Chapter 70: Whispers of the Past
The days of travel north were cloaked in an eerie stillness, each mile marked not by distance but by the pressure building in Isla’s chest.
They rode in silence, her fingers tight around the reins, the horse’s rhythmic gait doing little to distract her from the gnawing sense of inevitability. Beside her, Damian was a silent sentinel, unflinching and unreadable, but she could feel the weight of his concern in every glance, in the way his horse shifted closer to hers when the shadows between the trees grew longer.
The wind carried more than the bite of winter. It carried whispers, a scent of damp moss, forgotten blood and magic so old it left a metallic taste on her tongue.
Vincent was waiting and so was the past. The First Bloodline.
Those golden eyes haunted her waking thoughts, not just lingering behind her eyelids but burning into the space behind her ribs. They were no longer dream fragments. They were real. They were summoning her, dragging her across time and memory toward a fate she hadn’t asked for but could no longer escape.
A voice sliced through her thoughts like a blade.
“We should stop for the night.”
Damian’s tone was calm, but Isla caught the way his eyes scanned the treeline before settling on her. She blinked and looked toward the horizon, molten gold spilling across the sky as the sun dipped low. Around them, warriors moved with practiced ease, dismounting, checking weapons, and preparing for another restless night.
Isla exhaled, her voice tinged with frustration. “Another night of waiting.”
Damian reached for her reins with one hand and her fingers with the other, brushing her knuckles with a firm tenderness. “We’ll get our answers soon.”
She nodded, but the pit in her stomach said otherwise. She wasn’t sure she wanted them anymore.
Night fell with bone-deep cold.
They’d chosen an old outpost, half stone, half ruin and nestled between crooked trees and timeworn boulders. The fire crackled low, its flickering light casting long shadows that moved like ghosts across the cracked walls. Isla sat cross-legged near the hearth, blade in hand, its edge sliding over a whetstone in slow, unconscious rhythm.
Across the fire, Alaine and Leo spoke quietly, their expressions grim. Magnus and Cassian argued over strategy in clipped tones, their voices taut with urgency. Brienne lingered near the treeline, unmoving, her silhouette draped in silence. Then, she felt him.
Damian.
His presence curled around her before she saw him, like smoke, like heat. When he sat beside her, he didn’t speak at first. But she felt his gaze, heavy, knowing and watching her with a hunger that went deeper than flesh.
“You’re different,” he said finally.
Isla’s fingers slowed on the blade. “You’ve said that before.”
“This time…” He leaned closer, his voice low, roughened with something more than worry. “This time, I don’t think even you can deny it.”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t. Her throat tightened. The truth clung to her skin like frost.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she murmured.
A beat of silence. Then his voice, so quiet she almost missed it: “I do.”
Her heart stumbled. She turned to him slowly, her breath catching at the intensity in his silver eyes.
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned in, his scent enveloping her. Earth, steel, fire. His fingers brushed her cheek, featherlight and reverent.
“I think you were always meant to be more than you thought you were,” he said.
Her heart twisted. “I don’t want to be more.” Her voice broke. “I just want to be…”
“Mine,” he finished, his hand tilting her face toward his.
She gasped at the power in that word, mine, not a demand, not a plea. But an irreverent truth.
Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. His thumb traced along her jaw and it felt like a brand.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he whispered.
That pull… the thrum in her bones when he was near. The hunger that ignited between them with every look, every breath.
“Yes,” she breathed.
That single word undid him. In an instant, Damian surged forward, pinning her gently against the stone wall, his body pressing into hers with feral precision.
She moaned, the cold rock at her back a stark contrast to the heat rolling off his skin.
“I’ve been patient,” he growled against her neck, lips grazing the tender place just beneath her jaw. “But every time I look at you, I want to mark you all over again.”
Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer.
“Then stop holding back,” she challenged.
A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, primal and dangerous. “Careful what you ask for, little wolf.”
His mouth claimed hers, not with restraint but need. Their kiss was wild, consuming—months of tension erupting all at once. Isla melted into him, letting the chaos go.
His hands roamed over her curves, possessive and aching. She arched into him, her body burning for more, for everything.
Then he dropped to his knees. The world fell away.
“Damian…” Her voice trembled as his fingers slid beneath her clothes.
“Let me worship you,” he rasped, lips trailing lower, reverent and ravenous.
His mouth met her skin and she shattered, the cold forgotten, the fire forgotten, only his touch mattered. Only him.
In hat moment, there was no past, no prophecy.
Only the present and the man who would set the world ablaze to claim her.