six. water of the womb

.

AS SOON AS THE WORD 'VAMPIRE' fell from Caroline's lips, Elena had the disturbing sensation that she was right. Elena didn't want Caroline to be right—for those beings of death and blood to walk this earth, to walk her streets of Mystic Falls, but she knows, she knows, she knows.

Whatever hides beneath Damon's skin . . . it isn't human.

Caroline paces the length of Elena's room, her door locked and the curtains drawn over the windows. She's rambling on and on and on about someone called Joseph and animal attacks and— oh.

Animal attacks.

( A flash of a torn-up neck and the silver tears running down Jeremy's cheeks.

Oh. )

"Elena? Are you even listening to me right now?" Caroline's before her, cheeks flushed and lips downturned like an avenging goddess, blonde hair circling her head like a halo.

Elena licks her lips, summons the courage. "I saw Damon."

It's quiet, nearly a whisper, but Caroline's always been able to hear her.

Confusion washes over Caroline's features before clarity strikes her in a chilling blow, and the furious flush on her cheeks fades away and her face goes slack from the fear. "Oh my God, Elena. "

Elena picks at her nails, eyes locked on a spot over Caroline's shoulder, seeing but not really seeing. "I've been hearing a voice all day . . . it's why I disappeared from the fundraiser. It led me to this house—this really big house, and I went downstairs, opened this . . . door and . . . oh my God, Care. "

Elena cracks, tears flooding her cheeks and Caroline doesn't hesitate, scooping her into a tight hug and Elena clings to her best friend as she squeezes her eyes shut before snapping them open again. Damon's face is emblazoned on the back of her eyelids.

"Are you alright?" Caroline prods, that familiar slant to her eyebrows soothing some of Elena's nerves—it reminds her of skinned knees and Princess Jasmine plasters and mother's healing kisses over the scab—and her trembles lessen, "Did he hurt you?"

"No, no," Elena sniffs, shaking her head as Caroline rubs soothing hands up and down her arms, "No. I got away in time. I just kept running until I got home and I haven't left since. You don't think he can get in, can you?"

Caroline's teeth sink into her bottom lip and the sight of it has another jagged sob tearing from Elena's throat.

She's seventeen —she shouldn't be dealing with monsters that should've just stayed under the bed and she should've got over her fear of the dark by now.

"I don't know what to do , Care," Elena sobs, head cradled in shaking hands and somehow, they both fall back into her pillows, clutching to each other like lifelines, "First, Mom and Dad are gone, now Jeremy's with his drug problems, and I-I just can't. When will it stop? "

"I don't know," Caroline whispers into Elena's hair like she can't bear to say it, "I don't know."

( Oh, sweet little girls. How different this would've been in another world. )

( But was it for the better? )

When the tears have dried up, and Elena has stopped quivering, Caroline silently hands her her phone. Emblazoned on the screen in grainy greyscale is the headline: ANIMAL ATTACK KILLS ONE and Elena skims the article till she finds what Caroline meant all along.

Hidden in the shadows like that's where he's always belonged, there is Stefan. Elena's observed him long enough to know those Grecian features by heart, to know the marble curve of his jaw, the delicate bend of his nose, the intensity of those eyes that burn even through time and paper and electricity.

"They're vampires," Elena says quietly.

"Yeah," Caroline sighs and it feels heavy—like she's carrying more than seventeen years of grief on her shoulders, "They're vampires."

( Fate screams. )

THE DAY HIS WORLD TILTS on its axis is the day she comes. Her arrival is heralded by the merry clack of horses hooves, the buttery sunlight pouring through the trees, the melodic chirp of birds, the honeysuckle on the breeze.

He stands, dutiful, straight-backed, hands clasped behind him like the respectable son he is, waiting to greet their guest of honour—a woman of exotic background, his father likes to say.

The carriage rumbles over the cobblestones, and he peers deeper, just catching two figures bathed in shadow within and his heart skips a beat. The horses come to a gentle stop in front of the House, huffing and chuffing, but his eyes are locked on the window into the carriage.

It's like he knows that whoever's inside will change everything.

( And she did. )

The sunlight peeks into the carriage too, as greedy as he is, unveiling a flash of porcelain skin that makes his mouth water and his body crave in ways no respectable young gentleman should. He flushes lightly and tilts his head higher, as if it will stop those imaginations from reaching his mind.

The door opens, revealing not the owner of the sinful-skin, but of a woman with butterscotch flesh that gleams in the sunlight, reminding him of upturned soil and the golden heads of corn. She carries a steely set of jaw, dark, dark eyes that behold something wild, and graceful demeanour.

Then she steps out.

The sunshine dances over her form like skeins of gold, revealing her lush figure tucked into a blue dress, the corset bearing her curves, even as her modesty is coveted by the buttons running up her torso to her throat. The silk skirt flares down her legs, hiding the crunch of gravel beneath her feet.

Their eyes collide, and Stefan is lost to her daylight gaze, yanked down into her babbling brooks and singing rivers like a pirate lost to a siren of old.

He gasps, flushes, heart stopping dead.

The woman blinks, and a small smile grows on her rose-painted lips, rewriting every law of science he knows because it should not be possible for someone to be this beautiful. Those magnetic eyes drift down his form and he unintentionally straightens, puffs out of his chest like a peacock.

Her smile grows wider in approval.

Her servant fusses over her dress, but the woman remains still as a statue of Aphrodite, watching with a dancing gaze as he gives into his base desires and approaches.

He dips. "You must be Miss Vance."

Golden-blonde tresses tucked into an intricate up-do, sitting beneath a feathered bonnet, bounce as she curtsies delicately, holding a dainty hand out that he scoops up eagerly. "There is no need for such formalities, Mister Salvatore. After all, I am but a humble guest in your marvellous home. I am Dorothy."

Her voice is honey and riches untold—a ballad woven into soft, silken tones that draws him in deeper and deeper until there is no turning back. But, he finds, he doesn't want to.

ELENA'S WARNINGS ARE BELLOWING IN Caroline's ears as she pulls up to the Salvatore Boarding House. In the night, and now that she knows what lurks inside, it looks far more sinister than the last time she was here.

Her thundering heart pumps adrenaline through her bloodstream, sharpening her senses till the churr of crickets sound like drums, till she can see the chips in the bricks, feel the night air slithering over her skin and taste the stench of death that shrouds the House like a veil.

Elena had practically begged her not to come, and Caroline very nearly hadn't. She'd never seen her best friend so destroyed, so flayed to pieces—not even when her parents died.

After the accident, Elena had retreated into herself, blank-faced and dead-eyed, staring out her window like she was waiting for Greyson and Miranda to amble down the street, shopping bags in hand like they used to. Eventually, the old Elena returned, and something akin to a smile started to grace her face again, but the depths of grief had nothing on the depths of her fear.

Whatever Damon did ripped Elena wide open. She was chaotic, a storm of havoc and terror—all movement and jerky limbs as she peered at Caroline with wide, watery eyes as she pleaded for the blonde to stay far away from Stefan and Damon, but as much as she was convicted, Caroline had to know for certain. And the only way to do that was to confront Stefan.

Doesn't mean she's any less terrified though.

She raps sharply on the door before she can persuade herself to bolt back to her car and drive away, pacing back and forth while she waits for the door to open, arms crossed tightly across her chest like a shield.

Caroline nearly gives into the fear—is only moments away from calling it quits and running away with her tail tucked between her legs ( but at least she's alive ) when the door swings open.

Stefan's face is a picture of bone-deep worry and she knows it's because of Damon. But, Stefan hides it quickly, his face a blank mask as his brows furrow. "Caroline?"

"What are you?" She demands and seeing the blood drain Stefan's face and his eyes to blow wide with unconcealed horror is perversely satisfying.

" What are you? Answer me!" Caroline demands once more, breathing heavily, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed in accusation, in betrayal, in command. " WHAT ARE YOU? "

Tears glisten in the low light of the streetlights as Stefan's jaw works as he swallows. There's resignation etched onto his fine features like a masterpiece, more at home on his face than anything Caroline's seen before. It makes her lose her breath a little.

Stefan breathes heavily, almost bolstering himself. "You know."

His voice trembles like an earthquake, like a death-rattle. It's all the more damning.

"No," Caroline says, refusing to allow her voice to quaver or break or tremble, even as she fights back tears. She will not be weak, "No, tell me. Say it. You owe me this. TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE! "

She shouts, because it feels like the only way she can take back control. To feel like she clutches all the strings, has all the power.

Stefan looks agonised, like it tears himself apart a little bit more to say it, to know it, to accept it. "I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm a—"

"— Say. It. "

Stefan shudders visibly as the words fall from his heavenly lips. "I'm a vampire."

I'm a vampire.

I'm a vampire.

I'M A VAMPIRE.

The words—the confession—scream at Caroline, rebounding off the walls in her skull in an awful cacophony. Her world tilts, the ground shifts and Caroline has the certain awful feeling that she'll never be the same again.

( Better late than never, that cruel voice murmurs. )

Caroline chokes on her own breath, stumbling back a step, then another, and then another. Stefan follows after her, his face a picture of remorse and sorrow and misery, and there are sweet apologies on his lips, soft hymns and prayers to Caroline's altar, but all she can see is that face —that monster's face with black veins and the black eyes and the white teeth.

"No," Caroline gasps out, " No. "

Stefan's strings are pulled taut. He stops in his tracks, but his pleading continues. "Caroline, please —just let me explain —"

"— No. "

Caroline abruptly bolts for her car, fumbling with the cold metal of her keys, ignoring the sensation of eyes that pierce her skin like hoarfrost. There's the sting of wind whipping against her side and then there's Stefan in front of her, looking down at her beseeching, agonised eyes.

"Caroline, I'm begging you—"

Caroline's scream is choked off. "How did you—what? That's impossible —"

Stefan reaches out for her, golden hands that once felt like salvation that are now damnation. She reels back, and even with the truth of his existence laid bare, she can't help how her heart twists at the tortured expression Stefan wears in response.

"Let me go !" Caroline screeches, sprinting past Stefan and jumping into her car. She doesn't bother to put her seatbelt on, to look back at Stefan staring at her morosely through the windshield as she drives off, car rumbling over gravel until she hits the main road.

Her mind kicks into overdrive as soon as she loses sight of the Boarding House, wondering, plotting, thinking —it's what she does best.

( Always has been. )

She originally planned to go to Elena's, but now convicted, now proven ( in the worst way possible ), Caroline can't even fathom putting her friend in danger. Not when she's seen that face , not when she's witnessed the impossible speed that Stefan has that allows him to move from one place to another quicker than a heartbeat.

The only option is home.

She bursts through the door like a bullet, slamming it closed behind her.

"Mom!" Caroline shouts as she fumbles with lock ( like it could keep him out ), " Mom! "

No response: Liz must be out for the night. Caroline's not sure whether it's a good thing or not because she has an awful feeling bullets wouldn't stop Stefan, but she would really like the knowledge that she has them regardless.

Old ( ancient ) survival instincts kick in, pushing Caroline to dart around the Forbes family home, locking the back door and all the windows, before holing herself up in her mother's bedroom, where she knows the guns are located. For extra security, she closes the curtains. Flimsy and superficial, but now Caroline doesn't feel like someone's watching her.

But, for all her work, it's rendered horrifically useless as her hairs raise on the back of her neck and she whirls around with a ragged gasp, stumbling back and eyes bulging in fright and terror as a miserable Stefan peers at her from the other side of the room.

The curtains flutter in the breeze.

"Caroline," he says quietly and Caroline only stumbles back further till her back is pressed against the door, her hands fumbling with the lock, her fingers heavy in fright, "Caroline, please. "

"No, no," Caroline gasps, shaking her head, hope sparking in her chest when there's the click of the lock releasing, but it's dashed cruelly as Stefan races over to her with impossible speed, keeping the door shut with the weight of a single hand. Caroline stifles a whimper and squeezes her eyes shut.

Stefan's voice is soft, almost reverent. "I would never hurt you. You're safe with me."

His words ignite an inferno of indignation, barreling through her shroud of fear as Caroline's eyes snap open, her teeth bared in a snarl. "What about all those animal attacks, then? The people who died ? How can you say I'm safe with you when it's obvious I'm not?"

Stefan's brows pull together and he looks the picture of a priest praying to his god. He murmurs, "No, no, no , Caroline. That wasn't me, that was Damon. Please, you have to believe me. I would never hurt you."

He sounds wounded at the prospect that she would even think that. An ember of fury unfurls in her chest because what else is she meant to think? What reason has he given her to trust him apart from his pretty words that have only proved to amount to nothing ?

"I don't drink human blood," Stefan persists, "but Damon does. He's the one who killed all those people, Caroline. I don't survive like that—I can't stand it. I can explain everything to you, but I'm begging you, Caroline—you can't tell anyone."

"What right do you have to ask me that?" Caroline hisses and keeps the image of Elena's tear-stained face clenched close to her heart—she won't let either Stefan or Damon get anywhere near her.

"Because you knowing this is dangerous for so many reasons," Stefan barks and he is no longer kind or beseeching or gentle, "You can hate me, but I need you to trust me."

How? Caroline wants to scream at him, how can I trust you when you have given me nothing?

But, instead, all she says is this: "Just leave , Stefan. If you really mean me no harm, then you'll leave."

Stefan looks heartbroken at the prospect, looks like she has ripped out his most vital organs and set them aflame, but Caroline is too furious to care.

Good, a wicked part of her croons, let him burn.

"I never wanted this," Stefan murmurs, his face a portrait of agony. Caroline holds his gaze, and unleashes her anger, her rage, her fury on him—let him see the results of his betrayal.

Stefan leaves.

ELENA'S SCREAMS ARE RINGING IN Damon's ears, despite the music on full-blast in the Boarding House. An unconscious Vicki Donovan—the girl too dumb to give in and just die —reclines unconscious on one of the sofas, her neck sliced open from Damon's excursion to the cemetery for food after Elena had slipped through his fingers, and Damon had sated his desire for violence by snapping Zach's neck like a brittle twig.

He's irritated in more ways than one.

First, for it taking so goddamn long to be set free, but the bond between him and Elena was weak. He only managed to compel her twice: once for the aborted plan, and second for an emergency feeding that he wiped her mind off as well as fed her some blood.

It's more compassion than he usually shows for his prey, but the double compulsion opened a thread between them when Damon only managed to just tug to get her to come to him. But that was the end of it; it was pure luck that the brunette was dumb enough to open the door, yet it royally fucked up Damon's plans now that she knew. Their compulsive bond wasn't strong enough to instinctively wipe her memories.

Second of all, Stefan had his daylight ring, effectively confining Damon to the Boarding House with all the curtains drawn tightly or nightfall. In Damon's a hundred-and-forty-five years of undead existence, there was not once a single moment when he didn't wear it. Now that it's gone, he feels strangely naked. And not in the good way.

A film of blood still clings to the roof of his mouth, tangy and sickeningly sweet—the effect of drugs in the system of his prey. He felt pretty woozy for the rest of the night until most of the heroin and crack or whatever else those idiots snorted had been filtered out. Now, Vicki Donovan reclines in the Boarding House and Damon, quite frankly, is stumped on what to do with her.

( Maybe he recognised that same survivor's instinct in her eyes—maybe he just saw someone similarly brought to their knees. )

"Where are you, Stefan?" Damon growls into the phone pressed tightly against his ear, the small device emitting the warning creaks as it begins to buckle under his strength. He doesn't let up, "I'm trapped at the House and I'm getting really bored and really impatient and I don't do bored and impatient. Bring me my ring."

Damon rips the phone from his ear and ends the voicemail with a rough jab of his thumb as he scoops up the glass of bourbon he poured for himself. "Dammit."

The sweet smell of Donovan's blood wafts under his nose and Damon spares the girl a brief glance, only to groan. " Oh , don't get blood on the couch. Please?"

Slamming his glass down, it's a miracle it doesn't shatter into fine shards, as he storms over to Donovan and the towel pressed clumsily against her bloody neck. He sits down at the coffee table, reaching forwards to yank the towel away from Donovan's injury. The beast inside preens at the sight of his mark.

"I got you good , didn't I? Well, you're not gonna be any fun today." Damon takes a swig of his drink as an idea strikes—a bad one, admittedly, and one Emily Bennett had staunchly warned him against all the way back in 1864. But, the witch is dead and who gives a flying fuck about what dead people think? Certainly not Damon. "Oh, I'm so gonna regret this."

Slicing cleanly through the skin of his wrist with razor-sharp fangs, Damon presses the limb against Donovan's lips, and the druggie gags slightly as his blood slips down her throat, before she latches on and starts suckling like a newborn babe.

( Abruptly, it's 1864, the grey light of dawn just peeking over the horizon, and Stefan is before him with a bloody corpse of a girl in hand—)

Damon shoves his wrist against Donovan's mouth harder.

HE FEELS LIKE A CHILD again as he chases after Damon out the door, the cool spring air gentle against his skin as he calls out to his brother, "Wait! Where did you learn this game?"

Damon twirls around to face him, wide smile on his face and a ball under his arm. "Camp outside Atlanta. One officer picked it up at Harvard. Catch!"

"Wait, wait. What are the rules?" Damon bolts at him with an exaggerated war cry and he ducks away with a life, ball tucked securely under his arm. "What are the rules?"

"Who needs rules?"

He freezes at the sound of her voice, nearly falling flat on his face as he comes to an abrupt stop. Blood blooms ferociously across his cheeks as Damon quietly snickers beside him, but he ignores his brother as he turns to face her.

Dorothy Vance strides along the patio, head held high and golden locks gleaming in the sunlight. Her dress—purple, this time, but similarly buttoned to her throat—swishes against her legs and there's a dainty smile perched on her lips.

He feels he comes face-to-face with an angel.

"Mind if I join you?" She asks, her servant—Emily, he has come to find out—remaining atop the patio, watching on silently. The two brothers exchange a glance.

"Well, miss," Damon begins, a hesitance to his voice that tells him that his brother's planning to refuse Dorothy. But he can't allow that, can't imagine not giving this lady everything she desires—earthly, spiritually, or otherwise.

"Come, brother," he intrudes, and hopes to convey the storm of emotion ( or longing and desire that goes back far more than just a week ago ), "Surely it would not be a burden to allow Miss Vance to play. It is only throwing and catching a light ball."

Damon frowns, even though there's a teasing glint in his blue eyes. "Now, little brother, you know I like to play rough."

Dorothy giggles and it's a melody, a jaunty little tune that's played at parties—when there's life and laughter and glittering eyes. "I think you shall find, Mister Salvatore, that I do not mind playing rough."

Her eyes are locked on Damon, who only smiles politely, and there's a certain weight to her stare that he is far too young to decipher. Abruptly, the moment ends as she rips the ball from his light grip, laughter like a birdsong as she runs down the gravelled pathway, the skirt of her dress streaming behind her like a violet veil.

A smile twitches at his lips and he is struck-dumb, unable to move, to do anything but gaze in awe at Dorothy Vance.

There's a hand at his shoulder and he snaps back to reality to see Damon grinning at him, jerking his head at Dorothy's fleeing form. "Why are you just standing there, brother? That is a girl who wants to be chased—so, chase. "

That is all the prompting he needs.

He bolts after his fallen angel in purple and gold, the ache in legs and burn of his lungs exquisite, the grin on his face as he races after her wide and pure and so large it stings. That is the price to pay for Dorothy Vance, but he will pay it gladly, with joy, without remorse.

At some point, Dorothy releases the ball, but he doesn't slow down to catch it. Her starry-night eyes duck over her shoulder and she looses a delighted squeal that catches on the breeze as she spies him behind her.

She weaves through the petit maze with ease ( like she is used to plucking strings ) and he is closing in, so close he can feel the wind of her snapping skirts, can near feel the addictive heat pouring off her silken skin, but she pulls ahead by just a shred, pouncing on the marble statue at the exit of the maze.

Victory dresses her well.

A delighted smile graces her pink lips ( which he dreams about at night, wondering, pondering, craving ) as she turns to face him. "I do believe I win. What is my prize?"

He smiles too, caught in her web like a moth to a flame, but he is more than willing to remain trapped. "Whatever would you like it to be?"

Dorothy's keen gaze cruises over their surroundings, and the stars in her eyes flicker out briefly before they reignite. "Wherever is your brother?"

"Damon?" He splutters for a moment, before regaining his bearings, "I believe Father called him for business while you ran."

His heart skips at the lie—he is turning into a greedy, monstrous thing he finds ( and it has only been a week. Who knows what will happen in a hundred years? )

( I do, an old thing mumbles. )

Dorothy's gaze lands on him, green locking with blue and he is lost, drowning once more, a hapless pirate slave to her siren call. A shroud settles over his mind and all he can think about is her —observes the flecks of blues and deep, dark greens woven within, the sea and the storm tucked away until you're close enough to observe ( until you can't get away ).

Then, their gazes are torn apart and he blinks, orienting himself back to his surroundings, even as his north pole has become Dorothy Vance.

"I hope to see him again," Dorothy says and turns midnight irises onto the House.

"ARE YOU INSANE? " ELENA HISSES, her eyes narrowed and spitting acid as she glowers at Caroline on her bed. Today's a Saturday, thank God, because Caroline feels that neither she or Elena would've been able to handle seeing Stefan in school.

But, she knows, she still needs answers.

Simply knowing that Stefan is a vampire is not enough to satiate her bottomless curiosity, a well that has never quite been filled. It's one of the things she and Elena had bonded over when they first met—how their eyes had grown hungry at the prospect of knowing more , being more , but that's not the Elena that Caroline's looking at now.

This Elena is shaken and furious at Caroline's lack of regard for her own safety—at least, in Elena's words. This Elena has been confronted with what Caroline feels is the very worst of vampirism, and suffers the daily stress of her brother's spiralling, as well as the bone-deep grief of the loss of her parents, which will never go away.

"Elena, we have to know," Caroline pleads, her eyes wide and beseeching, "There are vampires out there, for God's sake and Stefan's is our only source for answers. If he wanted to hurt me by now, don't you think he would have?"

Elena's jaw drops and her face slackens in disbelief. "Are you dumb? He's a vampire: case closed. Just because he didn't hurt you before, doesn't mean he won't hurt you now, Caroline!"

A heavy breath whistles between Caroline's teeth. Elena's objections are grating, but she knows they come from a good place. If Elena could, she'd go, but Caroline had made it clear from the moment the brunette walked in the door that it would be Caroline who would be confronting Stefan.

She's not dumb, as much as Elena thinks otherwise. She's fully aware there's a very real chance that Stefan might abruptly change his mind and take a chunk out of her neck, but she finds she has very little choice. She needs answers, and she's the only one who can get them. If Stefan finds out Elena knows, then there would be no answers.

"Elena," Caroline says sharply and Elena stops mid-rant, falling dangerously silent, arms crossing. She sits in the cushioned chair in the corner of Caroline's room, and glares mutinously at her. She knows this anger, this fear, comes from a good place—that the last thing Elena would ever want is to see Caroline even scratched, that if she could, it would be Elena marching up to Stefan and demanding answers, but it's not, "I get it, okay? It's fucked up what happened to you, but if we want to make sure it doesn't happen again, I have to talk to Stefan."

Elena stares at Caroline in silence and it's that kind of twenty-yard stare that makes Caroline shift uncomfortably from her seat on her bed, because it feels like Elena's just dug into her skin and is piercing her very soul. She's always been esoteric like that.

"Fine," Elena says eventually, "But as soon as you feel uncomfortable, call me , okay? I'll come pick you up."

Caroline sighs in relief. "Thank you. I promise I'll call."

"And take one of your mom's guns. Can't hurt to be too careful."

HEATED SHADOWS AND TWISTED SHEETS, night hides their sinful, lecherous activities, but he doesn't care if they are somehow discovered. He will gladly, willingly brand WHORE across his forehead, his father and the rest of society bedamned. Dorothy Vance is worth the world and more.

Then, one day, he awakens and there's a vicious ache in his neck. In his half-asleep state, his hand drifts from the sheets and to his neck and he hisses at the burn that pulsates through his flesh.

He sits upright in bed, heart thundering as his eyes land on the pool of blood soaked into the pillow. He pulls his hand away from his neck and finds it covered in blood.

"Good morning," Dorothy croons and his head snaps to face her. She reclines at her desk, pen whirling across her paper delicately as she writes, "I hope you are not too displeased with your wound. I found myself too . . . distracted last night to properly tend to you."

He splutters for words, for logic and reason and everything but this fairytale he is suddenly neck-deep in. "W-What? What happened? Your face —"

Dorothy places down her pen and twists in her chair to face him. Her green silk dress glitters in the early morning light, her curled tresses framing her face, looking like a perfect recreation of the Mona Lisa—but that would be an insult to her. Dorothy far exceeds it.

"You are not afraid?" Dorothy questions, an amused tilt to her pink lips—lips that he had kissed last night, and lips that had rested on the flesh of his neck as she drank from him, "Does it not change how you feel for me?"

He falls quiet, thinks. He looks back up, hesitantly—like a child caught with their hand in the jar of treats—he asks, "Please . . . may I see it again?"

Dorothy's golden brow jumps upwards, but there's a pleased crook to her mouth that has his heart fluttering in pride that he has managed to please her. She rises, striding over to him. She places her hands on the sheets, tilts her head at him, surveying him, sizing him up. She must find what she's looking for, as slowly, the monster beneath her skin reveals itself.

Grey veins crawl down her cheeks, her flesh turning into that of a corpse. Her jaw unhinges to reveal glittering, gleaming fangs, something akin to a low growl bubbling in the back of her throat. But, her eyes—

The blue, starry-night that Vincent Van Gogh could never replicate vanishes, overcome by the black darkness of shadows, of lonely nights in the woods, of the gaps between stars and the last thud of dirt over a buried coffin.

It's—

"Beautiful," he says without really thinking and flushes as reality catches up to him. He blinks, and the monster is gone, leaving Dorothy in its place. She chuckles, deep and low and it reminds him of dancing hands and nails that burn .

His eyes catch with hers once more and he is overcome with her, drowning and drowning and drowning beneath her storm.

"You will not tell anyone," she says and he repeats it dutifully, "Neither shall you tell Damon."

"I will not tell Damon."

"Good," Dorothy croons, their gazes still locked, "This is marvellous, is it not? Damon, you, and I? We shall be together . . . forever. "