“I was too consumed with my relationship with Sylvie to see what was right in front of me. My uncle had been orchestrating his plan for months—positioning himself, gathering support, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.” Damon’s laugh was bitter. “He wanted to overthrow my father and mother, take control of the clan. And I handed him the key to do it.”
Isla watched the play of emotions across his face—guilt, anger, and a bone-deep wariness that made her want to reach across the table and pull him into her arms.
“By the time I got home, my parents were already dead. And my uncle was going through the territory, killing anyone who wouldn’t pledge loyalty to him. I found him attacking Evelina, and I...” He swallowed hard. “I killed him. But not before dozens of other clan members had died that night.”
The raw pain in his voice made Isla’s chest tight with sympathy. She could picture it so clearly—a younger Damon coming home to find his world destroyed, forced to kill his own family member to save what was left of his clan.
“If I hadn’t given him that damn security code,” Damon continued, “my parents might still be here.”
“Damon, no.” The words burst out of her before she could stop them. “If your uncle was that obsessed with power, he would have found another way. You just provided an easier path that night—you didn’t cause his betrayal.”
He looked at her with something like surprise, as if he’d expected judgment instead of understanding.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Isla continued, her voice soft but firm. “And I’m sorry you’ve had to carry that guilt for so long. But what happened wasn’t your fault.”
“I don’t know how to move past it,” he admitted, vulnerability making his voice rough. “I’ve tried, but... I thought isolating myself would protect others. All it did was make me lonelier and make my people feel more uncertain about my leadership.”
Without thinking, Isla reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. His skin was warm—unnaturally so—and she felt him tense at the contact before slowly relaxing.
“I may not be able to fully understand your pain,” she said carefully, “but I understand grief. It isn’t linear—some days are worse than others. But you can choose, every day, to focus on the present and find joy in life again.”
Damon’s eyes searched her face intently. “How do you do it? Look at things so positively like that?”
“A lot of practice and grace. When my parents first died, I didn’t know how I was going to keep living. But I realized they wouldn’t want to see me just surviving—they’d want me to experience all the love and happiness they got to share.” She squeezed his hand gently. “Maybe that’s what your parents would want for you too.”
“You’re very wise,” he said, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture so tender it made her breath catch. “I want to find joy again. More than anything.”
The sincerity in his voice and the way he was looking at her like she might hold the key to his healing—it was almost overwhelming.
“Tell me about your parents,” he said suddenly. “About their love story.”
And so she did, finding herself relaxing as she shared memories of her mother’s laughter, her father’s gentle strength, and the way they’d looked at each other even after decades of marriage like they were still falling in love.
“They sound incredible,” Damon said when she finished. “I hope you can have just as great a love story as theirs. And I hope...” He paused, his green eyes darkening with an intensity that made her pulse race. “I hope I can be the one to give it to you.”
Maybe it was the wine, or the way Damon had finally let down his walls and opened up to her completely, or simply the way he was looking at her—like she was something precious and worth fighting for. But Isla found herself rising from her chair, drawn by a force stronger than logic.
Before she could second-guess herself, she was settling into his lap, her hands framing his face as she looked into those beautiful green eyes.
“Isla,” he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips.
She kissed him then, soft and deliberate, pouring all her understanding and forgiveness into the press of their mouths. This wasn’t the desperate hunger of their first kiss, but something deeper—a promise, an acceptance, a beginning.
Damon’s hands found her hair, tangling in the auburn strands as he kissed her back with careful intensity. Her fingers soon fisted in his shirt, and she realized that while she might not be ready to fully surrender to this fated connection, tonight she wanted to give in to her desires completely.
NINETEEN
DAMON
For a moment, Damon’s entire reality narrowed to the feel of Isla’s lips against his, the soft weight of her in his lap, and the roar of his dragon in his veins. After a century of frozen isolation, the heat of her was a brand, searing through layers of guilt and control.
That afternoon she’d asked for space. But the attack had shifted something. Her willingness to let him close, to share this dinner, to listen to the ugliest parts of his past—it had been a gift he hadn’t dared hope for. He’d laid himself bare tonight, telling her about the raid, the suffocating guilt, the hollow century. And instead of turning away, she’d looked at him with understanding, offering him a lifeline he hadn’t known he still needed.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with hers, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst. She tasted of wine and something uniquely her—warm vanilla and promise. She was his oxygen after a century of hopelessness.
But when she broke the kiss, a sliver of cold fear pierced the heat.
She’s going to stop. She’s going to say this is a mistake again.
