“Isla.” Her name rumbled from deep in his chest, his strong arms encircling her with desperate intensity. The familiar scent of him filled her lungs, grounding her in the reality that they had survived this nightmare.
“Are you hurt?” His hands moved over her, checking for injuries even as his own blood seeped between her fingers where she pressed against his side. “Did they?—”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, pulling back just enough to meet those blazing green eyes. “But you’re bleeding again. And we need to get back to the island. Help your people.”
“My people have it under control.” His voice carried absolute conviction, the tone of an Alpha who trusted his clan completely. “They can defend our territory without me.”
When had that changed?
Now he spoke with the confidence of a leader who knew his people’s strength.
“Sit down then,” she commanded. “I need to find a first aid kit.”
For a moment, she thought he might argue—that familiar stubborn set to his jaw that suggested he’d rather power through the pain than show weakness. But then his expression softened, and he allowed her to guide him to one of the deck chairs.
The yacht’s medical supplies were surprisingly comprehensive, and Isla worked with steady hands to clean and bandage the wound. It wasn’t as deep as she’d initially feared, though it would need proper attention from the clan’s healers once they returned home.
Home.The word settled in her mind with surprising ease.
“There,” she said, securing the last of the bandages. “That should hold until we can get you proper treatment.”
Damon’s gaze had drifted to where Kaelith’s body lay motionless on the deck, his bright blue eyes staring sightlessly at the cloudless sky. The anguish that flickered across Damon’s features made her heart clench.
“He was trying to save me at the end,” Isla said softly, following his line of sight. “He wanted to stop this. Veyrik killed him because he tried to back out.”
Damon’s jaw tightened, grief and regret warring in his expression. “I wish it hadn’t come to this. But knowing he tried to redeem himself in the end... it gives me some peace.”
The raw honesty in his voice broke something open in her chest. This was the man she’d fallen in love with—not the controlled Alpha who never showed weakness, but the one who could grieve for a friend even after that friend’s betrayal.
His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones with reverent gentleness.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, his voice roughened with emotion. “When the bond went silent, I?—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she interrupted, covering his hands with hers. “You’re stuck with me.”
Their kiss that followed was desperate and tender. She could taste his relief, his gratitude, and underneath it all, the unshakeable certainty that whatever dangers this world might hold, they would face them together.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DAMON
The sunrise painted the horizon in shades of amber and coral, while each wave caught the early light like scattered jewels across the Pacific. Damon sat motionless on his back deck, his large frame settled into the weathered teak chair that had become his morning refuge. The familiar weight of solitude pressed against him, but it felt different now—less like armor and more like an old coat he’d outgrown.
Seven days had passed since Veyrik’s demise. Seven days since Kaelith’s lifeless eyes had stared up at a sky that would never again witness his mischievous grin or hear his easy laughter. The memory hit Damon like a dagger to the heart, tightening his chest until breathing became a conscious effort.
Two weeks ago, I sat in this exact spot, drowning in a century-old betrayal.
His uncle’s treachery had carved permanent scars across his soul—the manipulation, the security code willingly given, the bodies of his parents in pools of their own blood. For a hundred years, that night had defined him, shaped every decision, every relationship, every moment of isolation he’d chosen over connection.
Now I’m drowning in a fresh betrayal.
But this one felt different. Sharper. More personal, if such a thing were possible.
Kaelith hadn’t been a blood relative seeking power through violence. He’d been a brother in everything but name, a friend who’d pulled Damon back from the edge of self-destruction more times than either of them had counted. The man who’d shouldered the burden of leadership when Damon had retreated into his fortress of solitude, never once complaining about the weight of responsibilities that weren’t rightfully his.
And I let him carry that weight for a century.
The guilt sat heavy in Damon’s chest, different from the guilt he’d carried over his parents’ deaths. This wasn’t about failing to see a threat—this was about creating the conditions that had bred resentment in the first place. Kaelith’s words, as relayed by Isla, echoed through his mind with brutal clarity.
