Lila
His weight was impossible.
Thalia and I dragged Damon through the doorway, boots slipping on the wet floor, my hands streaked red where the blood had soaked onto my palms. He wasn’t dead, not yet, but the silence in him was terrible.
No breath, no growl, no spark of the male who had just torn through an army of rogues to protect us.
“On the table,” Thalia said, voice steady though her eyes weren’t. Together we hauled him onto the oak slab I used for mixing salves and sorting herbs. The wood creaked under him, the surface immediately slick with blood.
I pushed his hair from his forehead. His skin was burning and cold at once, as if fever and frost were warring inside him. His pulse fluttered weakly against my fingertips, barely a tremor beneath the ruin of his chest and side.
Gou
