hilt unexpectedly solid, grounding. It feels heavy, significant in my palm.

"Show me."

He does. He guides my hand, adjusting my fingers, correcting the angle of my wrist. "Like this," he murmurs, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the dangerous lesson. "Keep it tight, use your body."

Over and over, he walks me through motions—quick jabs, slicing arcs aimed at vulnerable points. My muscles quickly ache with unfamiliar strain, but I push through, mimicking his movements until instinct starts to replace thought.

When Ryker finally nods, my grip isn't so awkward. The knife feels less foreign, more like an extension of my will.

Bastian, always the strategist, takes it further. Recognizing my aversion to firearms, he hands me a small, lightweight stun gun instead. His steady gaze meets mine.

"I know you don’t like guns, but I need to know you have something effective. With the baby, we minimize risk. This provides a fighting chance without the recoil or potential complications of a firearm."

I swallow hard, taking the stun gun he offers. Its black casing feels unexpectedly solid, the textured grip fitting firmly into my hand. It's not a gun but it still hums with potential violence. It rests heavy in my palm, a tangible piece of the ugly reality we're facing. He draws my attention back, showing me the safety switch, the small lever clicking decisively under my thumb, and the activation button.

"There are two contact points," he explains, his voice low and deliberate. "Press them firmly against the target's torso or thigh. Hold it." He demonstrates the activation; the sudden, menacingcrackleof electricity makes me jump.

Ethan, the tech genius, is the final piece. He sits me before the main security console, the array of monitors glowing. "Okay," he says, pulling up a simplified schematic of the house.

"I’ve modified the core system and linked it to a secure app on this burner phone." He hands me a sleek, anonymous device. "If anything feels off, a perimeter breach, an unexpected visitor, you'll get an instant alert, see it right here." He points to a camera feed display.

"And this button here," he taps a small, discreet red icon labeled ‘Sanctuary Protocol’ on the phone's touchscreen, "initiates full lockdown. Steel shutters, reinforced doors, alerts us instantly, patches you directly into our comms. No hesitation, Lila. If you feel threatened, you hit that. You won't be trapped; you'll be secure, and you'll be in control." He has me practice activating it. The soft chime confirming the commandisstrangely powerful.

I meet his kind, steady gaze and nod, clutching the phone. "Good."

They aren’t treating me like a liability anymore. They are preparing me. Equipping me. And for the first time in years, I feel like I might actually have a say in my own fate.

We are ready. Or at least, as ready as we can be.

Because Kolya isn’t done.

And neither am I.

Later that evening, exhaustion replaces the adrenaline. My muscles ache, leaving a raw vulnerability behind. I find my men gathered in the main living area, the atmosphere still thick.

I pause in the doorway. The space between us suddenly feels charged with more than just the day's tension. I see the exhaustion lining Ethan’s eyes, the coiled energy still thrumming beneath Ryker’s skin, the unwavering, assessing weight of Bastian’s stare from his usual armchair. They fought for me. They bled for me. They are planning, protecting, preparing for a warbecauseof me.

But tonight… I need more than protection. I need the heat of their bodies to ground me, the possessive strength of their arms around me. Need to feel connected,held, truly alive in a way that defies the fear trying to claw its way back in.

My gaze meets Ethan's. He understands—the unspoken need, the plea beneath the surface. He pushes to his feet, crosses the room, and gently cups my cheek. "Hey," he murmurs, his thumb brushes away a stray tear I hadn't noticed falling.

Ryker is there a second later, his larger frame blocking my other side, a possessive arm sliding around my waist, pullingme flush against his solid heat. He doesn't speak, but the fierce protectiveness radiating from him is unmistakable.

Across the room, Bastian watches, his expression intense, impossible to read. I meet his gaze, holding it, showing him the tangle of fear, defiance, and rawneedchurning inside me. A silent question passes between us. An understanding deeper than words. He gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod, something dark and possessive entering his eyes. Permission. Command.Promise.

Ethan leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Let's go upstairs, Angel."

They move with me, a solid wall surrounding me as we head towards the master suite. An unspoken agreement hangs heavy in the air. Tonight, the lines blur. Tonight is simplyours.

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