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What if Damon took Elena in the one way that Stefan never can?

Stefan POV

I knew from the moment that I first laid eyes on Elena that if I stayed, I would ruin her life. But I could not have imagined it would come to this.

For weeks there would be nothing, and then one day I would find her with a set of puncture marks on her wrist, or her waist, or her neck, or a series of marks trailing toward her bra. Sometimes there would be a deep scratch on her stomach or her thigh. And always his scent mingled with her blood, taunting me. Damon was driving me mad. Exactly as he intended.

What did he want? Maybe he wanted me to snap from the temptation and drink Elena's blood myself. Or to attack him in a rage, then get the better of me and kill me. Or maybe he just wanted to see how far she would let him go.

He certainly wanted to take her from me. The ultimate revenge.

I had to see it for myself. Force myself to watch. I left the house, doubled back, and hid from view. She was in my bedroom when he found her. I could see him savor the idea of having her in my own space and leaving the evidence strewn about for me to find.

He came to her and Elena fought him. Refused to surrender easily. She was always strong willed because she refused to see herself a victim. Even though she knew that Damon preferred it that way, she couldn't help resisting. She was nothing if not loyal. She quarreled with him, made him angry, told him the truth about himself. But she knew better than to run.

Damon took what he came for anyway.

I watched, transfixed and sick to my stomach, as Damon ripped her shirt open in the back and drew a deep, deliberate scratch across her lower back. Rivulets of dark blood opened up, dripping down into her curves below. He paused for a moment in anticipation then drew his tongue along the wound. His hands puckered her skin on either side, drawing up fresh reserves, his tongue retracing the trail down just to the slope of her bottom.

She winced, a small groan. I gripped the banister with balled fists, at war with myself. What kind of a man was I, that I could not even protect her from my own brother. Everything in me screamed to intervene. To impale him and be done with it.

And I would have. I would have broken my tacit agreement to let this sick theater play out all on the small chance that my brother could again be rescued from his own demons. Only one thing stopped me. He was stronger and I had to know what I was up against. How deep his feelings for her went. If I went for him, would he kill her first?

By the time Damon had lifted Elena onto the bed for the main event, he had made sure that her blood had trailed onto the carpet and walls all around the room. To invade my senses and torture me later. He could not know how well it was already working. Her aroma was everywhere.

Damon stared down at his prey with great interest. He nuzzled her cheek, her exposed neck, skimmed her chest, and finally bit her in the soft flesh of her waist. She cried out in pain. Still drinking her, Damon reached out and clasped her hand to comfort her. The scene was unbearable but I could not look away.

When he was finished he rose and pressed a cloth into her side to staunch the flow. She simply watched him, the dark pools of her eyes meeting his gaze. Now, now, he said. Don't look at me like that. You could have just said no. But Damon took another cloth and applied it to her sweaty forehead. His sudden gentleness did not seem to surprise her.

How long are you going to do this, she asked him. It's killing Stefan.

His eyes flashed darkly. It's killing me too, he said. This is the only way I can ever have you.

She whispered, you don't have me, Damon. You're hurting me.

Damon sat down next to her on the bed. He caressed her cheek. You need rest. I can make you sleep, he offered. She gave a short nod and wordlessly removed her vervain necklace. Her gesture of trust was unnerving.

Damon put his hands on either side of her face and looked into her eyes until she dropped into a deep sleep, peace relaxing her features. One small tear had escaped her closing eyelid. Damon brushed it away with his thumb. He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth, then turned and left the room.

She was left for me there, asleep in my own bed. Blood dripped from a crescent shape in the soft flesh of her waist. Half had dried, half still ran lazily in a deep red rivulet down her side and into my sheets. Her hair was tousled, her clothes torn in places, revealing her rib cage.

Elena was so still I checked her pulse to reassure myself. Then I climbed into bed beside her, wrapping her into my arms. One thing was clear. She would not forgive me for killing my own brother. For giving up on him. Because she hadn't.

That was why I loved her. And why I would have to live another day under Damon's slow torture.