Damon’s POV

The smell of blood never really leaves you.

It clings to your skin, crawls into your head, and stays there, whispering what you could’ve done differently.

That morning, it was everywhere. On the sand. On the air. On me.

I stood over the warrior’s body, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He’d been young -- maybe twenty, quiet, loyal, someone I’d trusted enough to guard the eastern border. His throat was torn open. His eyes were still open too, staring blankly at the sky like he ...