Lost and Claimed

3-Ivan

The fire crackled low in the stone hearth, casting wavering gold over worn, threadbare furniture.

Robert sat hunched in his wheelchair. Eighty years old, bones brittle, hands gnarled with age. Across from him. Leona , seventy but sharp as a blade — sat rigid on the frayed couch, spine straight, eyes fierce and unyielding.

Before them rested a heavy oak table, holding a tattered leather map stitched with faint runes. Right then, a single crimson light flared bright — pulsing slow and hot — marking exactly where a demon walked.

“One’s close,” Leona rasped, voice rough with years. “Strong signature — but we don’t know *what* kind.”

Robert let out a bitter breath. “Doesn’t matter. Any demon brings coin. We take it.”

The words rang hollow. Once, the family had been impossibly rich. Legendary hunters whose names carried weight across mortal and spirit realms. But as the modern world grew, people grew skeptical… and supernaturals grew cleverer, harder to find, harder to kill.

Fortune drained away. Now they were drowning in debt roof leaking, cupboards thin, bills piling high.

Robert’s shoulders sagged. “We’re too old. I turn eighty this season — you seventy. Our reflexes gone. Barely hold a blade anymore.” Leona’s jaw tightened, fire still burning deep in her gaze.

“Which is exactly why Ivan must step up. He owes us everything — his life, his raising. It’s time he learned the trade… and pulled this family back from ruin.”

Ivan leaned against the chipped kitchen counter, idly swiping through a dating app on his phone — half‑amused, half‑bored — when their voices drifted in.

He heard every word… and did not care. Not one bit.

The whole demon‑hunting trade felt hopelessly obsolete to him — relics of another age. To his mind, they ought to face plain reality instead: the world changed. Demons grew clever, scarce, far harder to track — which was exactly why their bounties sky‑high now.

To Robert and Leona? Demons were nothing more than inventory — merchandise to be caught, sold, turned into coin. Worse still, they wrapped it all in piety: “We serve the Lord,” they’d say. “We cleanse the world — earn our place in heaven.”

Once, he’d truly believed that lie. Held tight to those warm, golden memories — how he’d been adored, pampered, utterly spoiled as their only son. Back then their love felt endless.

Over time he saw the truth: that same love was always a leash. They’d lavished it on him — only so they could pull tight whenever they needed him to pay the debt, to live out their fading glory. He was not just their son — he was their investment.

Twenty‑eight‑year‑old Ivan Vanner reached into the dented, humming fridge for a carton of fresh milk.

Dark brown hair fell in soft bangs on his thick, bold brows; his warm brown eyes held that constant, gentle yearning — like he was always searching for something just out of reach. Clean‑shaven, devastatingly handsome, he moved with the easy weight of someone who trained hard every day.

His plain muscle shirt clung tight, putting his broad, heavily muscled arms and tall, solid frame fully on display. Born to old wealth, he’d been thoroughly spoiled growing up — yet grew into a quiet, guarded introvert, rarely seeking notice even with all he possessed. Used to, at least.

As he twisted the cap off the milk carton, his phone lit up with a new notification. It was from Davina’s profile.

Her message read casual and warm : Hey! Any update about the room available in your place?

She was asking about the spare room for rent in their sprawling old mansion — carrying an easy familiarity, acting as if they were already close, deeply interested even on a friendly level. She wove her words with effortless charm, smooth as any seasoned con artist.

Ivan typed back quickly, his tone open and amiable: Let’s talk over milk tea at that café nearby — my treat.

Davina replied: Sure! See ya!

At twenty‑eight, though still young, he carried himself with a settled maturity — yet none of the heavy vices or careless habits most men his age fell into. He poured a glass of milk and drank straight, before heading out. He doesn't want to hear any of his parents pressure. He stuck firmly to clean living and discipline; in this modern world, he knew better than anyone that health and balance were the only true luxuries worth keeping.

Davina leaned back behind the quiet counter, scrolling through Ivan’s dating profile with the amused, practiced ease of a predator circling prey — sarcasm curling faintly at the corners of her smile. As a full‑time graphic designer stuck in a tiny, slow shop, she was overworked, underpaid, and grateful for the lull; no customers in sight meant she was free to linger on her phone.

His page screamed wealthy, disciplined comfort: endless shots of him on his bike, sipping milk tea, gym updates showcasing that built frame — the classic polished rich‑boy lifestyle. But one short video caught her off guard. Him sitting with a guitar, singing low and easy. For a heartbeat, something soft stirred deep in her chest, moved in a way she hadn’t expected.

Still, she didn’t let her guard slip. She refocused, cold and calculating once more. Just another target, she told herself. And the cherry on top? That incredibly cheap room up for grabs. If she played this right, kept things friendly, kept him charmed. It would solve every problem she had.

Davina stepped naturally into Crossing Cafe, completely unguarded this time. She’d dressed for the friendly vibe she felt from him: a fitted black sando that clung gently to her curves, a black cardigan draped loosely over just her arms, relaxed baggy black pants, and simple black sandals. Comfortable, unassuming, and exactly how someone shows up when they feel safe enough to be themselves.

He spotted her instantly. The only one in Crossing Cafe dressed entirely in black, a stark, striking contrast against her pale skin. She was short and petite, with a sharp jet‑black pixie bob and her signature bold red lipstick. Everything about her felt out of place against the cafe’s warm brown, elegant homelounge aesthetic — like a shadow cast over sunlit wood.

He sat in his usual spot, the one he always claimed: a cozy nook built for two, with only one empty seat left — right beside him.

She settled comfortably into the seat beside him — but he shifted, scooting quietly farther away. Davina’s brows drew together, confused by the clear retreat, though she quickly smoothed her expression back into that bright, charming smile.

“You look even better in person,” she said, delivering the line with her usual easy, practiced flirtation.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Ivan’s mouth, but he kept his demeanor composed and unreadable. Try as she might, she couldn’t get a read on him — and doubt began to creep in.

Davina: Maybe coming here was a mistake.

His body language screamed distance, like he wanted space between them, yet his smile stayed eerily calm, and his eyes remained soft, endlessly gentle. Something felt deeply off — not threatening, but confusingly, unsettlingly kind.

He offered a quiet smile in return.

“I went ahead and ordered your favorite — Dark Chocolate, zero sugar,” he said, gesturing toward the cup.

Whether it was his calm presence or the soft warmth of Crossing Cafe, Davina felt her guard slipping, unforced. She pushed the straw in and took a slow sip.

“Thank you… you remembered.” Her voice was steady, stripped of performance — no exaggerated charm, no polished grin, just simple, genuine gratitude. What is this strange, quiet feeling settling in me?

“About the room,” Ivan continued evenly, “I still have to convince my parents to take in a female lodger. They’re hard to persuade. But truth is… we really do need the extra income.”

His words, gentle as they were, knocked her carefully laid plans off balance. She quickly scrambled to regain her composure, leaning in with a small nose-scrunch and wide, practiced eyes — the perfect picture of innocence.

“Then tell them I’m practically like a little sister,” she said, sipping her milk tea again, holding his gaze. “And I really, really need a place with cheap rent.”

“I’ll do my best Davina”

His eyes held hers fast, wrapped in a quiet, gentle dominance — the kind that spoke volumes without wasting a single word. Davina’s heart gave a sharp, unbidden skip. Her practiced charm fractured, melting into a nervous, fluttering smile. Seeing those walls of hers come down, Ivan couldn’t help but admire the raw, unguarded look of her. He leaned back, crossing his bulky arms comfortably over his chest.

“You seem more talkative in chat, Ivan,” she said, quickly pursing her lips to trap the heat rising in her cheeks before it could bloom into a full blush. She could hardly believe it — blushing over a mark, over him. Inside, her mind was screaming in chaos.

A slow, knowing glint touched Ivan’s eyes as he settled deeper into his seat, arms still folded tight across his broad chest.

“Writing gives you time to think… to craft every word exactly how you want it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Face‑to‑face? I prefer to watch… and listen.”

His gaze never wavered — calm, unhurried, seeing far more than she was comfortable with. Davina’s pulse hammered harder. She sipped her milk tea just to have something to do, desperately fighting to keep her expression smooth, even as her thoughts spun wildly: This isn’t how it goes. I’m supposed to be the one in control. He’s just supposed to be the easy mark… so why does it feel like I’m the one being studied?

She swallowed hard against the tight lump in her throat.

“I saw your post playing the guitar… you’re really good at it.”

She knew he was — but her carefully built mask was slipping fast. She needed to seize back control: make him attached, draw him in, secure the advantage she needed. Last night’s attempt had failed miserably, nearly costing her everything.

“I love playing and singing — it keeps me grounded,” Ivan said, his voice steady. “I noticed on your profile you sing too. I’d love for you to sing only for me.”

The words carried a quiet, unmistakable hint of possessiveness, softened only by his gentle smile. Davina brushed it aside, yet the air between them felt suffocating. It wasn’t fear — not exactly — but something entirely new, something she couldn’t place. Her instinct screamed to run.

“Maybe one day… uhm, Ivan, thank you so much for meeting me, but I really have to get to my aunt’s now. Promised her we’d spend some time together.”

It was a hasty excuse, leaving far earlier than planned. She rose smoothly, moving with practiced grace, yet her goodbye felt final — like she meant to vanish and never look back. She waved and turned away… but Ivan followed silently right behind her.

Outside, rain poured down in sudden heavy sheets. Davina’s eyes went wide with frustration — terrible timing. She fumbled frantically through her bag, grabbing her umbrella, only for the cheap thing to jam and refuse to open.

“Let me take you there.”

His hand settled firmly at her waist; his strong, lean arm supported her back. She caught his scent — not cologne, just the warm, clean salt of his skin. Before she could react, his other hand pressed the button on his large blue umbrella, shielding them both from the downpour.

“You really don’t have to, but… thank you,” she said, tipping her head back to meet his gaze, struck all over again by how tall he was.

“Please — I insist. I’d like to introduce myself, too.”

Davina froze, stunned. Who in this day and age introduces themselves to someone’s family on a first meeting? She stammered, completely thrown.

“I‑introduce yourself? Why?”

He looked down at her, his expression unwavering, voice soft but absolute.

“I want to meet them.”

“But why? Who—them?” Davina’s voice lifted, sharp with disbelief. Neither paid any mind to the rain lashing down around them, soaking them to the bone.

“Your family. Could you introduce me?”

Why would I ever do that? Davina’s thoughts spun. Not with him. Not like this. She couldn’t read his motives—had never encountered anyone who moved this boldly, this calmly.

“It’s all right if you’re not ready.”

“Oh no—no, Ivan. I… I’m sorry.” Nervous, unsteady, her composure crumbled completely. He seem like such a good man

“I could… take you. It’s just…you understand, don’t you? I-I don’t know how to tell them we’ve only just met… and already I’m bringing you home?”

She wavered, lost for words. But how could she say no when he looked at her like that? His gaze held nothing but admiration warm, steady, promising safety. Like his very stare was telling her: You are safe with me.

“Davina, it’s alright—I understand. Let me drive you there, and you can update me when you’re ready to head back. I’ll come take you home,” Ivan said calmly.

Davina could barely process it all. His gestures felt so natural, so certain—as if they were already deeply bound. Or perhaps… she had simply never known what it was to be treated like a lady, after a lifetime surrounded by men who took rather than gave.

“Uhm… okay. I’d like that.”

Something warm and quiet inside her thrilled at complying with his words. Ivan smiled, his grip tightening gently at her waist to draw her closer—secure, sincere, and entirely free of malice.

They walked on through the rain, wrapped in a comfortable silence that felt entirely new to her. No need to perform, no need to charm or fill the space with her usual practiced lines. Only the soft patter of rain against skin, the steady weight of his arm around her, and the safe, grounding heat of his body beside hers. For the first time in ages, Davina smiled genuinely, glancing up at him from time to time—only to find him already looking down, admiring her just as deeply.

The rain softened to a mist as they reached the gates of Floral Subdivision.

“My family used to live right around here,” Ivan said with a light, warm chuckle. “We could’ve been neighbors.”

Even the sound of his quiet laughter sent a quick, bright thrum through her heart. She smiled back. “Maybe… well, Ivan—this is my stop.”

“Can I walk you to your door?”

“You’ve already come so far,” Davina laughed, open and sincere. “But thank you. Truly.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“What do you mean, later?”

“Update me when you’re coming home ‘later’.”

“Oh—you’re serious? I thought that was just… small talk.”

“I am very serious about you.”

“You’re exaggerating. Thanks for the laugh though”