Chapter 18 Isla
EIGHTEEN
ISLA
The library’s oak doors stood slightly ajar, light spilling into the hallway.
Isla paused at the threshold, her breath catching at the unexpected sight that greeted her.
Damon sat in a leather armchair near the tall windows, completely absorbed in a book.
The moonlight caught the highlights in his dark hair, and for once, his sharp features looked relaxed rather than guarded.
He’d changed into khaki pants and a black shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, but it was the peaceful expression on his face that made her heart do something complicated in her chest.
I never pictured him as someone who reads.
The image warmed her in ways she hadn’t expected. This glimpse of him in an unguarded moment—just a man enjoying a book—felt more intimate than their heated kiss had been.
“What are you reading?” she asked softly, stepping into the room.
Damon’s head lifted, those deep green eyes finding hers immediately. The way his pupils dilated when he took in her appearance sent heat pooling low in her belly.
“Wuthering Heights.” He held up the worn book, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a classic, though I probably relate to the hero of the story a bit too well—a man with trauma who can’t process his pain effectively.”
Isla’s stomach did a slow flip. “That’s one of my all-time favorite books.”
“Is it?” His eyebrows rose with genuine interest, and she caught a glimpse of what he might be like when he wasn’t constantly on guard—curious, engaged, almost boyish in his enthusiasm.
At least if conversation fails tonight, we can talk about books, she thought, some of her nervousness easing.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” The words came out more breathless than she’d intended. “In the dining room, I mean. Nothing fancy, just...”
“Yes.” The response was immediate, almost eager, and Damon was already rising from the chair with fluid grace. His height still caught her off guard—the way he seemed to fill the space around him without even trying. “I’d like that very much.”
The genuine pleasure in his voice made her smile. “Follow me, then.”
They walked through the estate’s elegant corridors in companionable silence, Isla hyperaware of his presence beside her—the way he moved with predatory quiet despite his size and the scent of spice and warmth that seemed to cling to his skin.
When they reached the dining room, Damon moved ahead to pull out her chair with old-fashioned courtesy that made her pulse skip.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he settled beside her at the head of the long table.
The kitchen staff had outdone themselves—roasted chicken with herbs, fresh vegetables, and wine that probably cost more than Isla made in a week.
But despite the beautiful meal spread before them, tension settled over the table like a heavy blanket.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the clink of silverware against china unnaturally loud in the spacious room.
This is ridiculous, Isla thought. We’re both acting like teenagers on a first date.
Finally, Damon set down his fork and looked at her directly.
“I want you to know—I wasn’t trying to violate your boundary by staying here.
After what happened today, I saw no alternative.
Evelina needs supervision during her recovery, and more importantly.
..” His jaw tightened. “I need to protect you. Both of you.”
The raw honesty in his voice caused her chest to ache. “I know you wouldn’t stay here unless it was absolutely necessary. I’m not upset with you about it.”
“I’ll still respect your need for space,” he continued, his tone carefully controlled. “I won’t pressure you or make assumptions about what this means.”
Isla studied his face—the careful control he wore like armor, the tension in his shoulders that suggested he was bracing for more rejection. “Why don’t we just take it one day at a time for now?”
Relief flickered across his features. “That sounds good.”
She took a sip of wine, gathering her courage. “So, Evelina told me more about the raid. About your parents, and the clan members who died. She said you saved her life that night—and that you blame yourself for the tragedy.”
Damon went very still, his knuckles whitening around his wine glass. For a moment, Isla thought he might shut down again. Instead, he took a shaky breath and met her eyes.
“That was the worst night of my life.”
The statement carried the weight of a century’s worth of pain, and Isla found herself leaning forward instinctively, drawn by the vulnerability he was finally allowing her to see.
“I was out with Sylvie—my girlfriend at the time—when my uncle called.” Damon’s voice grew distant, as if he were watching the memory play out in front of him.
“He asked for the security code to the estate. This estate, actually. This was my childhood home, where I lived before...” He gestured vaguely around the elegant dining room.
“We’d changed the codes recently because of some security concerns, but I never suspected my uncle might be behind those concerns. I thought I could trust him.”
“So you gave him the code,” she said gently, not a question.
“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.