Chapter 10 A Wild Thing, Cornered
Ryker
Over the last week, I’ve watched Lila settle in, bit by bit. Not like she’s suddenly carefree, twirling around the kitchen singing. But there’s a shift—the tension she carries like armor is loosening.
It’s in how she moves, how she no longer hesitates before stepping into a room, how she doesn't flinch now when Ethan claps me on the shoulder a little too hard behind her. She leaves mugs on the counter instead of washing them immediately, as if she’s not afraid someone will lose their shit over it.
She even lets Ethan pull her into hugs, rolling her eyes but no longer stiffening like she’s bracing for a hit. He’s always been the softest of us, our resident golden retriever, but it means something that she lets him in first. And Bastian? That broody bastard sneaks into her room most nights when she has nightmares. He thinks he’s subtle, but I notice. Always do.
Then there’s me.
I should fight this. Push back against the way she’s settling into my head, making a home where I never intended to have visitors. But I don’t. Maybe I can’t. It feels like she cracked something in me I didn’t know was locked shut. And fuck, I don't know whether to be pissed or just accept it.
I don’t do soft. Never have. Never will. But somehow, she’s getting to me. The way she’s starting to meet my teasing head-on. The way she looks at me sometimes, like she’s trying to figure me out. The way she laughs at my bullshit like I’m not completely unhinged.
Damn it.
I notice her new ease one morning when she finds me in the kitchen, digging through cabinets for the protein powder Ethan swears we have but never stays in the same place twice.
The clatter of cans echoes in the large kitchen, mingling with the low hum of the industrial-sized refrigerator and the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs outside.
“You losing a fight with the pantry again, Ryker?” She leans against the counter, arms crossed, amusement dancing in those bright eyes. That right there, initiating the banter, a glint of challenge in her eyes instead of the fear I saw weeks ago, that’s new. That’s her pushing back, testing the waters.
Of course, she’s wearing one of Ethan’s hoodies again—despite him taking her shopping weeks ago, making sure she had enough clothes to last a lifetime.
I glance at her, then back at the pantry. “Did Ethan’s money offend you, or do you just like stealing his shit?”
She smirks. “Can’t help it. His stuff is just so… cozy.”
My eyes narrow. “Cozy, huh?” I step closer, resting one hand against the counter beside her, boxing her in. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift away. Instead, she tilts her head, gaze steady, like she's figuring her angle.
“Careful, Baby Girl,” I murmur, dropping my voice low just to see if I can get a reaction. “You keep walking around in another man’s clothes, and I might start getting ideas.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark of laughter there. “Relax, Ryker. If I wanted to wear your hoodie, I’d just take it.”
A low chuckle escapes me. I push off the counter. “Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”
She hums, a slow, knowing sound, and slips past me, brushing her shoulder against my arm as she goes.
Later, I find Ethan and Lila sprawled on the couch, absorbed in some ridiculous reality show where rich housewives hurl drinks and scream over imagined slights. Ethan looks invested—probably more into the chaos than the actual show—but Lila... she’s different. She’s curled into his side, her body relaxed in a way we rarely see her, like she actually belongs there.
And I hate how much that thought messes with me.
Ethan’s arm drapes loosely around her shoulders, fingers tracing the fabric of the goddamn hoodie she stole from him a few days ago. She leans into him without hesitation, finding comfort in his easy warmth in a way I know she can't with me. Not yet.
I can't relax like that when everything inside me is still wired tight, waiting for the floor to drop out. A sharp twist hits my gut. Not possessiveness. Not quite.
It’s the raw scrape of seeing something good, settled, and feeling like it’s just out of reach for someone like me. Like watching freedom through bars you can't break. Damn if it doesn’t sting.
I drop onto the couch beside her, maybe a little harder than necessary, stretching out my long legs. My boots land on the coffee table with a solid thunk that makes Ethan wince. Good.
Lila side-eyes me, her lips already twitching like she’s gearing up for a fight she knows she won't win. “Wanna take your shoes off the table, you dirty bastard.”
I wiggle my toes inside the worn leather, offering a lazy smirk. “Nah.”
She lets out a long-suffering sigh but doesn’t push it. Doesn't flinch away from me being close either. Another small win.
Then Ethan, the absolute menace, casually tosses a handful of popcorn at my head. It bounces off my temple and lands in my lap like some disrespectful peace offering.
Lila lets out a soft giggle, the sound startlingly real. It tightens something in my chest, unexpected and fierce. Not the deep, belly-aching laughter I want to pull from her though—the kind that makes her forget the past, even if just for a moment—but it’s something. A step in the right direction.
And that should be enough.
Except it isn’t.
Because as much as I tell myself I don’t care who she gravitates toward first, there’s that undeniable twist deep down that makes me want to crowd closer, to remind her that I’m here, too. That the chaos isn't all I am.
I don't do jealousy. Never have. Jealousy means you think you earned a right to something you don’t own. I learned the hard way you don’t have the right to shit in this life, least of all someone else's time or affection. But the thought of her choosing just one of us? Of her presence here, something that’s starting to feel vital, becoming exclusive to Ethan’s easy comfort or tucked away under Bastian’s smothering but caring control? That’s different. It’s not about ownership of her . It’s about the thought of this fragile thing we’re building, this circle, being fractured. Losing access to a part of it, or watching her slip away from me specifically while I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck she does to my insides… that feels like a threat. Like something precious being taken away before I’ve even figured out how to hold onto it.
That sits heavy in my gut, cold and sharp. I tell myself she won’t, that this messed-up thing between us is too complicated for her to just pick one of us. Yet, there’s a gnawing part of me, forged in darkness and isolation, that wonders, what if she does? What if she decides I’m too much, too broken, too damn unpredictable to hold onto?
Maybe the steady ground Bastian offers or Ethan’s easy kindness feels safer than the goddamn minefield I carry inside me. And fuck, I hate that thought. The idea of her choosing either of them over whatever the hell I am scratches at something raw, buried deep.
Not that I expect her to pick just one. That would be... complicated in a whole other way.
At least, I hope she won’t.
But that’s a talk for later, one I won’t push when she’s still figuring out where she fits, still healing from wounds I don’t fully understand yet.
Determined, I wait for my moment. When Lila least expects it, I lean in, lowering my voice so only she and maybe Ethan can hear over the TV drama. "Forget this trash, Baby Girl," I mutter, nodding at the screen. "We could make a better show right here. Call it 'Wicked Sanctuary: Tactical Housekeeping.'"
I see the corner of her mouth twitch, so I press on, painting the picture. "Episode one: Watch Bastian try to alphabetize the spice rack under simulated mortar fire. Episode two: Ethan hacks the damn toaster 'cause it keeps burning his bagels, maybe accidentally takes down NORAD in the process. Episode three: You attempt to teach me basic kitchen safety, specifically why using C4 to open a stubborn pickle jar is 'counterproductive to preserving the pickles intact.'"
I pause, giving her a deadpan look. "Ratings gold. We'd make millions. Might even afford better snacks than this shit Ethan bought."
She blinks at me for a second, then bursts into laughter—full, unrestrained, the kind that shakes her shoulders and leaves her gasping for air. Fuck, that sound—it does something to me. I haven’t heard a laugh like that in years, not the kind that’s real, unguarded, not laced with pain or forced to make someone else comfortable. It settles in my chest, unexpected and warm. Realizing just how badly I want to be the reason she does that again. Ethan stares like I’ve just performed a miracle, and even I can’t help but grin. That sound? That’s mine.
So I shake off the feeling, roll my shoulders, scoop up a handful of popcorn, and launch it back at Ethan.
“Hope you’re ready to share, pretty boy.”
Lila smirks, her gaze flicking between us like she’s taking notes, filing away every small reaction. There’s something calculating in her expression, sharp and knowing.
And I wonder if she’s already figured me out.
If she knows just how far I’d go for her.
She’s still careful around me. Still hesitant. But I see it—the way she watches me when she thinks I’m not looking. Like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Expecting me to turn on her, like everyone else probably has. Like maybe she senses the potential for darkness in me and assumes I'll break.
She hasn’t figured out yet—I don’t turn on the people I care for. Not after knowing the cost of being left behind, surviving alone in that fucking darkness. Being trusted and really seen past the damage… fuck, maybe that matters more than I admitted. Somehow, in a few damn weeks, she’s carved out a place in all of us, getting under our skin like she always belonged. It’s almost shocking how easily she settled, how quickly she became part of something none of us realized we were missing.
There’s something about her that calls to all three of us in different ways—Ethan’s protectiveness, Bastian’s steady control, and whatever the hell she’s awakening in me. I would destroy anyone who tries to hurt her. Them. And whether she knows it or not, she’s part of our circle now.
I hold back the urge to claim her outright.
“So, what’s your deal, Baby Girl?” I ask, my voice low as we sit on the porch. The night air is crisp, salt-tinged from the ocean beyond the cliffs. The waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm against the silence stretching between us.
She’s curled up in one of Bastian’s chairs, knees pulled up under one of my hoodies, and damn if that doesn’t do something to me. It’s just fabric, something I threw on the back of a chair and forgot about—but seeing her in it? That feels different. Like some small claim neither of us has acknowledged. I’ve got a beer in my hand, half-forgotten as I watch her.
She doesn’t meet my eyes, tracing the rim of her mug with her fingertip like she’s trying to smooth out a thought that won’t settle. “What do you mean?”
I tap my fingers against my thigh, thinking. “I mean, you gonna tell us what happened to you? And who’s after you? We can’t protect you if we don’t know.”
She goes still. Not like she’s gonna run, but that frozen way that makes my gut twist. Like she’s suddenly back there—wherever there is.
Her grip tightens around her mug, knuckles going white. The silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on. The fire pit crackles, filling the space where words should be.
“Not tonight,” she finally says, voice barely a whisper.
I watch her, my fingers tightening slightly, jaw clenched. That answer should piss me off. But it doesn’t—not really. Because I see how her chest rises and falls, how she’s forcing herself to breathe evenly, to keep herself here instead of wherever her mind tries to drag her.
I nod, taking a slow sip of my beer. “Alright. But one day, you’re gonna have to let us in.”
She exhales softly, a breath she probably didn’t realize she was holding. Her shoulders don’t relax, but something in her expression shifts—like maybe she wants to believe she could. That she could trust us. Trust me . Maybe see that I'm not the monster the darkness tried to make me.
She still doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t run, either.
Instead, she shifts slightly, just enough that her knee brushes against mine, deliberate but subtle.
And maybe that’s enough. For now.
Bastian’s in her room again. I hear him leave around four in the morning, closing the door softly enough that even my trained ears barely catch it.
Caught him a few times, but he never says anything. Just pretends like it’s nothing, not a big deal. But I see it—the way he lingers outside her door sometimes, listening to make sure she’s okay before walking away. The way his hand settles on the small of her back when she’s struggling to breathe, grounding her without a word. The way he looks at her like he’s trying to carry her pain for her.
See his Daddy instincts kicking in, the way he wants to fix this for her, take it all on so she doesn’t have to. And yeah, I fucking hate that it can’t be me.
Want to be the one she turns to when the nightmares hit, the one she reaches for in the dark. Want to be the one who pulls her back from the edge when she’s slipping. But I get why it has to be Bastian. He’s steady. Controlled. Won’t push her too hard, won’t let her drown in it, but he’ll be there, unwavering when she needs him.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
But when her PTSD hits, when something small—too many people in a room, a loud noise, the scent of cologne she doesn't recognize—triggers her, that’s when I step in. I remember the first time it happened, the way her breathing turned shallow, eyes darting like she wasn’t in the room with us anymore. I’d seen that look before. That sudden blankness, eyes going glassy, staring at something a million miles away only they can see.
I’d fucking lived that look before. Staring at the four walls of that cell until they started closing in, the darkness swallowing everything until I wasn't there anymore either. So, I did what I wished someone had done for me back then—what Bastian and Ethan eventually figured out worked for me . Didn’t try to talk her through it, didn’t push or ask questions that would just drag her deeper.
Just sat with her, steady, unmoving, planting my boots flat on the floor, feeling the solid goddamn ground beneath me to remind myself I was here, now . An anchor in the storm until she found her way back. Keeping her steady anchors me, too.
When she did come back, she didn’t say anything—just let out a shaky breath and curled in a little closer to my side. That was the moment I knew I’d be whatever she needed, for as long as it took. Her not running from me ? It chipped away some of the ice around my own shit.
She’s still waking up in a cold sweat, still gasping for air, probably choking on the past, reliving whatever hell he put her through. And it pisses me off in a way I can’t even put into words. Not at her. Never at her. At the bastard who did this to her, at the memories that won’t let her go.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, jaw clenched, my mind circling dark thoughts. One day, I’ll find him. One day, I’ll make him pay. And when that day comes, I won’t hold back.
Fast forward a couple of weeks. Friday night, Ethan calls for a house meeting—which, considering the last time we did this was to decide if we were killing a guy or letting him live—makes me glance at Lila, wondering what she thinks this is about. She doesn’t know how these things go, but she still straightens, cautious, like she’s waiting to be blindsided.
She’s on edge, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, shoulders drawn tight like she’s bracing for impact. I don’t like it. Takes me a second to realize why—she thinks this is about getting rid of her. A month has well and truly passed, and she probably assumes we’re about to hold her to some unspoken deadline, tell her it’s time to move on. That we gathered here to say she’s overstayed her welcome.
Ethan leans forward, all puppy-dog eagerness, completely oblivious that she looks like she’s about to be kicked to the curb. "I want Lila to stay for as long as she wants."
She flinches, just a little, just enough for me to see the conflict in her. I can tell she wants to stay, but she’s forcing herself to resist, putting up some kind of wall between herself and us.
“I agreed to a week, I didn’t expect to stay a little over a month,” she says finally, voice steady but cautious. “I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness."
Bastian, silent and unreadable as ever, simply nods once, like he already knew this was coming.
Ethan, on the other hand, looks seriously exasperated. “Angel, come on. No one thinks that. You’re not freeloading, and we’re not about to let you run or have to find somewhere to hide that won’t be as safe just because of some imaginary rule you made up.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You don’t want to leave,” I say, watching her jaw tighten. “So don’t.”
She exhales sharply, crossing her arms as if trying to hold herself together, bracing for the catch. It’s in her eyes—the doubt, the fear that if she accepts too easily, it’ll all be ripped away. Like wanting this, staying here, is too good to be true.
“Okay, just for a little while,” she concedes. “Until I can find a job, save up, and then find a safe place to hide out permanently.”
Bastian nods again, which means he’s in.
I roll my shoulders, giving her an easy smirk. “Fine by me. But only if you stop stealing Ethan’s hoodies.”
That gets a reaction—a small, reluctant smile. “No deal.”
Ethan grins like an idiot. Bastian exhales like he’s already regretting this decision.
And me? I’m in way more trouble than I thought.
That night, Lila insists on cooking dinner—not just for tonight but every night going forward to pull her weight . The guys don’t argue, though Ethan looks far too pleased, probably already planning his next ten meals. Even Bastian, who rarely reacts to much, gives her a small nod of approval. And I? I lean against the counter, watching her like she’s some mystery I can’t quite crack.
After dinner, she goes to town in the kitchen, baking her heart out, saying she wants to surprise everyone with tasty treats when they wake up. Ethan hovers for a while, shamelessly sneaking cookie dough when he thinks she isn’t looking. Bastian passes through once, mumbling about how it ‘smells good’ before disappearing again. I stay, watching her work. There’s peace in the way she moves, a sureness in how she measures out ingredients, in the way she hums under her breath. It’s the most at ease I’ve seen her since she got here, and I'm not about to ruin that.
At some point, she glances up, catching me watching her. “What?”
I shake my head. "Nothing. Just thinking that at some point, you stopped feeling like a guest and started feeling like... part of this place."
She blinks, clearly unsure how to respond, so she doesn’t. Just turns back to the stove, lips twitching like she’s fighting off a smile.
This girl has got me all twisted up, and I don’t know what scares me more—that I need her in a way I’ve never needed anyone, or that one day she might not need me back.