Chapter 20 - Layla
The sound of him hitting the ground didn’t seem real.
One moment, Dominic was standing, his eyes burning with fury, and the next, his knees buckled, his body folding in on itself like something had been cut loose inside him. The noise that escaped him wasn’t a groan or a growl but a crack, sharp and wrong, as if the air itself had split.
“Dominic!”
Layla was already moving before she realized it, crossing the courtyard and dropping to her knees beside him.
The frost bit through her skirts, but she barely felt it.
She caught his shoulders, shaking him, searching for the steady weight of his breathing.
His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, the faintest tremor running through him.
“Dominic, please—”
His name felt strange on her tongue. Too soft, too desperate.
She pressed her ear to his chest. There was a heartbeat, faint and irregular, and the sound of it sent a jolt of hope through her, but it wasn’t right. The rhythm stuttered, hesitated. His skin was cold. Too cold.
Behind her, someone swore under their breath.
Layla turned. Theodore stood a few paces away, his face drained of color. The fury that had twisted him moments ago was gone, replaced by something far worse, blank horror. His mouth worked soundlessly before any words came out.
Julian was at her side, hands moving over Dominic’s form, clinical and practiced. She sat back on her heels, hands pressed into her face, tears falling freely. She needed to do something. To help. Anything.
Theodore was moving now, pacing, his boots crunching against the frost. His hands raked through his hair, his breath coming too fast. “No. No, this isn’t-—he’s fine. He was fine.”
Layla swallowed hard, her voice barely steady. “Theodore, we have to get help—”
“No,” Julian’s voice cracked like a whip, “we need to get him upstairs. Theo?”
Layla turned to her brother, silently begging him to do something, to help them. Her brother stared at Dominic’s body, his eyes half-wild.
“I…” he said, finally looking up and meeting Layla’s gaze. There was something broken in his face, something small and hopeless, “I can’t…I’m sorry.”
He turned and ran.
Layla reached out after him, a noise breaking free from her chest.
Julian hissed a curse before getting onto one knee and hauling Dominic’s body up over his shoulder, rising to his feet with a grunt.
“Come on,” he said to Layla, “quickly, now.”
She hurried after Julian as he somehow managed to silently slip past the open door to the bar, the noise of the pack members within loud and pounding in her head. Julian took the stairs two at a time, managing Dominic’s leaden form as if he were light as a pillow.
Layla wasn’t shocked. Julian didn’t have Dominic’s pure muscle, but he was taller, and he was an alpha.
Julian soundlessly kicked open the door to the small bedroom next to Dominic’s office and settled him on the bed, the same one Dominic had tucked her into after their mating.
She swallowed the memory. Now wasn’t the time.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Julian said, his eyes like chipped obsidian. “I have a few ideas, but…”
“But what?” Layla asked, her voice frantic as she darted past him, fretting over Dominic’s listless body.
Julian ran a hand through his hair. “Shifters shouldn’t collapse like that. Something’s happened. Something’s…”
He blinked, then focused his gaze on her, jaw working. “Stay here. I need to go consult with the priest.”
“The priest?” Layla repeated, mouth falling open.
“Yes, the priest,” he replied through gritted teeth, already halfway to the door, “if I’m right…”
“Julian,” she said, tears of distress welling, “what are you talking about? Please, you have to tell me what’s wrong with him!”
“I’ll be back soon,” Julian said, hand on the door. “Watch over him, Luna.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Layla blinked back her tears, turning back to Dominic, panic clawing her throat.
“Dominic,” she whispered, leaning close. “Please. Wake up.”
Nothing.
The sound of his breathing was static, rasping, sometimes stopping for so long she thought it had ended entirely before starting again in a weak gasp. His skin was cold, his lips pale. His skin was ice-cold to the touch despite the warmth of the room.
She pressed her palm to his chest. Beneath her hand, his heart fluttered like a dying bird.
Layla’s throat tightened.
She didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t care. All she knew was that he was slipping away.
She looked around the room, her breath shaking. All the noise and commotion were coming from downstairs. She was alone. No one would see her here. No one would hear her.
Her fingers brushed the inside of her coat, finding the small, worn pouch she kept hidden, a piece of stitched leather holding a few dried herbs, a cracked flint, and the thin coil of twine she used for her spells.
Her hand hesitated.
If anyone found out—
No. It didn’t matter.
Her gaze fell back to Dominic.
He looked almost peaceful now, like a statue, every sharp angle of him rendered with strength and precision.
But she could feel it, the wrongness humming through him.
His energy, the wild, living thing that defined every shifter, had dimmed.
It felt muffled, distant, as though buried deep beneath the skin.
Layla took a slow breath, her throat tight, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Then she began.
She pulled the twine from her pocket, unraveling it with shaking fingers. It was blackened from use, rough to the touch. She wound it in a loose circle on his chest, her movements jerky.
She wasn’t sure if she’d even be able to do the spell; she so rarely performed magic away from her altar, but she had to try.
Her voice trembled as she whispered the invocation, the old words spilling from memory. The air seemed to shift, faintly trembling, a pulse of something unseen pressing against her skin. It was a simple spell. A healing spell. One she’d only ever performed on herself.
It was hard, doing the calculations in her head as she spoke. Dominic was so much bigger than her, his alpha nature so different from whatever it was inside of her. She needed to balance her words, her energy, to make sure she didn’t do too much or too little.
With a deep breath, she pressed her palms to his chest, “Please,” she murmured, “let this work.”
The warmth began almost instantly, soft at first, then stronger, blooming under her hands. The energy threaded through her, slow and tentative, then faster, flooding the connection between them.
Her heartbeat quickened. She felt her body respond to it, drinking in the magic and pouring it out again, a rhythm as old as breath.
Beneath her palms, Dominic’s pulse began to stutter, reacting to her touch. The bond between them flared, bright and sharp, sending a shock through her chest. She gasped and nearly drew back, but forced herself to stay still.
His energy pulsed against hers, chaotic, burning, too strong.
The connection wasn’t clean. Shifter magic and witchcraft were so different. The power recoiled, sparking through her arms, leaving a trail of cold fire in her veins. But she kept her focus. She’d spent years forcing the two natures to bend to each other, to accommodate each other.
“Lunarion,” she whispered, her breath catching, “please. Don’t take him yet.”
The words weren’t part of the spell. They were a plea. A prayer. She didn’t know who she was praying to anymore. The shifter God, the human God, it didn’t matter.
Her vision blurred. The light beneath her hands flickered, struggling to hold. She felt the energy beginning to drain her, pulling strength from her bones, her breath.
Still, she didn’t stop.
The bond pulsed again, hard enough to make her wince. She felt it then, his presence, faint but steady, flickering just beneath the surface. A heartbeat, a thought, a sound.
It filled her mind in a rush, a wild, half-formed echo of what he was. His power, his fury, his pain.
For a heartbeat, it felt like she could see through his eyes. The world was black fire and salt air, the taste of iron on his tongue, the endless pull of the sea.
And underneath it, a single, steady drumbeat of emotion. Not fear. Not rage.
Hers.
The realization hit her like a shock. The bond wasn’t just humming, it was calling. Reaching. The tether between them glowed so brightly now she could almost see it, a thin thread of silver light running from her chest to his.
Her control faltered. The magic surged, unpredictable, spilling out of her like water through a broken dam. The air grew heavy, the mist thickening, the faint smell of ozone curling through the small room.
Layla gasped, breaking the circle with one trembling hand. The light dimmed instantly, the warmth draining from her skin. She staggered back on her heels, breath ragged.
The silence returned.
Dominic didn’t move.
Her stomach dropped. For a long, terrible moment, she thought she’d made it worse. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her fingers still buzzing with static.
“Dominic?”
Her voice cracked on his name.
No answer.
She reached out again, brushing her fingers over his hand. It was warmer now, only slightly, but enough. His skin no longer felt like ice. His heartbeat had steadied, faint but present.
Relief hit her so hard she almost sobbed.
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, half laughing, half crying. “Okay,” she whispered, her breath fogging in the cold, “okay. It worked. You’re all right. You’re—”
She broke off when his fingers twitched beneath hers.
Her breath caught.
She leaned in, whispering, “Dominic?”
His chest rose once, shallow and uncertain, then again, stronger.
Layla’s heart stuttered. She reached to touch his cheek again, to make sure he was truly breathing, truly there—
And his eyes flickered open.
She exhaled a trembling laugh, half relief, half disbelief, and pressed her hands against her chest, where it ached from holding her breath for so long. “You scared me,” she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
But the sound of her voice seemed to draw him fully awake. The faint slackness in his expression vanished. His gaze sharpened, cold and assessing, sweeping over her face, her hands, the cord still clutched in her fingers.
She started, letting her hand fall, trying to distract him by leaning forward, brushing his hair away from his eyes.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak.
Then his hand moved, fast and deliberate, catching her wrist.
The grip was not violent, but it was firm enough to make her heart leap. She looked up sharply.
His eyes were different. The usual cool blue had gone darker, the color of storm clouds pulled tight across the horizon. The strength in his fingers felt steady now, no tremor or weakness, but his skin was fever-hot.
Her stomach wrenched. He had been asleep, completely unconscious.
Hadn’t he?
She swallowed, forcing a shaky smile onto her face, “How are you feeling?”
Dominic’s eyes didn’t move from her face.
“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she said, pulling her hand back from his, trying to make the move look natural as she pointlessly smoothed the bedding around him, heart pounding like a drum.
“Julian’s going to talk with the priest, he says you shouldn’t have collapsed like that.
But you’re awake now, and there doesn’t seem to be any damage, so I’m sure-”
“Layla,” he said, his voice low and warning, “what were you doing just before I woke up?”
She froze, blood turning to ice. A million different thoughts collided in her head, dizzying in their speed. Should she deny it? Confess? Distract? Run?
His gaze had her pinned in place. There was no softness in his eyes, no space for mercy.
“I was looking after you,” she said, amazed at the steadiness in her voice. Of course, she had been lying for such a long time. She was a seasoned professional. “Making sure you were comfortable.”
His jaw worked, but his piercing eyes finally flitted left of her, fixing on the view of the sea out the window. “I thought that…”
“You’re probably confused,” she said with a half-laugh, too high to truly be relaxed, “why don’t I go and find Julian? I’m sure the priest will want to make sure you’re okay.”
He didn’t move as she bustled around him, fussing with the curtains, the bedcovers, anything to keep her hands from shaking. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself, a nervous wreck with guilt written into every movement.
She forced herself to slow. To breathe deeply. To keep her face serene.
He didn’t know. Not for certain.
She might still get away with it.
As she slipped out the door, she risked one final look at his face. It was sombre, his brow furrowed, the muscles of his jaw tight.
He did not look back at her.