Chapter 27 Damon
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.
How had he missed the signs? How had he let traitors walk freely among his people, close enough to orchestrate an ambush in the heart of his own territory?
His jaw clenched as rage built in his chest, hot and consuming.
Somewhere on this island, more of his clan members might be plotting against him, feeding information to Veyrik, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.
The need to move, to hunt down every potential threat, to interrogate each clan member until he rooted out the corruption, burned through him like dragon fire. His muscles tensed as he prepared to swing his legs over the side of the bed, consequences be damned.
A gentle but firm hand pressed against his chest, stopping him before he could rise.
“You aren’t going anywhere in this condition.” Isla’s voice carried that soft authority he was beginning to recognize—the tone she used when she’d made up her mind about something and wouldn’t be swayed. “You’re too weak and need time to heal.”
Weak.
There was that word again, delivered with concern rather than contempt, but it still hit like a physical blow. His green eyes flashed as he looked up at her, seeing the worry etched in her delicate features.
“I can’t just sit here in bed while my people work against me,” he growled, his voice rough from healing drugs.
Every word sent a spike of pain through his ribs, but he pushed through it.
“Clearly an alliance with Veyrik has already been formed. They wanted us both dead today, Isla. Dead and out of the way.”
The memory of those crucial moments in the park flashed through his mind—the calculated gleam in the young dragons’ eyes as they revealed their true allegiance, and the sight of Kalis and Sylara emerging from the shadows like harbingers of his worst nightmare.
How many others had been watching, waiting, biding their time?
“Kaelith is working on it,” Isla said, settling into the chair beside his bed with the fluid grace that always caught his attention.
“He said he wants you to just focus on your recovery right now.” Her hazel eyes searched his face, reading the frustration and fury he couldn’t quite mask.
“You can trust Kaelith, right? Hasn’t he been your second-in-command and best friend for a century? ”
The question cut through his rage like a blade, forcing him to consider what he knew with absolute certainty.
Kaelith, who had stood by him through the darkest period of his life.
Kaelith, who had pushed him to reconnect with his clan and Isla even when Damon resisted.
Kaelith, who had risked his own safety countless times in service to both Damon and their people.
“Let Kaelith focus on that while you rest,” Isla continued, her voice carrying a note of steel beneath the gentleness.
Damon’s head fell back against the pillows, the fight draining out of him as logic warred with instinct. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Kaelith has been handling my duties for a long time, being the acting leader while I’ve isolated myself for a century. He can handle this too.”
The admission brought with it a wave of something that might’ve been gratitude or shame—he couldn’t quite tell which.
How many times had Kaelith stepped in to fill the void Damon’s withdrawal had created?
How many decisions had his friend made, how many problems had he solved, while Damon hid away in his beach house like a wounded animal?
“Kaelith is a great friend and leader,” Damon continued, his voice quieter now. “I’m grateful for everything he’s done, everything he’s put up with while I’ve been cowering from my people.”
“Well, you aren’t cowering anymore,” Isla said firmly. “You’re just injured. And once you’re feeling better, we can get to the bottom of this, and work with Kaelith to handle the disloyal clan members.”
The certainty in her voice, the way she spoke of the future as if she had no doubt he would overcome this, sent warmth through him. Here was his mate, his human mate who had every reason to flee this dangerous world, speaking as if she intended to stand beside him through whatever came next.
“Yes,” he said, the word carrying the weight of a vow. “Once I’m better, we’ll get to the bottom of this. The disloyal members will be exiled, and then I can focus on strengthening and stabilizing the clan again.”
“That’s a good plan,” Isla agreed, reaching out to smooth an errant strand of dark hair from his forehead. Her touch was cool against his fevered skin, soothing in a way that made his dragon purr with contentment. “But now you just need to rest.”
Damon closed his eyes, trying to let the healing drugs pull him back toward unconsciousness.
But even as his body began to relax, his mind churned with questions and plans.
The betrayal ran deeper than he’d imagined and rooting it out would require more than brute force—it would require the kind of careful, methodical approach that had kept his clan safe for over a century.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that it would also require trust—the very thing that had been his downfall before.
The moon cast silver ribbons through the heavy curtains when Damon stirred again, his body protesting the movement with sharp reminders of the day’s violence.
Hours had slipped by in a haze of healing drugs and restless sleep, but consciousness brought with it the awareness that he wasn’t alone.
Isla sat in the chair beside his bed, her auburn hair catching the moonlight as she leaned forward to check his bandages with gentle fingers.
The sight of her there—still there, after everything—sent something warm and fierce through his chest that had nothing to do with dragon fire.
“You don’t have to do that,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and medication.
Her hazel eyes met his, unwavering and determined. “Yes, I do.”
She dipped a cloth in cool water and pressed it to his fevered forehead, the simple gesture somehow more intimate than their passionate nights together. Her touch was sure and gentle, like she’d been caring for wounded dragons her entire life instead of discovering their existence just days ago.
“I’m your mate,” she continued, her voice carrying that quiet strength that never failed to steady him.
“It’s my duty to tend to you and make sure you’re recovering properly.
I was so scared I was going to lose you today.
” Her fingers brushed against his temple, smoothing back his dark hair.
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now, Damon. ”
The raw honesty in her admission hit him unexpectedly hard. This woman—this brave, beautiful woman who had every reason to run screaming from his dangerous world—had chosen to stay by his side through the worst of it. While he’d been injured and vulnerable, she’d been his guardian. His anchor.
His salvation.