This story is beginning to interest me, mostly because I have no idea where it's going. However, I'm currently enjoying the ride. :)
A brief explanation of the first sentence, for those unfamiliar with Tarot: the Devil is a Major Arcana card, and represents a number of qualities including lust, temptation, and hedonism. The Six of Cups is a Minor Arcana card, and stands for innocence, nostalgia, and unquestioning love. In this case, the former represents Damon's desire for Elena, and the latter represents her devotion to Stefan/her values.)
So...please read, review, and enjoy!
The next time he slipped into her room in the wee hours of the morning, he knew the Devil wouldn't trump the Six of Cups tonight.
She had the light on, shining over the pages of the book she was poring over, and the warm glow of the incandescent bulb caught the filaments of her hair with a shifting spark. She was wearing another of those distractingly low-cut tank tops, this one in a dark blue that set off the silver of her dangling necklace. He wondered if she ever took it off. It was unlikely—he was sure that St. Stefan had told her what could happen if she surrendered that protection. As he watched, she lifted one hand to absentmindedly toy with it, winding the chain around one finger and then letting it loose.
He'd been perched on the edge of the windowsill, watching her with frustration like broken glass in his springwater eyes. Now he waited until she'd turned a page, and before she could draw another breath he was sitting beside her, peering soberly at the upside-down text of what he now realized was Wuthering Heights.
"In the mood for a little Brönte, are we?"
She swallowed a shriek and jolted backwards, nearly knocking the book off her lap to the floor. He caught it quickly and began flipping through the pages, his signature smirk curving one side of his mouth as he skimmed the story of Catherine and her doomed lover. It had been one of his favorite books for nearly a century and a half...ever since he'd lost his own Katherine to the empty dark.
Elena was staring at him, her eyes wide and accusing, and he shook himself back into the reality of the moment. It would do him no good to think of the past now. And so, slamming the book shut, he laid it back onto her knees and smiled disarmingly.
"I didn't know you had a thing for star-crossed lovers, darling," he murmured mockingly. "You and my dear brother have always been so...happy...together."
She glared at him, apparently fully recovered from the shock of his unexpected arrival.
"Get off my bed, Damon," she snarled, shoving at his arm uselessly. His grin widened, not least because she'd already gotten her hands on him and he hadn't even been there five minutes. This was going to be a good night.
"Now, now, Elena," he said reproachfully. "It's not nice to push people. Didn't you learn anything in kindergarten?"
Her eyes spit daggers at him, and he clutched his heart in mock agony.
"Oh, the glare, the glare," he moaned theatrically. "How will I ever recover?"
She lifted her book and whacked his chest with it, which gave him the chance to run his eyes covertly over her slim torso. He had to admit...he had a thing for this camisole-wearing habit of hers. If he were Stefan, he'd buy her an entire closet of the things. Hell, he might do it anyway, Stefan or no Stefan.
She came in for a second blow, and he scooted back a bit so she'd stop hitting him with things. Eyes fixed warily on him, she curled up defensively under the coverlet, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping both arms around them. He didn't mind playing the game with her, and so he spread out, lounging leisurely on one elbow, and shot her his best innocent eyelash flutter. But then she looked down at him with those melting chocolate eyes, and something in him kindled, a tension that settled low in his gut and thrummed there like a plucked chord. This might not be the night...but he knew he was getting closer to the brink every minute he was there. On the spur of the moment, he scooted to the end of the bed and safety, which in this case translated to Elena being out of arm's reach.
"So," he said brightly in an almost-perfect imitation of Caroline's ditzy voice, "why exactly is Miss Elena Gilbert up so late, reading Victorian romance novels and nibbling on..." he paused to inspect the plate on the nightstand, "homemade chocolate chip cookies?"
She gave him a speaking glance.
"Maybe because I want to, Damon," she pointed out. "Besides, it's hardly your business what I'm doing or when. You're not even supposed to be here, technically."
He brushed away the retort with a languid gesture.
"Technicalities, my dear, are the bane of an artistic existence. Avoid them whenever possible. Otherwise, you'll end up like..." he paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. She raised a mocking eyebrow.
"Like whom? Someone who doesn't consider passers-by in terms of tasty midnight snacks?"
His lips twitched before he could stop himself. He'd always loved her biting sense of humor.
"Darling," he shook his head sadly. "Don't remind me of my brother. I was having a pleasant night."
She gave him another dirty look and opened her book again.
"If you're just going to sit there and insult Stefan, you can leave," she said nastily. "I'm busy."
Between the space of one blink and the next, he was curled up beside her on the pillows, scanning the page along with her. She gasped in surprise and dug an admonitory elbow into his ribs.
"What the hell are you doing, Damon? This is not reading hour in the third grade. Go get your own story."
He grinned, lightning-fast and hot as banked embers.
"But you seem to be having trouble sleeping, cherie," he murmured throatily. "Don't you think you need a little help?"
"Not from you," she shot back, but he'd already noticed the goosebumps that had risen on her arms. His eyes flicked appreciatively up and down, noting the slight flush of her cheeks and the soft patter of her heartbeat. She might pretend that he was evil incarnate, but her body knew better. And he was insanely tempted to give her what she wanted whether she asked him or not.
Before he could make up his mind, she swallowed hard and deliberately raised her book until the worn red binding brushed the end of his nose.
"Get out of here, Damon," she said crossly, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "Go away and let me go to sleep."
One long pale finger inexorably brought the novel down until her eyes met his over the top of the binding.
"You won't sleep tonight, Elena," he told her, voice husky and rich with implication. "I don't have to be a witch to know that. But if it's what you want...well, good luck trying."
Before she could react, he leaned in and swiftly kissed the tip of her nose, smiling at the sound of the breath freezing in her lungs.
"I figured you probably wouldn't let me tuck you in," he said, and grabbed a cookie off the plate on her nightstand on his way over to the window.
"Sleep tight, Elena," he whispered mockingly, and then he was gone, swallowed up into the night, the only evidence of his brief visit the faint scent of Armani and the cookie crumbs left on her plate. Outside her window, poised on the outer edge of the sill, he watched as she shook her head, bemused, and stared sightlessly at her book for a long moment before sighing and flicking off the light. Oh, yes. He had gained ground tonight. And though the cards hadn't played out as he'd hoped they would, he knew that this evening he'd tipped the balance in his favor, if only for a short while. A temporary setback didn't matter.
There was a new hand every night.
