A/N: Thank you to all of you who have shown your support thus far! I know I'm a slow writer, and you've been absolutely wonderful – it means more to me than you could know, please keep it up!

With this chapter, please remember that it's very early stages in the fic; so obviously, however they feel towards one another (and what they may declare/say) is subject to change! Just trust me, and enjoy!


III.


The night had grown bitter and chill by the time their carriage reached the docks. A thick fog had fallen, swathing the waterfront buildings in a grey cover, icing the dark waters and cloaking the boats. If Klaus had been superstitious, he would have accepted the eerie weather as an omen; a final warning, for the line that he was about to cross.

But he wasn't, and took no such notice – only grumbling unfavourably as it bit through any exposed or thinly covered skin.

Soon, his conscience spurred. Soon he would be home; in his climate, with his family safely at his side.

Klaus then stilled, a sudden reality weighing upon him. But where would 'home' be, after all this? Certainly not Nassau. They could never return there. Klaus doubted, after he was granted his family's freedom and location, that the Captain would be so gratuitous as to give them their old lives back too. They were forever changed, and ultimately displaced.

"That ship won't wait," Katherine flatly intercepted, jabbing him roughly in the back with a finger – her other arm crooked tightly about the maid's neck. "So unless you're having second thoughts, and you'd like me to complete the task for you–"

Klaus whipped to face her. "If you don't cease talking, the next thing to come out of your mouth will be your teeth." His mouth thinned, curling into a snarl. "Get her to the ship."

Scowling, Katherine roughly pulled the girl away.

Turning back toward the opened door, Klaus half stepped inside, bringing a charcoal, weathered cloak about the shoulders of his captive, and pulling the hood over her head, concealing her face. Though he doubted she would be noticed, given the weather he'd been blessed with – he couldn't risk someone by slim chance recognising her; not when they were so close to getting away. Considerably, they'd been lucky thus far; he'd only taken the lives of seven people that night – and while a part of him wanted to feel remorseful for that, he had to bury such weakness. Weakness allowed for fear and irrationality; in culmination, all lead to death.

He would be wanted man, as of the next morning when the murders were discovered; he could never return to England (not that he really wanted to) – but regardless, his face would be known to all the King's men. He could never take and honourable job again. And though it were impossible anyway...he could never return to his family's trade. He was forever ruined, and would be forever hunted.

There was now blood on his hands – and an aching suspicion in his conscience forewarned that it was only the beginning.

But the deaths that occurred, had to happen, he internally coached, cleansing himself of any guilt.

He'd had no other choice. He didn't have a choice.

Not when it came to them.

Eyes falling upon the very ticket to his family's freedom, Klaus took the young women up in his arms, and strode into the grey, damp haze – guided by the lanterns that marked the ship awaiting them.

P –

Damon Salvatore was an arrogant, irritating man. A son of the Northern American colonies, he was handsome – dark hair, piercing pale-blue eyes, well-muscled, and boasting a strong square jaw; many a woman would have been fooled into his bed. But he also possessed an inflated sense of self-worth and entitlement – he was too bold; his character and conversation, forced.

This, Klaus had all garnered in the half-an-hour he'd known – and immediately disliked – him.

Graced with his company, as the last of the illegal cargo was stowed away in the hold, Klaus learned the man was not in fact the captain – and much to the man's chagrin, under the command of his younger brother Stefan, at the behest of their father, Giuseppe, who owned the entire company (and apparently – unashamedly – favoured his youngest son).

Damon's hatred and jealously towards his younger brother was transparent and unchastened – but it was something Niklaus himself could understand. With four – now three – brothers of his own, there had been much familial competition; not only had there been other siblings to contest with, but they'd already held something over him: they'd been of Mikaelson blood, and he, the bastard son as a result of his mother's unfaithfulness. It hadn't mattered what he'd ever done to try and surpass them, and win the favour of their father – he had always been inadequate. He had always been a failure.

He could not fail in this endeavour.

The very lives of his family depended on it.

"You might want to head below deck," Damon flatly suggested – although it sounded much more like an order. "We're casting off, and you'll just get in the way."

Klaus went to turn around – but stilled, as his eyes caught something.

"What is she still doing here?" He grit savagely through his teach, moving to remove Katherine himself. He'd told her to leave the moment they'd safely stowed the captives in the brig below. She was supposed to dispose of the carriage; he'd watched her leave the ship himself.

And hadn't seen her return.

Damon laid a strong hand on his shoulder, restraining him. "She stays."

Anger flared hotly in Klaus' chest. "I won't pay for her passage."

"You needn't." Damon's eyes rested on the striking brunette – a lecherous smirk curling on his lips. "She's agreed to pay herself."

Klaus felt his stomach twist; if his brother were ever to know...gods, the distraught and fury. Fucking wench.

Clearly feeling Klaus' judgement, the older Salvatore outwardly chuckled it off. "A man needs company on these long journeys; and she was more than obliging to provide her services. She's no common whore; she's beautiful and trying. I want her for myself. If you have an issue with her aboard, you have a minute to leave the vessel before it launches. Your choice–"

"Brother," a calm voice called, interrupting them. Emerging from his quarters, the Captain directed a look of disapproval at Damon. "You might want to see your company to your quarters; the both of you will only get in the way of my crew." Eyes narrowed in loathing, Damon turned on his heel and strode to Katherine. The younger Salvatore then turned his gaze on Klaus, and smiled apologetically. "Please forgive him; I'd say he just restless to get home, but there really never is any excuse for Damon's spitefulness."

He was a classically handsome young man, presumably in his early twenties. His strong bone structure and deep-set forrest green eyes gave him an air of maturity and intenseness that immediately confirmed why he would have been put in charge over his impulsive, capricious brother.

Presently, like a gentleman, he extended a hand. "Captain Stefan Salvatore."

Clasping and shaking it, Klaus returned the gesture of kindness. "Niklaus Mikaelson."

Stefan didn't even bat an eyelid – and yet he was fully aware of who the man before him was; he made no passing comment, as Damon had. He treated him as he would any other respectable man.

Yes, Klaus could definitely understand why Stefan had been entrusted over Damon.

"I trust your own cargo is secure downstairs?" the young captain enquired.

Klaus nodded, before lowering his voice. "Has your crew been briefed?"

Stefan paused a moment. "Yes."

"You understand the need for discretion, don't you?" Klaus stressed, unsettled by his hesitation. The young man seemed good and honest to be sure – but that was exactly what worried him; he was kind – and kindness could lead to sympathy for the girl's plight. "No one must know, lad. Lives are at stake here."

"And what about hers?" Stefan wondered, stepping away towards the helm. Klaus opened his mouth to respond, but the younger man beat him to it. "You have my word, her presence on this ship will not be known to anyone other than those aboard it now." He began ascending the stairs to the helm, and looked over his shoulder. "Lives are at stake here, after all," he parroted. "Not just those important to you, but everyone under my employ – and my family, if it is ever revealed that we aided your kidnapping the girl."

Klaus pressed his lips together, and nodded in understanding and acceptance. Unfortunately, that was an irrefutable truth; this endeavour to free his family would only continue to snare more innocents in its net. And in the end, it would no longer be solely about his family; others were going to get hurt.

But he couldn't afford to think like that.

Inhaling a deep lungful of the brisk night air, Klaus made for his quarters.

P –

Caroline awoke with a pained grown, head pounding, vision blurred she struggled to emerge from the fogged confines of unconsciousness. Vaguely registering a gentle, damp pressure on her wrists, and then forehead, she was guided out of her drugged haze.

"Thank god," came her handmaiden's trembling, hoarse voice.

"Bonnie," Caroline mumbled almost incoherently, struggling to clear her dry throat. When her friend pressed a metal goblet to her lips, she gulped a mouthful of its contents – before spluttering it out.

Ale.

Limbs heavy, stomach churning, Caroline gripped the floor – straw – and pushed herself up, despite her handmaiden's protests. She stumbled forward with the motion of her prison as it rocked, catching herself on the iron-barred walls of her cell – and surveyed her surrounds.

They shared quarter with stacked crates of cargo and stolen goods; among the likes of produce and furniture. Through crevices between the stacked freight, Caroline spied damp, dark panels of wood. There was no mistaking the dank, salty air that clung to her nostrils, or the faint lapping of water.

She had been raised by the sea, and been on many a ship – and knew for sure, in that very moment, she was aboard one.

And then it returned to her.

That evening – the intruder, his alias.

The kidnapping.

A fresh wave of anger and fear swirled hotly in her chest. Caroline spun around to face Bonnie, who was now on her feet – and couldn't keep the tremble from her voice. "Where are we?...How long have I–?"

"I don't know. We've been sailing a day."

"And in what direction?"

"West, mistress." She paused. "You've been out the entire day; it must have been a severely concentrated dose – and it's very likely he gave you another boost when we were briefly separated."

Caroline pressed a hand to her forehead. "Has he been down here?"

"Nay, a young boy; he brought us the ale and the biscuits."

At the mention of food, Caroline's stomach morphed from a state of queasiness to ravenous hunger; she hadn't in almost a full day. "Where?"

"Sorry?"

"Where are they?"

Bonnie bent, passing a small chipped ceramic plate to her. There were two.

Caroline snatched one, stuffing it in her mouth – not caring that it was already terribly stale. Swallowing, she reached for the second, but halted. "Wait, have you had any?"

Bonnie shook her head. "But go ahead; I'm not hungry."

Caroline's brows creased disapprovingly. "Bonnie." She pushed the plate back to her friend. "Eat."

Reluctantly, the maid complied, nibbling and savouring her ration with a restraint Caroline envied – and in that moment, with a cold chill down her spine, the young Lady became painstakingly aware of how (despite being raised in the West Indies) she was in no way equipped for what lay ahead.

Feeling Bonnie's questioning eyes upon her, she resolved to improve her poker-face, and shook off the threat of her incompetence. "Now listen to me," she commanded. "Under no circumstance – no matter what happens – should you value my life above yours. Do not starve or deny yourself sustenance on my account. It is my fault that you're here, and in danger. I will not let you suffer any further. Do you understand?"

Bonnie swallowed, eyes averting hers.

"Bonnie."

They caught hers, and they were moist. "It's my job to look out to you–"

"No, as friends, it's our duty to look out for each other." Caroline took the plate from her, and set it down on the floor. Straightening, she then sandwiched Bonnie's hands between her own. "We're going to find a way out of this, I promise you."

"Such optimism!" Called a voice – a voice wry with mockery and contempt. Its owner descended the stairs into the hold and proceeded to clap slowly.

She'd only met him once, but the sound of her captor's voice was as familiar to her and engrained as that of a more familiar acquaintance.

"I commend you," the man continued, chuckling; no longer swathed by light, they could see him in his imposing entirety.

"What do you want?" Caroline venomously spat, teeth gritted.

"The watchman at your door alerted me that you were awake," he responded, gesturing to her – smirk plastered to her face. "I merely wanted to make sure that my cargo was in good health. And, to advise her against any fantasies of escaping." His eyes darkened – and his voice lowered. "Should she liberate herself from this brig."

"And what makes you think I would know how to do that?" She contested. "I'm a Lady, not a locksmith; something you'd do well to remember, in confining my maid and I to a common criminal's cell."

Eyes sparking in interest, he clasped his hands behind his back, and slowing stepped up to the wrought-iron that separated them. "You wouldn't – but she would." His eyes rested on Bonnie, before they darted back and coldly held Caroline's. "I have not forgotten your position, milady; it is, after all, what has gotten you into this predicament – and it's why you will stay exactly where you are." The smirk momentarily returned. "A final reminder; try anything, and you lose your inmate. Are we understood?"

Chin high, Caroline fought every frightened cell in her body as she tried to level his gaze with strength and hatred. "Rot in hell."

Though the curl in his lips remained, his eyes betrayed amusement. "That's the spirit." Turning, he ascended the steps.

The moment he had, Caroline registered a sting in her hands; she'd been clenching into fists so tightly she'd broken the skin. Mouth tasting bitter with hatred, body breaking into tremors, she lifted the back of a trembling hand to her forehead, and forced herself to let out a long exhale.

There had been the briefest of moments the day before, when she'd thought she'd glimpsed a man she could perhaps understand.

But she had been utterly mistaken.

Her captor was nothing but a monster.

A strange, stinging sensation flew through her veins – making her blood hotter, making her see red: Caroline identified it. Pure hatred. Abhorrence. And she realised, with startling clarity, what it made her want to do.

What she was willing to and would do, to get off this ship.

To free her friend, and herself.

She was going to kill him.