The moment you step into the boarding house, something feels off. The usual scent of bourbon lingers in the air, but there’s something else—something sharp, metallic. Blood.

Your stomach twists. You follow the scent, heart pounding against your ribs.

Then you see him.

Damon is slumped on the couch, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his skin unnaturally pale. His breathing is ragged, his jaw clenched tight as he grips his arm—his infected arm.

Your eyes widen in horror as you take in the dark, angry veins creeping from the wound. The werewolf bite.

You breathe his name and rush to his side.

He flinches at your touch but doesn’t push you away. Instead, he lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Surprise,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “Guess I’m not as untouchable as I thought.”

The sight of him like this—vulnerable, in pain—shakes you to your core. You swallow hard, your fingers hovering over his burning skin. You tell him that he should have told you.

Damon tilts his head, his blue eyes duller than usual. “What would you have done, Cassandra?” His lips curl into a weak smirk. “Held my hand while I died?”