Chapter 68
Elena's POV
I woke to fire.
Not literal fire. But close. My skin felt like it was baking from the inside out. Every breath scraped my throat raw. My head pounded with a rhythm that made thinking impossible.
The clock on the nightstand glowed: 2:47 AM.
I needed water. Medicine. Something.
The room tilted when I sat up. I gripped the edge of the mattress, waiting for the world to stop spinning. It didn't.
Somehow I made it to the door. The hallway stretched endlessly. I used the wall for support, each step a monumental effort.
Downstairs, a single lamp cast long shadows across the living room.
Caleb was there.
Asleep on the couch. A thin blanket draped across his waist.
Why isn't he in his room?
The question floated through my fever-fogged brain, but I couldn't hold onto it.
I took another step.
Caleb's eyes snapped open.
He was on his feet before I could blink, crossing to me in two strides. His hand caught my elbow just as my knees gave out.
"Elena—" His other hand pressed against my forehead. "You're burning up."
He guided me to the couch, disappeared into another room, returned with a medical kit. Pills rattled. Water poured.
"Here." He pushed both into my hands.
I swallowed mechanically. The room swam.
Caleb pulled out a thermometer. Pressed the button. Nothing happened.
"Dead battery." His jaw clenched.
"'S okay," I mumbled. My tongue felt thick. "Medicine'll work..."
He looked at me. Took in my glazed eyes, my shivering, the unhealthy flush on my cheeks.
His expression shifted into something I couldn't read.
Before I could protest, he scooped me up.
"Caleb—what—"
"Back to bed." His voice left no room for argument.
I was too weak to fight. My head lolled against his shoulder as he carried me upstairs, back to the guest room. He set me down carefully, pulled the blanket up.
"I'm going to get a proper thermometer. And better medicine." He was already moving toward the door.
My hand shot out, catching his sleeve. "Don't."
He stopped.
"It's two in the morning. And freezing. You don't have to—"
"Elena." He turned back, crouched beside the bed. His hand covered mine where it gripped his shirt. "I'll be quick. I promise."
His palm was warm. Solid. Real.
"I don't want to be trouble," I whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or anger—not at me, but for me.
"You're not." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "You've never been trouble."
Then he was gone.
I heard his bedroom door. Heard him moving around. Heard his footsteps on the stairs, the garage door, the engine starting.
The sound faded into the snowy night.
And I was alone.
The tears came without warning.
I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound, but they kept coming.
Why is he doing this?
The question wouldn't leave me alone.
I didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve his kindness.
I'd hurt him. Chosen Damon every single time. Stood by while his family destroyed him. Looked away when it mattered most.
The contrast was unbearable.
---
Damon's POV
I gripped the steering wheel tight, jaw locked. The engine roared beneath me, but I kept the speed low. Crawling forward. Like everything else in my life.
Elena's father knows.
The thought circled like a predator. He'd probably already called my father.
I told myself it didn't matter. I was the heir. They couldn't—
My phone lit up. BLACKWOOD MANOR - EMERGENCY SUMMONS.
I stared at it. Thumb hovering over "Decline."
Three minutes later, Marcus's private number cut through.
"Come home." His voice could freeze blood. "This is not a request."
Click.
I looked ahead. The hospital where Scarlett was staying was just two miles away. I could keep driving. Pretend I didn't see the call.
But my hands turned the wheel toward Blackwood.
---
Every light on the first floor blazed. They'd lit up the manor like a crime scene.
I killed the engine. Sat in the sudden quiet.
This is bad.
The front door opened before I touched it. My father stood in the marble foyer, hands clasped behind his back, spine rigid. Dark suit. Tie perfect. Every inch the Alpha.
My mother sat in the side parlor, cashmere shawl draped over her lap, watching me with a complicated expression.
"Close the door," Marcus said.
The lock clicked like a cell.
"Her again?" My father's voice was flat. Deadly.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"Donald called two hours ago," my father said, jaw tight. "With a message about how his daughter covered for you. Lied for you."
"Scarlett is—"
"Connor's daughter." He cut me off. "We already told you about her father's crimes at the last family dinner."
"She's innocent! Her father's crimes aren't—"
"Blood runs true." Marcus stepped closer, and I smelled his rage—hot metal and ozone. "The whole North Territory is talking, Damon. They're saying the Vance heir abandoned his mate for a whore."
"Don't call her that."
"Sweetheart," my mother's voice was anxious. "She's using you. Her heat scent has you so twisted you can't think straight—"
"That's not—"
"End it." Marcus cut through. "Now. Tonight. And beg Elena's forgiveness."
"No."
The word escaped before I could stop it.
Silence.
Then my father moved. One step. And the air changed.
Alpha dominance slammed into me like a physical blow. My knees buckled.
No. No, fuck, not this—
"Still think you're strong enough to defy me?" Marcus's voice came from above. I was on the floor. Down on one knee.
I hated it. Hated myself. Hated him.
"This is your power?" His boot nudged my wrist aside—the wolf equivalent of kicking trash. "This is what you want to protect her with?"
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
"Enough, Marcus." Mother came over to help me up.
Then footsteps sounded on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate. The tap of a cane.