The Mustang pulled up in front of their graystone apartment, an available parking spot out of pure luck, the car's headlights casting long shadows against the dimly lit street. The drive home had been unusually quiet with the suffocating enormity of everything replacing the adrenaline of the night. Even Ollie, who was usually the first to fill a silence, had remained uncharacteristically quiet.

But as soon as they stepped inside, Ramses was there, tail wagging furiously, his entire body vibrating with excitement. Liza barely had time to shut the door before the dog was all over her, pressing his snout into her stomach, whining low in his throat.

"I missed you too," she murmured, running a hand down his back. She missed him fiercely.

Just like that, the familiarity of this–Ramses greeting them–alleviated a bit of the pressure.

Ollie laughed as she bent down to ruffle his ears. "Guess we should be glad he didn't take a chunk out of Klaus or Elijah when they had showed up here."

Liza made a face. "Klaus would've thought it was endearing."

That set Ollie off. "Oh my God. I still can't believe he loves Ramses. He met him once. Once. And now he's acting like they're long-lost war buddies."

"Don't remind me," Liza muttered but she cracked a smile.

Ollie smirked as she stood, stretching and cracking her back. "Well, at least we know Klaus has good taste in dogs. If only he could extend that to people."

Liza rolled her eyes, unhooking Ramses' leash from the key hooks near the door. "Come on, let's walk him before I do something stupid–like actually open that grimoire."

"Wouldn't want you embracing your destiny too soon," Ollie teased.

They took Ramses out, the neighborhood unusually still. Ollie's heightened senses told them they were safe. Ramses marked his usual trees and fire hydrants, nothing amiss for him either. As much as she tried to focus on the normalcy of their routine, Liza couldn't ignore the feeling that everything had already changed. That no matter how much she wanted to pretend otherwise, her life had already shifted course. Back at the Mikaelsons' mansion.

After the walk, Ollie collapsed onto the couch while Liza lingered near the bookshelf, staring at the worn leather-bound grimoire tucked between a few old novels at the bottom, innocuous and unremarkable judging by the spine. It had been there for a while, collecting dust, waiting for her. Waiting for this. She hesitated before finally pulling it free, the weight of it bittersweet in her hands. The cover was soft from years of use, the edges frayed. Her grandmother's handwriting was scrawled across the inside cover, a mix of Russian and English notes filling the margins.

Ollie sat up, watching her. "You okay?"

Liza exhaled. "I don't know."

Ollie didn't push. Instead, she just scooted over, making room on the couch. "Well, whether you are or you aren't, I'm here. And Ramses is here. And if anything explodes, we'll deal with it."

Liza huffed a laugh and sat down, nervous. "Great. Love the confidence." Even though she knew Ollie was joking.

Liza flipped to a page marked with an old ribbon. She had to search the rest of the book for a warding spell. Luckily it didn't take long for her to see the word Защита–protection–in Russian. It was simple, straightforward. Protection that, when cast, would be woven into the walls, into the very foundation of the space.

Liza swallowed hard. "Alright. Let's see if I can actually do this."

Ollie grinned. "Worst case scenario, we sleep in the car."

"Not helping." Liza placed her hands over the book pages, skimming the spell, feeling the old magic woven into the words. She could almost hear her grandmother's voice, could almost remember what it was like to sit beside her as a child, tracing symbols with careful fingers.

Liza inhaled sharply and began. "Защити сию обитель, бдите…" Protect this dwelling, watch over it.

The words came easily, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her. A faint glow traced the seams where the walls met the floor, thin as spider silk, barely visible but undeniably present.

Ollie's dark eyes widened, but she didn't dare to even gasp, lest Liza would be thrown off. Ramses closed his maw, also silent, sensing the change, his ears perking.

The shift in the air was immediate–like the breath before a storm, the electric shimmer of something ancient unfurling. The magic settled into the bones of the apartment, threading itself through the floorboards, creeping up the walls, pressing into the ceiling. It wasn't loud. This wasn't a burst of power–it was a slow, steady weave, binding itself to the space like roots digging deep into the earth.

"...укрепите стены, да не внидет враг." Strengthen the walls, let no enemy enter.

Liza exhaled, steadying herself as the final words left her lips. The energy she'd summoned didn't fade—not entirely. It lingered, humming beneath the surface of every piece of furniture, every coat of paint on the walls, the wood of the floor, a shielding bubble. The air even smelled different now, tinged with something old, something that felt like home yet foreign all at once.

She blinked, hands still resting on the open grimoire.

Ollie let out a breath beside her. "Well," she muttered, rubbing her arms, "that was cool."

Liza swallowed, her pulse still quick, but the apartment felt... safe. Truly safe, tangibly. The magic had settled into the space, into the marrow of it, unseen but ever-present.

Ollie blinked, glancing around. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing seemed changed. Then Ramses grunted–just a low, approving rumble in his throat–and settled at their feet.

Ollie nudged Liza's shoulder. "Told you. Witch life suits you."

Liza let out a reluctant laugh, but there was something else beneath it. Relief. Maybe even the smallest sliver of acceptance. For better or worse, there was no turning back now.

Ollie raised her arms above her head, sighing. "Well, now I don't feel like we're about to get murdered in our sleep, so I'm calling that a success."

Liza hummed in agreement, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She closed the book carefully, running her fingers along the worn leather. The only real thing she had left of her grandmother. She had avoided it for years. She had avoided all of it. But now, sitting here in the dim glow of their apartment, her own magic thrumming faintly under her skin, in her fingers, she couldn't ignore what had always been there. What she had turned her back on.

Her grandmother had died before she could teach her everything. Liza swallowed, staring at the cover. She had been stubborn back then, refusing to listen, refusing to accept what was inside her. Her grandmother had been patient–too patient. Always saying that Liza would come to it in her own time. That magic couldn't be forced. And then she was gone. No final lessons. No last words of wisdom. Just a gaping absence that left Liza drowning in the guilt of all the things she had never learned, never wanted to learn. And now? Now she was fumbling her way through it alone.

Ollie shifted beside her, her head tilting. "You good?"

Liza blinked, snapping back to the present. She forced a smirk. "I just did a whole-ass spell for the first time in years. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."

Ollie nudged her shoulder again. "Like a badass?"

Liza snorted a laugh. "Sure."

But as she got up, closing the grimoire and tucking it under her arm, she couldn't shake the feeling in her chest. This wasn't just about magic. This wasn't just about the Mikaelsons, or fate, or whatever the hell she had gotten herself into. This was about her. About the part of herself she had been running from. And maybe–just maybe–she was finally ready to stop running.

They settled the apartment for the night, turning off the lights, double-checking the locks on the door. Ramses curled into his usual spot at the foot of Liza's bed. Ollie muttered something jokingly about Liza not setting anything on fire in her sleep before disappearing into her own room. The apartment felt safe, at least. Or safer than it had before. Liza climbed into bed, the grimoire on her nightstand. She didn't open it again, but she touched it reverently before tucking her arms under the comforter.

She closed her eyes. Maybe she'd dream of something else tonight.

The dream consumed Liza like a thick, summer warmth–familiar, comforting. She stood in the middle of a field, tall wildflowers swaying around her, the sky stretched in endless gold and violet. It smelled like heather and sage, the air fragrant with something else she couldn't quite name.

And then, she felt it. A presence. She turned, and there she was.

Her grandmother stood just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of her, watching with that knowing, gentle smile—the one that always felt like it saw straight through Liza. She looked just as she did in memory, wrapped in layers of soft, worn fabrics, the kind that smelled like lavender and old paper, like home. Her dark hair, streaked liberally with silver, was pulled back in a loose twist, strands slipping free to frame the sharp lines of her face. There was wisdom in the crinkles around her familiar brown eyes, a warmth in the way they held Liza's twin gaze, but beneath it all lay something untouchable, something older than time itself.

Liza's throat tightened. "You're not real," she said, her voice was softer than she intended. She spoke Russian.

Her grandmother hummed, amused. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Liza swallowed, looking down at her hands. The same hands that had just worked magic, real magic, for the first time in years. She flexed her fingers, like she was expecting to see the glow of it still lingering beneath her skin. She only felt it. "I–" She hesitated, looking back up. "I don't know if I can do this."

Her grandmother stepped forward, reaching out. Warm fingers cupped Liza's face, the touch impossibly real. "But you already are," she murmured. "You always were, Lizachka. You just needed to listen."

Liza's chest ached. "I waited too long."

"There is no such thing." Her grandmother smiled, brushing a stray wavy lock behind her ear the way she used to when Liza was small. "Magic isn't something you chase. It waits for you. And you–" her thumb brushed gently over Liza's cheek, "–you were always meant to find your way back."

Liza closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. "It's just–so much. The Mikaelsons, the visions, the danger. I don't know where this ends."

Her grandmother's hands fell away, taking Liza's instead, warm and soft. "You're walking a path that was always meant for you," she said. "But that does not mean you walk it alone."

Liza opened her eyes, and suddenly, the air around them shifted. The dream rippled, colors bleeding together like spilled ink. And then–she saw him.

Elijah stood at the edge of the field beyond her grandmother, distant but unmistakable. His figure was bathed in the golden light of the dream, his presence steady, watching. He was always watching. He had color in his cheeks, his strong jaw. A lightness in his dark eyes. He was handsome.

Liza's breath caught at the thought.

Her grandmother's smile grew, something knowing in her gaze. "Some paths cross for a reason."

Liza swallowed hard, her fingers curling tighter around her grandmother's. "I don't–he's–" She shook her head. "It's not like that."

Her grandmother chuckled, soft and indulgent. "Time will tell."

Liza wanted to say more, wanted to hold onto the bittersweet feeling of this moment, her grandma's palms, but the world was already fading, dissolving around her like mist in the morning sun.

Her grandmother's voice echoed, gentle as a whisper against her skin. She let go.

"Trust yourself, Liza. And when the time comes...trust him."

And then, Liza woke.

Her eyes were open to the darkness in her bedroom with the distinct feeling that she was being watched. For a moment, disoriented by sleep, she thought maybe it was Ramses, standing by her bed, waiting for her to get up. But when she blinked the haze away and sat up, her room was empty, save for the morning light filtering through the curtains.

She exhaled slowly. The dream still clung to her–the reassurance and longing of her grandmother's presence, the certainty in her voice. You're on the right path, she had said. The dream felt different from the others. Less like a vision, more like a visitation.

With a grunt, Liza forced herself out of bed and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. No missed calls. No emergency texts. The world hadn't imploded overnight. She stared at her messages for a second before finally typing one out.

Liza: Wardings worked. Nothing weird overnight. I have work today, so we'll come over after.

She hovered over the send button, then added:

Liza: Ollie might come by earlier. I'll meet you guys after. There was no way she could skip work. She wouldn't even try to come up with an excuse.

The response was almost immediate. For someone so old-world, Elijah's phone was on him at all times, it seemed.

Elijah: That is good news. I assume you did not run into any difficulties?

Liza: Define difficulties. I didn't set anything on fire, so that's a win.

Elijah: Small victories.

Liza: Yep.

She tossed her phone onto the bed and got dressed in a light gray, cotton long-sleeve shirt, her jeans, and added her rainbow quartz necklace, hidden past her collar bones. She gave her wavy hair a brush before putting it in a half ponytail. By the time she made it to the kitchen, Ollie was already up, feeding Ramses, and scrolling through her phone. Ollie had made extra eggs in a pan and fried tomatoes.

"You're up. I thought you'd sleep in for once," Liza muttered, making a beeline for the coffee. Another text had come in, buzzed in her back pocket.

Ollie raised a brow, easily guessing who it was. "And you're talking to Elijah before noon."

Liza didn't respond as she looked at her phone.

Elijah: I can ensure you are relieved of your obligations for the day.

She sighed, already expecting that.

Liza: I need the money, Elijah.

Elijah: I can compel your employer to pay you regardless.

Liza: That feels morally gray.

Elijah: And yet, you work retail.

Liza actually snorted at that. Ollie had just been staring at her with raised eyebrows and a growing smile.

Liza: Touché.

She set the phone down and turned to Ollie. "I need to go to work. I'll just meet you at their house." She hesitated.

Ollie nodded as she sipped her coffee. "Yeah. I'll take Ramses, the Mustang, meet them first, figure out next steps."

Liza frowned. "I don't love you going alone."

"I won't be alone." Ollie grinned, petting the dog, who sat beside her, not interested in finishing his food but wanting a piece of Ollie's toast. "I'll have Rams. And apparently, that makes me more than qualified."

Liza pinched the bridge of her nose. "Klaus is gonna be insufferable."

"He already is." Ollie yawned, then lifting her coffee. "But at least this way, I can get a read on things before you walk into it."

Liza exhaled, considering it. And knowing Ollie, if she wasn't going to the Mikaelsons, she'd just end up pacing around the apartment, waiting for something to happen.

Liza grabbed her phone again.

Liza: Confirming that Ollie's coming early. She's taking my car. I'll just meet you guys there after.

Elijah: I will pick you up.

Liza blinked at the screen. She typed quickly.

Liza: That's not necessary.

Elijah: Indulge me.

Liza: You know I have legs, right?

Elijah: And yet, I prefer to ensure your safe arrival.

She groaned. But part of her was effected by his kind offer, like when he'd walked her to the train the other day, saw her home. It wasn't just him being polite. He... cared.

Liza: Fine.

Elijah: See you later.

Shoving her phone into her bag, Liza grabbed her jacket and set her car keys on the table. "Just don't let Klaus put Ramses on a throne or something."

Ollie smirked, finishing the last of her toast after tossing Ramses a piece, which he caught effortlessly. "No promises."

Ramses, sensing the shift, perked up, clearly thrilled at the prospect of going somewhere.

Liza adjusted her bag, giving Ollie an exasperated look. "Enjoy the circus."

Ollie grinned, saluting her. "Good luck surviving work while I have all the fun." The sarcasm was thick, but the underlying message was clear.

Liza just sighed, heading for the door. "Yeah. Thanks."

ooooo

The huge house was too damn quiet.

Ollie stepped inside, the door unlocked, Ramses trotting beside her on his leash, his claws clicking against the floor as he sniffed the air like he was investigating a crime scene, or a brand new playground. The grandeur of the place still felt ridiculous–too big, too pristine, like something out of a movie. Ramses lifted his head, ears twitching as he huffed, then padded further in, nose to the ground. Ollie had made sure he had a long walk beforehand so he'd thoroughly relieved himself.

"Okay, I know y'all are creepy and all, but does no one in this house answer the door?" she called, glancing around.

Before she could take another step, Klaus emerged from a side hallway, leaning casually against the wall like he'd been expecting her.

"Oh, love," he drawled, amusement flooding across his face, "I much prefer watching you wander."

Ollie narrowed her eyes as she unclipped the Akita. "Yeah? Keep it up, and I'm letting Ramses piss in one of your ridiculously expensive shoes."

Klaus grinned, unbothered by the empty threat. "He's a smart beast. He knows better than to ruin fine craftsmanship." He glanced down at Ramses, who was now sniffing at an intricately carved table leg with great interest. "Though, I do appreciate his curiosity."

Ramses turned his head toward Klaus, exhaled loudly, then padded past him like he wasn't worth his time.

Ollie smirked. "Yeah, you two are gonna get along great."

Klaus only chuckled before turning back toward the hall. "Elijah's in the study, brooding, as usual. Come along then, and bring the hound."

Ollie gave him a forced smile before calling Ramsey, who listened to the she-wolf. As he followed, however, he still paused every few feet to investigate something new–an antique vase, the edge of a Persian rug, the faintest hint of something hidden just beneath the surface of the place.

When they entered the study, Elijah was seated at the long, imposing mahogany table, a book open in front of him, a glass of something dark within reach. He barely looked up at first, his focus on whatever he was reading, but as Ollie walked in, his gaze lifted, sweeping over her and then landing on Ramses, who had already started circling the room, eager to explore.

"I take it Liza made it to work without issue?" Elijah asked, closing the book with quiet precision.

"Yeah, she's fine," Ollie confirmed, dropping into one of the chairs without ceremony. "The warding spell worked last night, so at least that's something."

Elijah gave a small nod, already knowing from Liza's text message but glad to hear it confirmed.

Klaus, meanwhile, leaned on the armrest of the second chair. "And you, darling?" he inquired. "Decided to spend your free day in the company of monsters?"

Ollie smirked. "What can I say? I like the aesthetic."

Klaus chuckled, clearly entertained. "Do you now?"

Elijah pressed his lips in a line, like he was already regretting this arrangement. "Must you encourage him?"

Ollie grinned. "It's fun." Then, shifting gears, she straightened in the chair. "But seriously, I figured since I'm here, might as well go over our next move. Liza's magic is waking up, but we need to make sure she's ahead of whatever supernatural crap is coming for her."

Ramses finally stopped his investigation and plopped himself down beside her chair with a huff.

Elijah's expression sobered, and he set his book aside. "Indeed. There are still too many unknowns. Time is not a luxury we have."

Klaus poured himself a glass of wine, gave Ollie one, and smirked as he took a sip. "Then by all means, let's plan. I do love a good game of strategy."

Ollie exhaled, glancing between them but grateful for the wine, which was no doubt expensive like the bourbon she'd sampled the night before. Also, it tasted good, full-bodied. Liza was walking straight into something massive, but at least she wasn't alone. And, for now, neither was Ollie.

Ollie didn't sugarcoat anything.

Chicago's werewolves weren't all as unified as the Crescent pack down south in New Orleans, but her own pack? They were different–older. An Eastern European bloodline, deeply rooted in tradition, one that had settled in the city long before it became what it was now. Their numbers weren't large, but they were tightly connected, their customs carried through generations. They ran a supernatural daycare, a safe space for young wolves to learn control before their first transformation, and other businesses, such as restaurants and grocery stores that provided imported goods from the motherland to keep nostalgia at bay. Most of the pack avoided vampire business, steering clear of politics, but they weren't blind to the undercurrents of power that ran through the city.

The witches, though–that was where things got complicated.

The Ten' Predkov (The Shadow of Ancesters) coven was one of the most structured, powerful group of witches in the Midwest. Another ex-Soviet faction of supernaturals, they operated in the suburbs where Russian-speaking communities flourished, keeping their secrets within their own members. Unlike most witches in the U.S., they still followed the old countries' rules. Their magic was unrestricted, passed down through ancestral spirits and ancient elemental forces rather than the diluted, modern traditions other covens clung to. They were unified and could be ruthless, and were feared. And they hated vampires.

Their disdain wasn't just personal–it was woven into their very existence. They saw themselves as gatekeepers, protectors of fate, keepers of nature's secrets. Vampires were abominations once created by twisted magic. If they found out what Liza could do, they would come for her. Not only to claim her as theirs, but to get her far away from the Mikaelsons. They'd train her, certainly, but she would be weaponized.

Liza had met members of the coven before, but she'd declined their invitations. Much to their disappointment, she told them she didn't want to practice or acknowledge her magic. They'd scolded her, the older members telling her she was a disgrace. She basically gave them the middle finger and told them to fuck off. But if word got out about what she could do, that wouldn't matter. They'd come for her anyway.

Elijah sat still, absorbing every detail with intensity. He wasn't just listening–he was cataloging, strategizing, already piecing together how this information would shape their next steps. When Ollie finished, he gave a slow, measured nod.

"I need to make a few calls," he said, and he didn't elaborate. His eyes flickered toward Klaus briefly, a silent warning not to get too carried away, before he turned and strode out of the room.

Which left Ollie alone with Klaus, who had listened to her explanations about her pack and the witch coven with such interest, as if these were the new, revealed players on the game board that was Chicago. And Klaus liked to participate in games.

Ollie turned toward him, one brow arched. "So, do you do anything other than drink, scheme, and flirt?"

Klaus reclined in his chair as he lifted the crystal decanter of wine to refill their glasses. "That depends. Are you asking out of curiosity or concern, love?"

Ollie hesitated for only a second before sipping her wine. She was pleasantly warmed from the expensive vintage, but being a werewolf gave her a high metabolism, so she wasn't tipsy yet. "I want to know if you have any other interests, and maybe if you have ulterior motives." She dipped her head with a pointed look.

Klaus let out a chuckle, tilting his own glass toward hers in a cheers. "No ulterior motives–at least, not yet."

They clinked their glasses, and Ollie took another drink, her dark eyes scanning the study in full, now that they were having a break. The room was steeped in the scent of aged paper, polished wood, and lingering tobacco from years past. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, their dark mahogany frames housing many tomes. A rolling ladder rested against one of bookcases, the kind found in private libraries belonging to men with more power than they let on.

A fireplace sat unlit across the room, its carved mantel smaller than the one in the parlor, but no less impressive. Heavy drapes framed the tall windows, partially shielding sunlight streaming in. The air carried the faintest trace of expensive cologne, mixing with the deep red wine swirling in their glasses.

No wonder Eljiah had claimed this space. It was a room meant for contemplation, for quiet strategy and whispered negotiations. But in Klaus's presence, the atmosphere shifted—charged, teasing, far less serious.

Ollie leaned back, letting her gaze sweep the room as she savored the wine. The whole house suited the Mikaelsons—regal, untouchable.

Ramses snored softly on the rug, in another world.

"This is probably the best wine I've ever had," Ollie remarked.

Klaus feigned offense. "I'd hardly offer you something subpar."

Ollie rolled her eyes, setting the glass down on the desk. "You know, you act like you've got it all figured out. The whole 'mysterious, dangerous hybrid with a taste for theatrics' thing." She studied him, lips curling. "But you don't. Not really."

Klaus' expression didn't shift, but something in his eyes darkened. "Oh? And what makes you think that?"

Ollie shrugged. "I grew up around alphas. The real kind. The ones who didn't need to posture. You can try and act like you're above it all, but I know an wolf with something to prove when I see one."

Klaus' smirk faltered for just a second before he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what would you know of alphas, little wolf?"

Ollie exhaled, tapping her nails against her armrest. "More than I care to."

Klaus studied her for a long moment, sensing the shift in her demeanor–the flicker of something old, something buried on purpose. "Go on, then," he coaxed, voice smoother now, less playful. "Tell me about them."

Ollie scoffed, shaking her head, her expression sobering, but she revealed nothing. "It's not that interesting."

"Indulge me," he insisted.

She exhaled, picking up her glass again, debating how much to share. "My pack is old. Traditional. The kind that believes bloodlines define everything. My mother was born into it, but she was never–" She paused, searching for the right word. "Stable."

Klaus tilted his head slightly, watching her closely.

"She's not the alpha," Ollie continued. "She never could be. She was strong, sure, but... erratic. Unpredictable. Some say it's just the wolf in her, but even as a kid, I knew it was more than that. Mental illness isn't something my pack acknowledges, so they just called her 'wild.' 'Untamed.'" Ollie eyes turned hard but she kept her composure. She was good at it. "They treated her like a liability. Like something broken. And because of that, they looked at me the same way."

Klaus didn't look away, his gaze steady. "You were judged for her condition."

Ollie let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Yeah. They thought it would pass down. That I'd snap one day, lose control like her. Doesn't matter how strong I am, how much I've proven myself–some of them will always see me as a risk."

There was no judgement on Klaus' face. He understood–very well.

A beat passed before she added, softer, "My stepfather does his best. He takes care of her, calms her down when she spirals. And my little sister–" Her expression flickered with something warmer. "She's twelve. She's got no idea how messed up everything is. I stick around for her."

Klaus studied her, taking in the tension in her jaw, the guarded way she spoke about it, unable to fully let down her walls. "And the pack? What's your standing with them now?"

Ollie rolled her shoulders as she considered his words. "I don't keep my distance completely," she admitted. "I still spend full moons with them, help out at the daycare, babysit some of the kids. We have cookouts, camping trips, all that. But there are people I avoid. Some of them still see me as my mother's daughter first and a packmate second."

Klaus tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. "And yet, you return."

Ollie smirked but it didn't reach her eyes. "I go back for the people who matter. My little sister. My stepfather. My friends. Liza even makes wolfsbane for me and a few of the others who need it."

Klaus hummed suspiciously. "Then perhaps you should be even closer."

She narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He leaned back, lazy, spreading his arms on the armrests of his chair. "A pack like yours–old blood, deeply rooted in tradition–could be useful. And I do have werewolf blood in my veins, love."

Ollie stiffened, immediately shaking her head. She knew at once what he was getting at. "No. Bad idea."

Klaus sounded a bit offended. "Why? I can be quite charming."

"You? Strolling into my pack like you belong there?" She let out a dry laugh. "They'd sniff you out in seconds."

Klaus grinned. "Not if I don't give them a reason to question me. If I present myself as nothing more than a fellow wolf–no hints of my vampire side, no grand declarations–who's to say they wouldn't accept me?"

Ollie folded her arms, studying him like he'd lost his mind. "You want to play wolf?"

"I want to understand them," Klaus corrected smoothly. "And perhaps, in time, they'll understand me."

Ollie scoffed, shaking her head. "You're out of your damn mind."

Klaus' smirk deepened. "Maybe. But admit it–you're curious how it would play out."

Ollie exhaled, rubbing a hand over her chin as she mulled it over. "I don't know," she admitted. "My stepdad might be open to it, but the rest of them? Some of them barely tolerate me as it is. If they found out who you really are…"

Klaus lifted a brow, his smirk unwavering. "Then I suppose it's a good thing they wouldn't find out."

She shook her head. "You're seriously asking me to lie to my own pack?"

"I'm asking you to consider possibilities," he corrected. "After all, wouldn't it be nice to have an ally who actually understands what it means to be an outcast?" He leaned in just slightly, voice dipping lower. Ollie fidgeted from him lumping her with him, giving her the same label, but she didn't deny it. "You may not like to admit it, but you and I aren't so different, love."

Ollie rolled her eyes again, but she didn't pull away. "You are literally the last person I have anything in common with."

Klaus' gaze studied her face, took in her features, her expression so defiant. The beat of silence tugged between them. "Oh, I don't know. We're both fiercely protective of those we care about. We both have a habit of getting into trouble. And we both know what it's like to have people judge us for things we can't control."

Ollie opened her mouth to argue, but the words didn't come. Because, damn it, he had a point.

Klaus saw her hesitation and pressed his advantage, shifting just a fraction closer. "Just think about it," he murmured, his eyes lingering on her lips. "You and I, running under the same moon, no vampire politics, no ancient grudges. Just the hunt, the pack, the instinct. Doesn't it sound... freeing?"

Ollie swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. Her nostrils flared. His cologne was spicy, unlike the one Elijah wore, with its cool notes. And Klaus was warm–it radiated off of him. "I'll think about it," she muttered, more to shut him up than anything else.

Klaus' smile turned positively wicked. "Good girl."

She gave him a glare. "Say that again and I'll punch you."

Klaus chuckled, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Noted."

Ollie huffed, finishing off the last of her wine one go. She mildly felt the headchange as it traveled to her stomach. "This is a terrible idea."

Klaus leaned back, smug satisfaction evident on his face. "And yet, you're considering it."

ooooo

Chicago unfurled in a tapestry of bustling streets, the towering architecture, and the shimmering blue lake in the distance. The view stretched out bright and alive under the sun. The bar was an oasis suspended in the sky, where steel and glass met warmth and intimacy. Polished marble countertops stretched along one side, adorned with an array of top-shelf liquor that gleamed like liquid jewels in bottles. Plush, low-slung seating clustered around the central fire pit, its blue flames crackling softly, a stark contrast to the cool steel of the surrounding skyscrapers. Because it was daytime, there weren't many people. They could have some privacy. That's why Marcel chose this place, and maybe he wanted to impress Rebekah.

She had dressed for the occasion, though she wasn't sure why. A fitted trenchcoat draped over her shoulders, her silk blouse tucked neatly into trousers, with heels sharp enough to kill. She told herself it was just habit–presentation was everything. But deep down, she knew the truth. She still wanted to affect him, too.

She leaned against the railing, her blue eyes catching the distant sparkle of the lake. Her fingers brushed the bowl of her wine glass, the cool condensation a contrast to the warmth of the fire near them. Even in daylight, the city below pulsed with life, but up here, it was as if they existed in a separate reality—one where old feelings and wounds simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to ignite.

And by the way Marcel's eyes dragged over her, lingering just a second too long, she knew his thoughts mirrored her own. For a moment, it was easy to pretend this was just nostalgia, just two old flames catching up. But they both knew better.

Marcel let the silence stretch before finally speaking, holding his own drink. "So. You and your brothers show up in Chicago, unannounced. Elijah's lurking in the shadows. Klaus is... well, Klaus." His gaze was sharp beneath the charm. "And you? You disappeared for years... suddenly want to catch up." He lifted his glass slightly in mock acknowledgment. "I'd say I'm flattered, but I know better."

Rebekah tilted her head, innocent. "Can't a girl want to see an old friend?"

Marcel smirked, not falling for it. "You tell me."

Their eyes met–too much history in a single glance. Rebekah felt it settle in her chest, a bit painful.

But Marcel wasn't letting her derail this. "You know, I ran into Elijah the day he got to town," he said casually, though there was nothing casual about it. "He didn't tell me much, but I could tell something was up. And then Klaus came, all dramatic as usual, and the three of us had ourselves a little reunion."

Rebekah kept her expression neutral. "Did you now?"

"Yeah." Marcel took a sip of his whiskey, watching her closely. "Your brother let something slip. 'Witch.' Just that one word. But you know Klaus–he doesn't exactly have an inside voice. So I asked Elijah, and, well... he had no choice but to tell me a little more."

Her grip on the wine glass tightened slightly. "What exactly did he tell you?"

"That Benjamin Henry, the psychic, reached out to him. That some spirit contacted the kid, told him Elijah needed to find a girl in Chicago. And now Benny's dead." Marcel's voice remained smooth, but his eyes were assessing her every reaction, every twitch in her beautiful, heart-shaped face. "I'm guessing that's not a coincidence."

Rebekah forced herself to keep still, to give him nothing. "It rarely is in our world."

Marcel cocked his head. "See, that's the thing, Bekah. You're here, talking to me, which tells me you don't want me looking into this."

She looked out at the city. "I'm saying it's none of your business."

He leaned slightly toward her, his elbow resting on the railing. "And I'm saying I know when I'm being lied to."

Rebekah met his gaze again steadily. "I'm not lying. I'm just not telling you everything."

Marcel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Same old Rebekah." His voice softened just a fraction, betraying his affection for her. It had never gone away. "I used to know everything about you. Now I feel like I barely know anything at all."

That hit deeper than she expected. She pursed her lips, a small frown. Then she forced herself to regain her composure. "Some things change."

"Yeah?" Marcel murmured, watching her. "And some things don't."

There it was. The weight of it. The past pushing against the present, all the things unsaid between them. For a second, Rebekah let herself sink into it. Let herself imagine what it would be like if things were different–if she could tell him everything, if she could trust him the way she used to.

But she couldn't. Not yet. So instead, she straightened, smoothing a hand down her sleeve. "Look, Marcel. Whatever you think is going on, just... don't push this."

Marcel studied her, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he sighed. "Fine. I won't push you." He took a sip of his drink. "But I've already started to look into Benny's death–just so you know. I've got connections in LA."

Her stomach twisted. "Marcel–"

He raised a hand, cutting her off. "If it's nothing, then it's nothing, right? But something tells me it's not." His voice was quieter now, insistent. "I'll find out, Bekah. One way or another."

She held his gaze, debating, warring with herself. But in the end, she just gave a small, tired smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You always were stubborn."

Marcel grinned with bitterness. "Takes one to know one."

The sunlight flickered between them like something fragile. And Rebekah, for the first time in a long time, felt something almost like regret. Because she knew–this wasn't the last conversation they'd have about this. Not by a long shot.

ooooo

The sky outside bled into rich hues of orange and violet, casting long, slanted shadows through the mansion's windows. The Gold Coast home was bathed in that fleeting kind of warmth–golden light pooling over the polished floors, catching on the intricate molding, softening the edges of a house that still didn't quite feel lived in.

With the quiet, rhythmic movements of a man who prided himself on routine, Elijah adjusted his cufflinks. Then smoothed his lapels. Then reached for his Rolex watch, fastening it with meticulous precision. His reflection in the ornate mirror in the hallway near the parlor was composed, as always, but his movements–his movements were deliberate. Too deliberate. The mask was in place perfectly fine, but he readjusted it nonetheless.

Klaus, lounging in his armchair with his umpteenth glass of wine of the evening, watched with simmering hilarity. "Brother," he called. "It's a pickup, not a bloody wedding."

Elijah didn't react right away. He merely adjusted his sleeve again, as if ensuring it fell just right over his wrist. Then, finally, he glanced over at Klaus, unimpressed. "You seem particularly invested in my evening plans."

Klaus smirked. "Only because it's entertaining." He took a slow sip, his eyes gleaming. "You, fussing over the details. Taking the Bentley, of all things. Tell me, Elijah–since when did you go to such lengths for something so... routine?"

Ollie, who had been scrolling through her phone, lying on the couch, perked up at that. Her dark gaze flicked toward Elijah, and she raised her head up, moving her arm behind her head. "Huh," she said. "Now that you mention it... you do seem kinda extra about this."

Elijah let out a sharp breath through his nose, the closest he ever came to an exasperated sigh. "If punctuality and presentation are now considered excessive, I fear for the state of modern etiquette."

Klaus laughed outright at that, a single loud HAH, and even Ollie laughed. But neither of them pressed further when Elijah leveled them with a stern look.

He then slipped on his coat, checked the time, and without another word, strode toward the front door.

Ollie caught Klaus' face as soon as his brother was gone."That was weird, right?"

Klaus only grinned into his wine. "Oh, love. That was very weird."

"He's just picking up Liza from work…"

"Indeed he is." Klaus smiled like a Cheshire Cat.

A beat of silence stretched between them before Ollie's stomach growled–loudly.

She groaned, sitting up and swinging her socked feet to the floor. "Okay, I need food. And I'm not talking fancy vampire wine and charcuterie. I need real food."

Klaus, still sipping his drink, gestured lazily toward the kitchen. "By all means, help yourself."

Ollie narrowed her eyes, hand on her hip. "That sounded suspiciously like 'go fend for yourself, peasant.'"

Klaus smirked, unrepentant, holding his arm aloft. "Would you rather I offer to cook for you?"

Ollie pretended to think it over, glancing up at the ceiling, then she snorted. "Pretty sure I'd rather starve."

The kitchen was a masterpiece, designed less for daily use and more as a showpiece of affluence–or for a private chef to do all the work. Dark-stained oak cabinets stretched to the high ceilings, their polished brass handles gleaming under the recessed lighting. A marble island dominated the center, its pristine surface expansive enough for a chef's ambitions—or, in this case, Ollie's casual rummaging.

The appliances were top-of-the-line, seamlessly integrated into the sleek design—La Cornue stainless steel double ovens, a six-burner gas range that had likely never been used, and a Monogram fridge that purred quietly, stocked like it belonged to a five-star restaurant rather than a house of vampires. Every bottle of wine, every neatly arranged bundle of herbs and imported delicacies, spoke of careful curation.

The backsplash was a cool slate, contrasting against the warm gold accents that lined the space. Even the barstools at the island—deep leather with intricate stitching—looked more decorative than functional.

Ollie ran her fingers over the smooth countertop. Even the damn salt and pepper shakers looked expensive, silver-plated metal with walnut wood. She let out a low whistle, shaking her head.

"Damn," she muttered, then pulling open a few drawers. "Guess the rich really do just keep their kitchens stocked like a magazine spread."

Klaus, curious now, sauntered over, watching as she inspected the selection. "Find anything to your liking?"

Ollie grinned, rolling up her sleeves. "You're in luck, Mikaelson. I'm a damn good cook."

He scoffed. "I'll believe that when I taste it."

"Then I guess you're helping," she shot back over her shoulder.

Klaus blinked, setting his wine glass down on the island. "Helping?" He looked at her as if she'd grown a second head.

She tossed a head of garlic at him. He caught it–just in time.

"Yeah," she said before she pulled a spotless and sharp Shun Kaji knife from the block. "You wanna be smug about my cooking skills? You're gonna get your hands dirty."

"Bloody hell." Klaus let out a breath of laughter but didn't argue. He could not recall the last time he even attempted to cook. Human food. Ollie gave him another smile over her shoulder and it infected him. He stepped around the island. "Very well. But I'm not wearing an apron."

"Suit yourself." Ollie's short body was swallowed up by the fridge as she began to dig through it.
Klaus' attention was momentarily distracted by the round curve of her behind, which looked good in her jeans. Just as she pulled out a bundle of paper wrapped meat, he looked away.

"I'll pop another bottle for us," he said quickly and stepped over to the wine fridge.

Soon, the kitchen was filled with the rhythmic sound of chopping, the hiss of a pan, the scent of herbs and butter melting together. Ollie moved with practiced ease, dicing onions, tossing ingredients in, working purely by instinct. She didn't need a recipe–she just knew.

Klaus, to his own mild surprise, found himself actually enjoying this–peeling garlic, slicing, pouring more glasses for both of them.

Somewhere in the process, the playful barbs faded into something... comfortable.

"So," Klaus said eventually, watching her stir a pot, "what exactly are we making?"

Ollie smirked. "A little of this, a little of that." She grabbed a spoon, dipped it into the sauce, and held it out. "Here. Taste."

Klaus regarded her for a moment before leaning in, lips closing over the spoon. He hummed, brows lifting. "Not bad."

Ollie grinned, genuine and bright. "See? Told you."

She turned back to the stove, and Klaus, swirling his wine, found himself watching her a second longer than necessary again. He couldn't remember the last time a woman cook for him either. Maybe it was the warmth of the kitchen, or the way she carried herself–bold, unbothered, entirely her own person. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something else entirely.