OMG. Y'all are the sweetest! Thank you so, so much.
L ThankYouHBK1 asked about Damon's POV, which I considered including. It's wild because Damon is constantly in my head and he's usually my go-to voice, but this one is Elena's to tell. :)
The ball is coming soon, I promise. Until then, the mystery that is Damon continues to unravel.
Reviews are like freshly baked cookies straight from the oven, so please leave one. xoxo
Enjoy! :)
Chapter Four
The furious clicking of keys almost drowns out the knocking. If the knocking wasn't distracting Elena, it'd be her grumbling stomach. Geoff sent up a tray when she didn't show at breakfast, and she bailed on lunch entirely. Maybe there's another covered dish waiting for her.
Or a truckload of fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies.
And cocoa.
She barrels to the door, stopping at the last second to burrow into a hoodie because it's three in the afternoon and she's still in her polka-dot pajamas.
"Geoff, is that you? And please, call me Elena." He's too polite and proper to address her as anything other than "Miss," but she's hoping he'll cave one of these days.
She twists the knob and flings it open to reveal a prince, not a butler. A roguishly handsome one with midnight-black hair and a penchant for driving her mad.
"Damon!" she half-shouts and he recoils a little. "Sorry."
He smirks at her PJs. If this trend continues, he'll know more about what she wears to bed than some of the guys she's dated.
"Cute."
"Uh, thanks." Elena fluffs her unbrushed hair. God, what a train wreck. "Did you need something?"
"When you skipped two meals, I thought you might be avoiding me."
"Oh!" Is she? "I've been working pretty much nonstop since last night." She caught maybe three hours of sleep. It's a wonder Damon didn't think an ogre had taken up residence in her room. If he's appalled by her bedhead and choice of outfit, he has an excellent poker face.
"How's it coming?"
"Good. I should have it ready to send to you a day or so after I get back in the office."
At the mention of her departure, his smile dims. "That's great," he says quietly. "Sorry for interrupting. I came to ask if you'd like to accompany us to the tree decorating ceremony. It's tradition, though I confess I haven't attended in several years."
"Um—"
"Caroline has dibs on you later, of course, but it'll be over in plenty of time for your spa date and dress fitting."
Wait, what. There's so much she can't process in that sentence that she wonders if he spoke it in another language.
When her only response is to stare at him as if he's sprouted a second head, he waves a placating hand. "She spent all of breakfast and half of lunch chattering about how excited she is to have you along for the trip. I wasn't prying, promise."
"I'm pretty sure a dress fitting wasn't part of it," Elena says, finally finding her voice.
He shrugs. "I wouldn't know. You'll have to take it up with her, I suppose."
"Guess so," she mutters, eyeing him closely. This seems like less of a Caroline maneuver and more of a Damon one.
"So, will you come?"
"Do I have time to shower and change?" And ransack the kitchen to appease her stomach, which is growling so loudly now that Damon can probably hear it.
He nods. "We don't have to leave for another hour or so."
Good. She's not keen on offending the king and the general public of Mystfallia by going out in her current state.
"Okay, I'm in."
"Perfect." He glances at her belly. "I'll have Geoff bring you something to eat."
If only she could flip her hood over her face and cinch it tight to hide the burning in her cheeks. "Thanks," she mumbles.
"I'll see you later."
He lingers in the doorway, his gaze focused on her mouth. Leaning in, he brushes his lips over hers once, twice, then with a cat-that-got-the-cream grin, he's gone.
###
Leaving the castle is like a shock to the system. At Gioiello sul Fiume, nobody cares what she's up to (except Damon). In the city, there are people lining the streets three deep and heavy security patrolling the area (reasonable when the king is out and about with his entire line of succession). There are phones in everyone's hands and paparazzi with professional lenses aimed at the cars, waiting to snap the first shot.
Elena is used to people. Lots of them. NYC is basically the crowd capital of the world, and if you're not constantly bumping into the throng of pedestrians and nearly getting mangled by umbrellas, it's not a typical day.
But she's not used to being the focus of all that attention.
Giuseppe and Stefan draw a big, warm welcome with cheers and applause. When Damon steps out of the town car, a hush falls over the gathering as if Mystfallia's citizens are trying to figure out if what they're seeing is real or an illusion. Two little girls in pigtails and pompom hats, who can't be more than five, wave shyly. Damon returns the gesture and the air is suddenly full of "Prince Damon!" and "Good day, Your Highness!"
When he reaches for Elena's hand to help her out, there's a second still in the crowd, heavy with hopes and expectations. It's as if the whole city is holding its breath.
"I'm not so sure . . ." About any of this, she almost says.
"I've got you," he murmurs, taming the spike of anxiety surging through her.
Then she's beside him and there are gasps and curious looks and whispers of "Who's she?" The rapid-fire clicking of the pap cameras has her wishing she could dive back into the car. Damon tucks her against his side and away from the worst of the photogs as they follow the procession toward the giant tree in the square.
Maybe he forgets, and maybe she's too flustered to care, but their fingers—his warm, hers a little chilled (she left her gloves on the back seat, dammit)—stay entwined.
###
"He what?"
"Twice."
There's a muffled thump then silence takes over the line and Elena wonders if Bonnie dropped the phone.
"You still there?"
"I was right," her friend says, a little too confidently.
"Bon, no. Even if he has caught a bizarre case of feelings, it's only temporary. He's a prince, remember?"
The woman painstakingly applying a coat of poinsettia-red polish to Elena's toenails pauses, her brush hovering in midair. Crap. She needs to keep the gossip-inducing chatter to a minimum.
"And if you have feelings, too?"
"I don't."
"Right. So, you didn't kiss him back?"
"It was . . ."—the strongest connection I've shared with another person, possibly ever—"a mistake. Heat-of-the-moment thing." After a solid twenty minutes of deliberating, Caroline selects a bottle of polish from the rack and waves it triumphantly in the air. "I have to go. I'll call you again as soon as I can."
"Be careful."
Elena snorts. The only danger is to her sanity.
"I will."
She can do this. A couple more days and her life will go back to normal. No more castles or balls or . . . complications.
No more Damon.
###
"Whatever you've done to Damon, keep it up."
Elena flips over a price tag and blanches. That can't be accurate.
"What?"
"I've known my future brother-in-law for four years and I've seen him smile maybe three times," Caroline says. "Two of those are just since you've been here."
Elena shrugs. "It's the holidays. People are happier."
"Damon's not usually home for Christmas. When he is, he's miserable."
Caroline emerges from the fitting room in a glittering gold and silver gown that makes her look every bit the princess she's about to be.
"Beautiful," Elena beams, toasting her with the glass of champagne the very attentive shop assistant tops off after each sip.
"You think so?" Caroline twirls in front of the mirrors and the skirt billows around her.
"Stefan's jaw will be permanently on the floor."
"Let's hope not. I'd like a kiss before the night is over."
The dreaded k-word summons the memory of spiced cologne, bourbon warming her throat, and a soft mouth on hers, so Elena turns back to the racks and continues her pointless perusing.
"Damon hates Christmas, huh?" Could've fooled her. He was the epitome of holiday cheer at the ceremony, posing for photo ops and even hanging an ornament or two.
Caroline frowns, worrying at her bottom lip. "I think it reminds him of things he'd rather forget."
Elena nods. She can relate. "His mother."
"And the whole broken engagement mess," Caroline mutters, eyes flaring as she realizes the bomb she dropped. "I shouldn't have—this is off the record, right?"
"Absolutely." A missing piece of the Damon puzzle? Sign her up.
"Katherine Pierce was his fiancée." Elena stares at her blankly, so she clarifies. "Model and soul-sucking demon. They met in Milan and Damon was instantly enamored. Why, I couldn't say." Caroline shudders. "Anyway, she wanted more of the spotlight and saw a prince as the quickest means of getting there. She eventually tired of playing the good girl and dumped him. On Christmas Eve." Ouch. "Last I heard, she'd moved on to a Skarsgård."
Has anyone warned the poor guy?
So Katherine is the someone Damon won't discuss. For such a spectacularly horrific breakup, not even a whiff of it appeared in her research.
"How did the press not run wild with this?"
"Damon took care of it."
Translation: hush money. Lots of it.
Hence the enigmatic façade. And his strong dislike of anyone who asks too many questions.
"Thanks for telling me. It won't leave this room."
The tension drains from Caroline's shoulders. "It's nice to have someone else to talk to. With security constantly hovering, it's not easy to make new friends. Any chance you'll return to Mystfallia?"
It'll be a miracle if she survives this trip. "I'm not sure."
"We'd love it if you could come to the wedding."
"That's very kind of you. I'd be honored."
Caroline breaks into a smile. "Wonderful. Now, are you going to stop stalling and try something on?"
"Oh, I really can't—"
She scans the racks with a practiced eye. "There. The red one."
Elena glances warily at the dress. She flipped past that one earlier. It's gorgeous and costs nearly a quarter of her yearly salary.
"It's, uh, beyond my budget." By about a mile and a half.
"Oh, c'mon. Just put it on."
Caroline waves a dainty hand and a swarm of eager assistants descend upon Elena. She's whisked into a fitting room where she becomes a living mannequin. Her arms are raised and lowered, her waist turned this way and that as adjustments are made. When she emerges, two staff members are waiting to escort her to the raised platform facing the wall of mirrors.
Caroline gasps and claps in delight.
The woman in the glass belongs in a fairytale. The strapless, sweetheart bodice accentuates her waist and hugs the swell of her breasts. From there, yards of rose-colored tulle cascade to the floor and spill down the steps behind her in a modest train.
Elena smooths the silky fabric, studying her reflection to ensure it's really her. Add a tiara and a sash, and she could be a Miss Universe contestant. Okay, that's aiming a little high. Miss America, maybe? Prom Queen?
Another assistant is demonstrating how the train can be pinned up for dancing, but Elena can barely make sense of it all. She must've fallen asleep during her massage. That's it—it's only a dream.
In her dazed state, she doesn't notice Caroline slip into the vacant fitting room, her fingers flitting across her phone screen.
###
By 10:30, Elena's words are blurring together and the cursor is mocking her.
She glances at the heavy draperies covering the doors. Some fresh air wouldn't hurt.
Turning a fleece throw into a makeshift shawl, she steps onto the balcony, shivering as a gust of frigid air ruffles her hair and stirs up an eddy of snowflakes. It's beautiful out here. Peaceful. The moon is bright, obscuring the stars in the sky. It's like a holiday card come to life.
She's not the only one enjoying the quiet. Leaning on the railing, oblivious to her presence, is Damon. With his dark coat and wind-whipped hair, it's like he stepped from the pages of a Brontë novel.
Scooping up a handful of snow, she molds it into a ball and lobs it at his back. There's a huff then a sigh that's almost fond.
Damon waves the snowball at her. "Is this yours?"
Elena peeks at him through the strands of hair clinging to her lashes. "Never seen it before in my life." Rolling another clump of snow in her palms, she tosses it at him. "That one's familiar though."
He catches it and throws it back, nailing her on the hip.
"Hey!"
"You started it."
Damon's beside her now, tugging on the blanket, pulling her closer.
"Busy evening haunting the moors?" she teases.
"Aren't you funny." His hands find hers inside the fleece and he frowns at her cold fingers. "You're freezing. Let's get you warmed up."
"Oh, that's okay. I should go write—"
"It can wait."
He leads her past several sets of doors, stopping at the end of the row and opening the way for her. The room is larger than hers, with a fire burning in the hearth, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, and a pair of leather chairs. Elena is trying to ignore the other piece of furniture dominating the room: an enormous four-poster piled high with pillows and covered by a burgundy and charcoal duvet.
Damon sits her in a chair, swapping out her blanket for one he warms by the fire before draping it across her shoulders. His hands linger for a moment, then he settles in the other chair.
"Thanks."
"My pleasure."
Her gaze wanders to the bed as she struggles not to think about what else might be his pleasure.
"I see you survived your afternoon with Caroline."
"I did." She flashes her manicure, complete with miniature snowflakes on each red nail. "It was nice."
He smiles at the whimsical touch. "So you're ready for the ball?"
About that. "I . . . um." Spit it out already. "I have to focus on the article so it will be ready by the deadline." She swallows hard, staring into the hypnotic flames. "I-I'll be working tomorrow night."
Plus, painful as it was to return it to the rack, the red dress did not go home with her.
His grin fizzles. "Elena—"
"No, it's fine. It's not really my scene anyway."
"You think you don't belong."
That's part of it. And it's easier to let him believe that's her sole reason for bowing out rather than telling him they can't give into whatever this thing is between them. She's here to do a job. It's time to stop living in fantasyland.
"I need to get back to writing. This isn't some swoony, small-screen holiday movie where everyone lives happily ever after."
Not that he would know what that is. He's not the Netflix-and-chill type.
Damon's out of his chair and he's wearing his whoa-let's-talk-about-this face. Elena stands and bundles herself back into her own blanket. For every step he takes, she retreats two until she bumps into the door.
"Thanks for letting me borrow your heat." He arches a brow. "From . . . the fireplace, I mean. Goodnight, Damon."
"Elena, wait—"
She twists the knob and backpedals onto the balcony before her brain can malfunction again. Without looking behind her, she scurries to her room.