She was moving before conscious thought kicked in, running straight into the chaos of the dragon battle. Flames scorched the air around her, but she didn’t care. Damon had shifted back to human form, his naked body covered in blood, and he was trying to push himself upright with shaking arms.
“Don’t you dare,” she gasped, dropping to her knees beside him and pressing her hands against the worst wound on his ribs. Blood seeped between her fingers, warm and far too much of it. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
His green eyes found hers, pain flickering in their depths. “Isla... you need to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.” She helped him to his feet, his weight nearly sending them both tumbling. “Can you walk to the café?”
“I can walk anywhere you need me to,” he said, but the pale cast to his skin and the way he leaned heavily against her told a different story.
“Jessica probably has a car. We need to get you to the healers immediately.”
The walk that should have taken two minutes stretched into an eternity. Every step sent fresh blood seeping from his wounds, and by the time they reached the café, Isla was practically carrying him. Jessica took one look at them and grabbed her keys.
“Go. I’ll drive.”
Isla helped Damon into the backseat, then climbed in after him, immediately resuming pressure on his wounds. Now she could see the full extent of the damage—gashes on his ribs, his leg, and his shoulder. His skin had gone ashen, and his breathing was becoming shallow.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said, as much to convince herself as him. “You’re strong, and we’re almost there.”
His hand found hers, blood-slicked but steady. “You saved me.”
The simple statement hit her unexpectedly hard. She had saved him. She, the fragile human who couldn’t shift or fight, had been the one to get help and to get him out of there alive.
When they reached the estate, Jessica helped her get Damon inside. Evelina appeared instantly, her face going white at the sight of her nephew’s condition.
“Healers! Now!” she commanded, her voice carrying the authority of centuries.
Isla guided Damon to the living room couch, not trusting either of them to manage the stairs. The healers materialized within moments, their hands already glowing with the soft lightof healing magic. Reluctantly, Isla stepped back to give them room to work, though every instinct screamed at her to stay close.
Kaelith finally arrived as they were bandaging Damon’s wounds, his face thunderous. “What happened?”
“Jaxon and Kael,” Isla managed, her voice hoarse. “They led us into an ambush. Somehow got Kalis and Sylara onto the island.”
“Son of a—” Kaelith’s hands clenched into fists. “I warned him there were people questioning his leadership. This proves there’s already dissent in the ranks.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know yet,” Kaelith admitted grimly. “But when Damon’s recovered, we’ll figure out how to deal with this.” He left, his footsteps heavy with purpose and barely contained rage.
Evelina approached, her wise eyes soft with pride. “Your quick actions today saved Damon’s life. He might not have survived that ambush without you.”
The words settled into Isla’s chest, warm and certain. Despite being human, despite being fragile, despite being everything Damon feared she was—she had been exactly what he needed when it mattered most.
In that moment, watching the healers work on her mate, feeling the mate bond pulse with his renewed strength, Isla realized something fundamental had shifted. This was her world now. This Alpha, with all his fears and trauma and desperate love, was hers. And she wasn’t going anywhere.
TWENTY-SEVEN
DAMON
The world swam back into focus in fragments—the soft press of silk sheets against his skin, the muted light filtering through heavy curtains, and the persistent throb of pain that radiated from his body with each breath. Damon lifted his head from the pillow, immediately regretting the movement as fire lanced through his shoulder. Bandages wrapped his torso like armor, stark white against his tanned skin, while more bound his leg and upper arm. The sight of his battered body sent a wave of disgust through him—not at the wounds themselves, but at what they represented.
Weak.
The words of Jaxon and Kael echoed in his mind with brutal clarity.
You’re a weak and terrible leader. Veyrik would be a much better fit.
The accusation bit deeper than any physical wound because part of him—the part that had been questioning his own leadership for decades—wondered if they were right.
