Chapter 15: Blood, Bourbon and Swirling Shadows

Damon swirled the bourbon in his glass, staring blankly at the amber liquid as it caught the dim light of the bar. The place was almost empty, save for a few bleary-eyed regulars nursing drinks at the counter. The bartender, compelled hours ago, didn't bat an eye as Damon signalled for another round. Outside, the sun had long since risen, casting pale morning light through the cracks in the blinds.

He took another swig, letting the warmth spread through his chest. It dulled the edge, but not enough. Not after the previous evening—the jock in the alley, left half-drained and bleeding. Damon didn't kill him, but didn't bother to heal him either. He'd been too focused on tracking Freddy, too consumed by the simmering rage that coursed through his veins.

His search had brought him here, a dive bar on the outskirts of town, where Freddy supposedly worked.

The owner, a greasy man with a perpetual scowl, had barely looked up from his newspaper when Damon asked about him.

"Haven't seen him in weeks," the man had grunted. "But if you do, tell him he's fired."

Damon's lips had curled into a humorless smirk. If I find him, losing his job will be the least of his problems, he thought darkly.

Now, as he sat in the corner booth, the anger bubbled beneath the surface. He'd learned a lot about Freddy over the past few hours—enough to piece together the kind of man he was. A freshman at Mystic Falls Community College, Freddy de Luca had graduated from Mystic Falls High the year before. He wasn't a quarterback or a prom king, just another dirtbag who didn't take no for an answer. The kind of guy who thought the world owed him something, who treated people like stepping stones.

Damon had seen a photo of him—a pretty boy in desperate need of a punch to the face.

But Freddy had disappeared. No one had seen or heard from him since the night of the attack. Maybe Stefan had scared him into hiding. Damon's jaw tightened at the thought. If Stefan didn't finish him when he should have, I will.

He threw back another shot, his fangs itching to sink into something—anything.

The barman brought another bottle without a word, and Damon didn't bother to compel him this time. He'd been here all night and most of the following day, compelling patrons for blood and leaving them too drunk to notice. The high from the whiskey and the blood had dulled the edges of his control, leaving him stewing in his failure.

It was getting late into the afternoon when his phone buzzed on the table, vibrating against the wood.

Damon groaned, squinting at the screen. He rolled his eyes. Bonnie, the teenage bitch. What now?

He answered with a clipped, "What?"

"It's Elena," Bonnie's voice came through, frantic and breathless. "I… She needs you. Now."

Damon straightened in his seat, his drunken haze dissipating in an instant.

"I'll be there in fifteen," he said, already moving.

He shoved the phone into his pocket, threw a wad of cash on the table, and bolted for the Camaro. The car roared to life, tires screeching as he sped out of the parking lot. It was a 40-minute drive, by normal standards, but Damon had no intention of taking that long.


The Camaro skidded to a stop outside Elena's house, the engine growling as Damon killed the ignition. He was out of the car in an instant, slamming the door shut behind him as he strode to the front door. He banged hard, the sound echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

Inside, he heard Bonnie's hurried footsteps descending the stairs. The door flew open, and there she was, her face pale with worry.

"Where's Elena? What happened?" Damon demanded, pushing past her without waiting for a reply.

"Upstairs," Bonnie said quickly, pointing toward the staircase. "Her room."

Damon didn't wait. He took the stairs two at a time, his heightened senses zeroing in on the sound of ragged breathing coming from down the hall. Elena's bedroom door was ajar, and he pushed it open without hesitation.

The sight before him made his chest tighten. Elena was crouched on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn to her chest as she rocked back and forth. Her head shook slowly, her hair hiding her face, but he could hear her muttering under her breath.

"This can't be happening… not again. This can't be happening."

Her skin was ghostly pale, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. One hand clutched her chest, the other gripped the bedspread. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, and growing more erratic with each passing second.

Damon crossed the room in a flash, dropping to his knees in front of her. "Elena," he said softly, his voice steady and calm. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay. I'm here."

She didn't respond, her trembling growing worse. Damon reached out, gently taking her hands in his. She flinched but didn't pull away.

"Breathe with me," he said, exaggerating each breath. "In. Out. Come on, Elena. You're stronger than this."

Her breaths hitched, uneven and shallow, but she tried to follow his lead. Damon kept his voice low, murmuring words of comfort. "You've got this. It's okay. I've got you."

Gradually, her breathing steadied. The rocking slowed, and her grip on the bedspread loosened. Damon let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Elena lifted her head, her wide eyes meeting his. For a moment, she seemed almost calm—but then recognition dawned, and her expression crumbled.

"No, no, no," she stammered, yanking her hands away. "You can't be here."

Damon frowned. "Elena—"

"Leave!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "Please, just leave!"

Damon turned to Bonnie, his frustration boiling over. "What happened? What did you say to her?"

Bonnie crossed her arms defensively. "I didn't say anything! We were just talking, and I mentioned what happened at the Grill—how you were looking for Freddy. And then she—she just… became like this."

Damon growled, the sound low and dangerous. "And did you tell her she shouldn't see me again? Only to call me back when it suits you. What's your deal, Bonnie?"

"No!" Bonnie snapped. "I thought she'd already told you about Freddy. When she realized you knew, she… spiralled."

Damon turned back to Elena, guilt flickering in his chest. He'd promised her patience, promised not to push. Yet here he was, causing her latest breakdown.

"Elena," he said softly, kneeling again. "I know I've screwed up, but I'm here now and I'm not leaving."

She didn't respond, but her trembling subsided slightly. Damon reached for her hands again, his touch gentle.

"You're safe. I'll protect you. I'll fix this. Just breathe with me. It's going to be okay Elena."

Bonnie watched from the doorway, conflicted. She hated Damon—always had—but in this moment, she couldn't deny her best friend the comfort Damon provided.

As Elena's breathing steadied once more, Damon took a seat on the bed beside her. He gently placed one arm across her shoulders before Elena threw herself into his arms.

Elena's voice was muffled as she nuzzled into Damon's chest, her words trembling and broken. "Don't hate me," she mumbled, barely audible.

Damon froze, his expression stricken. He pulled back just enough to look down at her tear-streaked face, his blue eyes wide with disbelief. "Why would I hate you, 'Lena?"

Her sobs came harder now, shaking her fragile frame. "I'm worthless," she choked out. "I'm ruined."

Damon's jaw tightened, the pain in her voice hitting him harder than any stake ever could.

His jaw tightened, resolve hardening as he gently ran his fingers through her hair. Freddy De Luca wouldn't live to see another day.

"No," Damon said firmly, his voice low but unyielding. He cupped Elena's face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. "No, Elena. You're strong. You're beautiful. Don't you ever say that about yourself."

He pulled her back into his embrace, holding her tightly as her tears began to subside. Over her shoulder, his eyes met Bonnie's across the room.

The witch's face was pale, shaken. She had not witnessed Elena breaking down like this before—not since the night of the attack at least. Damon could see the worry etched into her expression, but also her hesitation. She didn't know what to do.

Damon, however, had seen this before. He had sat through her tears, panic, and muttered words of self-doubt more than once. He knew how these moments left him feeling gutted—but for Elena, they often marked a step forward, a tiny piece of healing after the storm.

And so he stayed, holding her tight, his arms a barrier against the shadows that swirled around her.