Valentin Dupré was the epitome of a composed predator–tall, lean, and sharp in every sense of the word. He had a long face with a pointed chin, pointed nose, high cheekbones, and thin lips. His light brown hair was slightly curly, peppered with gray. His perceived age–mid-fifties–did anything but soften him. He looked refined yet rakish and unforgiving. His presence, though outwardly elegant, hid a contained volatility, the kind that needed no exaggeration to be felt. He was clad in a midnight-blue suit. A glass of deep red idly turned between his long fingers, almost distracted–yet his mind missed nothing. Valentin missed nothing. His voice, when it came, was smooth as aged cognac, each syllable rolling with the faintest trace of French inflection.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Valentin's voice carried across the ballroom, refined and precise. "Tonight, we welcome honored guests–figures of legend, spoken of in hushed whispers and history alike."
His gaze settled on the Mikaelsons–Elijah and Liza first, then Klaus and Rebekah–lingering just long enough to turn observation into appraisal. A glint flickered behind his eyes, the ghost of a smirk brushing his lips. "The Original Family. A rare privilege, indeed."
A ripple passed through the gathered immortals, tension winding like a spring in the air. Most had never stood in the presence of the first vampires, the bloodlines from which they all descended. Now that the legends stood among them, the confirmation brought unease. Some eyes shone with wariness, others with thinly veiled intimidation.
"Chicago has flourished under balance for over two centuries," Valentin continued, lifting his glass in a pointed gesture. "A delicate order among our kind." He dipped his chin slightly, his expression cool, inscrutable. "It is my hope that this evening marks the beginning of a new... understanding between our council and our esteemed guests."
Not a welcome. Not an alliance. An understanding. A careful distinction, meant to be noticed. A hand extended, but with a blade just beneath the sleeve.
As the murmurs quieted, Valentin's attention drifted once more across the room–before landing on the Mikaelsons again. On Liza. His eyes stayed, cool and unblinking, as if turning over a peculiarity in his mind, before flicking away again. Liza, sensing the scrutiny, instinctively pressed closer to Elijah, his arm still around her back–a silent, unwavering presence.
Valentin's smirk was still intact but still never quite meeting his eyes. "So let us drink."
A pause. A beat.
"Let us celebrate." And then, his gaze flashed with something almost amused, teasing. "And let us see where this new chapter leads us."
A delicate chime of glasses followed, a ripple of movement as the assembled guests raised their drinks in obedient acknowledgment.
Elijah, ever composed, mirrored the motion, lifting his own glass–though his fingers slid, almost imperceptible, to Liza's waist.
Across the room, Klaus smirked behind the rim of his champagne flute. And just like that, the real games began. The moment Valentin's speech concluded, the energy in the room shifted, subtle but undeniable. It vibrated with concealed motives and quiet maneuvering.
Elijah leaned in, his lips grazing Liza's ear. "Do you trust me?"
The question landed heavy. Her breath caught, the warmth of him brushing against her sending a shiver rippling down her spine not for the first time that night. Her fingers gripped around the stem of her wine glass. She willed herself to focus, to ignore how easily his presence seemed to blanket her, how the world around them faded into insignificance.
Did she trust him? She exhaled slowly, bracing herself. Elijah had saved her. He had protected her. Despite everything–the dangers lurking at the periphery of this world, the uncertainty woven into every step forward–he had never lied to her. Liza tilted her head up, just enough to meet his eyes out of the corners of hers. The room blurred, its edges softened, as though nothing else existed but this single, precarious second.
"Yes," she murmured, the answer slipping past her lips before she had time to question it. "I do."
Something shifted in Elijah's gaze. Gratitude. And something deeper. His hand flexed at her hip, giving away his relief. Her trust was not a small thing.
"Then," he murmured, a promise sealed in the quiet space between them, "whatever comes next, we face it together." His gaze held hers, searching, steady. A silent vow.
And then, before either of them could say more–
"Now, now," came a taunting lilt, breaking through the moment like a blade through silk.
Liza turned, already knowing who it was before she even saw him. Klaus. Drink in hand. Smirking, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. Across the room, the council members were beginning to make their slow approach.
Klaus' gaze darted between Elijah and Liza, lingering on the latter before settling back on the former again. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything... meaningful."
Elijah straightened, smoothly reclaiming the composed mask he always wore in public. "Hardly," he replied, though there was something in his tone–a quiet warning that said, don't start, Niklaus.
Klaus chuckled before his face became deadpan. "Good. Because it looks like we're about to make some new friends."
Liza followed his gaze as Klaus looked over his shoulder, her stomach tightening as she realized what he meant.
Ollie subtly held back, staying near the bar with another champagne glass in hand. She had no interest in immersing herself in whatever power games were about to unfold. Watching from a distance suited her just fine–besides, she'd much rather gauge the room from a position where she wasn't directly under scrutiny. Rebekah, however, gracefully stepped forward, seamlessly aligning herself with Elijah, Klaus, and Liza.
Elijah's expression was neutral, betraying nothing, giving nothing away. A tremulous pressure hovered in the air, a silent undertone to the evening's festivities.
The guests parted like the Red Sea for the council, their presence an unspoken command. Seven figures, each distinct yet unified in authority. They didn't walk together, but there was a synchronicity in how they approached–a force that demanded respect.
Isabella Cortázar led the approach, her composure honed to a lethal edge. She appeared no older than in her mid-twenties, yet the way that she carried herself made perceived age irrelevant. Her raven-black hair was neatly secured in a sleek bun, accentuating the height of her cheekbones and the calculating intensity of her light brown eyes. Her expensive romper, though undeniably elegant, was chosen with purpose–form-fitting but unrestrictive, allowing for swift movement. The fabric, a deep crimson with subtle structuring, draped over her frame like a liquid sheath, refined yet functional.
Beside her, Dmitri Petrov was a man of quiet danger. He looked to be in his early fifties, stern. His face, all sharp planes and cold symmetry, was stony. He had slicked-back chestnut hair, muted brown eyes, and wore a pristine black suit with silver cufflinks that caught the light. He didn't show warmth, or any emotion, really–only calculation, already dissecting the Mikaelsons like an equation waiting to be solved.
The first to truly smile was Victoria Langley, though her crimson-painted lips held more amusement than sincerity. She looked around the same age as Isabella, her silver dress shimmering with each graceful step. Her glossy, dark brown hair framed striking blue eyes that seemed bright. She studied the Mikaelsons like they were a fascinating new exhibit, her interest apparent, her intentions less so.
Trailing slightly behind was Nathaniel Mercer, his muted tones contrasting the rest. He appeared in his sixties, though there was nothing frail about him–only wisdom, etched in silver-threaded hair and gray eyes. His features were lined but regal, the kind of face that had watched centuries unfold and found little amusement in drama. His gaze flicked to Elijah first, then Liza–as if he already understood more than he should.
Hugo Leclair took his time joining them, exuding the unshakable confidence of a man who had never lost a negotiation. Presumably turned in his mid-thirties, tall and immaculately groomed with deep brown skin, short-cropped black hair, a tailored dark green suit that spoke of wealth and influence. His presence wasn't loud, yet it had the assurance of someone who could fund an empire or dismantle one with a single choice.
And then, there was Selene Ward. Unlike the others, her power wasn't worn like an immediate threat–it was something far more unsettling. She looked no older than her late twenties or early thirties, yet she carried an eerie stillness, as if time itself had bent around her. Porcelain-pale, her haunting features framed by dark auburn waves, her eyes so deep a blue that they seemed near-black. She didn't observe like the others–she already knew. The dark fabric of her dress flowed like shadow, and as she strode, her gaze drifted lazily over the scene, a certainty in her expression–as if she had already seen how the night would end.
Klaus, ever the master of playing to the crowd, greeted them with a wolfish grin. "Ah, the esteemed council," he said, though there was a taunt to his voice that Liza picked up on. "What a delight."
It was Isabella who spoke first, her voice a controlled purr, her Spanish accent still laced with the weight of centuries.
"Elijah. Niklaus. Rebekah." She acknowledged them by name, her light, deceptively warm brown eyes assessing before darting to Liza. "And the unknown element."
Liza stiffened at the phrasing, but before she could respond, Elijah stepped forward, composed as ever. "Isabella," he greeted smoothly. "I see time has not softened your discipline."
She didn't smile, but there was a slight incline of her head. "Nor has it lessened your talent for disrupting order."
A low chuckle came from Dmitri, the sound flat. "We are all creatures of habit, are we not?" He had a faint Eastern European accent. His gaze slid toward Klaus, a slow, scrutinizing look. The tension between them was unspoken, yet unmistakable.
Victoria, ever the socialite, took a languid sip of her champagne. "I must admit, I was expecting... more melodrama." Her red lips curved into a grin. "A grander entrance, perhaps?"
Klaus smirked, his face indulgent. "We do like to keep things interesting."
Nathaniel finally spoke, his deep-set eyes lingering on Liza. There was no malice–just an unnerving certainty. "You've brought something... different." It was not a question.
Elijah remained unfazed. "We have brought nothing more than ourselves."
Selene stirred, her voice soft yet somehow cutting through the thrumming of the room. "And yet, the air moves differently since your arrival." Her accent was hard to place but was also European.
A silence followed, stretched taut like a drawn bowstring.
Rebekah, who had never had patience for being studied like a curiosity, arched her brow. "Are we here for introductions, or is this an interrogation?"
A deep, amused laugh rumbled from Hugo. "Ah, but power structures demand ceremony, don't they?" He swirled the red liquid in his glass before lifting it toward them. "Consider this your first test."
Liza exhaled slowly, the unease of the moment wedging against her ribs, churning her stomach. They were playing a game, that much was obvious–but she hadn't been given the rules.
Behind the members stood Valentin Dupré, still watching, still waiting–the true master of the board, who had yet to make his move.
Dmitri took a deliberate step forward. "Your visit raises questions–and more importantly–concerns."
Elijah's eyes narrowed just a fraction, but his reply was cool. "Our absence was not by choice, as you well know. And our intentions have not changed."
Klaus snickered, a sound tinged with a shadow of threat. "What my brother means to say is, we're not here to disrupt the fragile peace you've built." He paused, his blue-gray gaze piercing. "Unless provoked."
Victoria let out a soft hum of amusement, holding the champagne in her glass as though the conversation were nothing more than light entertainment. "Provocation is such a flexible term, isn't it?" she said. "What one calls a disturbance, another may call... an opportunity." Her eyes flicked toward Valentin, as if gauging his reaction, but the council leader remained stoic.
"Still, one does wonder... why now?" Nathaniel studied the Mikaelsons, his eyes lingering for a beat too long on Liza again, though his face remained somber. "Chicago has endured well enough without your presence for quite some time."
Rebekah's smiled sharply, feigning politeness laced with steel. "And yet, we received such a warm invitation." She gestured toward the lavish room around them. "Surely, if our presence were unwelcome, we wouldn't be standing here now."
Dmitri gave a low droll chuckle. "Perhaps. Or perhaps we simply like to keep a close eye on potential disruptions."
"Enough," Selene said.
The single word carried more gravity than the barbed exchanges that had preceded it. Her gaze settled on Valentin, over her shoulder, a silent prompt for him to take his rightful place at the head of the conversation.
And, at last, he moved. He reached them in a couple of long strides.
"We did invite you," he acknowledged, a slow smile spreading across his thin lips. "And I believe we all prefer to keep things civil. But let's not pretend we are not all calculating our next moves." His keen gaze landed on Elijah. "You would do the same in our position."
A beat of silence. Then, with the ease of a man who knew his words carried power, Valentin lifted his glass in a silent toast.
"So, let's not waste our fine drinks on tension, shall we?"
The music of the string quartet and low murmur of conversation formed a distant backdrop.
Elijah lifted his own glass, the gesture mirroring Valentin's, and dark his gaze remained fixed on the council leader, a silent acceptance of the truce.
Klaus raised his champagne in a similar salute. "A toast, then," he agreed, his tone nonchalant enough to mask the annoyance forced at bay within him. "To alliances... and to new beginnings."
Victoria's attention returned to Liza, curiosity flashing across her pretty face. Liza clenched her jaw, focusing on Elijah's touch, which hadn't moved from her back, as if willing his strength to flow into her.
"And to new faces," Victoria said, her voice lilting. "It's not every day a human is welcomed so openly into our world. One has to wonder…" She trailed off, tilting her head. "What exactly is your place among the Mikaelsons?"
Liza felt the shift. The ice-cold glances, probing, made her hold her breath. She was being evaluated–assessed like an out of place anomaly in an otherwise well-calculated equation.
Before she could answer, Elijah spoke. "She is my companion."
The words hung in the air, carrying the full seriousness of what they implied. It was a simple explanation, but one that had enough authority to silence further questioning–for now.
Dmitri grunted, raising his chin. "Companion," he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like he was testing its taste. "That suggests... familiarity."
Victoria smiled wider. "And exclusivity."
Liza forced herself to breathe evenly, to ignore the way they discussed this. Is this how all human companions of vampires felt, like pets whose purposes and pedigrees were judged?
Nathaniel studied her. "A bold choice," he remarked, his voice mild, though there was something shrewd in the way he regarded Elijah. "You have never been one to take human companions lightly, Mr. Mikaelson."
Rebekah, sensing the rising scrutiny, exhaled shortly. "Are we truly here to dissect my brother's personal affairs," she drawled, "or was there something more substantial you wanted to discuss?"
A chuckle from Hugo, smooth. "Patience, darling. Formalities are part of the game."
Selene dipped her head slightly, her gaze flicking between Elijah and Liza, but if she suspected anything beyond what had been presented, she kept it to herself. Instead, she simply murmured, "Curious."
Isabella, however, didn't spare Liza another glance. She saw no threat in her, and to Isabella, what did not pose a threat was not worth her attention.
Liza swallowed but kept her expression neutral, resisting the urge to fidget. She had the distinct feeling that the council was testing Elijah as well.
Elijah's expression stayed guarded but firm. "My choice in companions is, as always, deliberate," he responded, his tone even, brooking no argument. "Let's not stray from the matter at hand."
Valentin's eyes slid over Liza, the assessment feeling almost tangible. It wasn't just a glance–which traced the lines of her figure, the way the fabric of her dress clung to her frame. A flicker of something smug pulled at the corner of his mouth, like a man admiring a fine piece of art he had no intention of purchasing but enjoyed considering nonetheless.
Liza felt the way his eyes lingered a beat too long before returning to her face, the slow, suggestive smirk that followed. Her spine stiffened, indignation rising up in her, but she didn't shift under the attention–refusing to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she met his gaze head-on, her brown eyes unflinching and jaw clenched. If he expected her to lower her chin or avert her eyes, he was sorely mistaken.
She arched a brow, tilting her head just slightly. I see you, the look said. And I am not impressed. Smarmy asshole.
Elijah had caught the exchange instantly–the slow drag of Valentin's attention, the unspoken implication within the look. Elijah's teeth clenched, a flash of something cold and sharp appearing from behind his otherwise composed expression. Deliberately, he shifted closer to Liza, his arm fully around her–a subtle but unmistakable claim. His gaze was dark and unreadable, but the message was clear: You may look, but you will not touch.
Klaus finally spoke up again. "Indeed. Let's discuss the reason for our impromptu visit." There was a bite to his voice, a warning beneath the surface that they were here for more than just pleasantries.
Valentin took a slow sip of his red drink before lowering the glass, briefly licking his lips. "Very well," he said curtly. "If not pleasantries, then let us speak plainly. What, then, has brought the Mikaelsons to Chicago after all this time?"
Elijah was the first to answer. "We came to ensure that the city's balance remains intact. New Orleans has been... unpredictable, as you well know. We thought it prudent to survey Chicago's state of affairs before unforeseen disruptions arise."
Dmitri gave a quiet scoff, setting his glass down on a nearby table. "Survey?" His eyes cut to Klaus. "That's a diplomatic way of saying you're here to remind us who the real kings of the food chain are."
Klaus smirked, ever the provocateur. "And if that were true, would it be so wrong? We wouldn't want any ambitious sorts getting ideas in our absence."
Victoria tilted her head again. "Ah, so this is a... precautionary visit?" Her blue gaze went to Valentin. "Ensuring your legacy remains intact?"
Rebekah sighed, a touch exasperated. "More or less. You know our family's reputation." She gestured with an elegant sweep of her hand. "When the Mikaelsons vanish for too long, people assume we've lost interest. And when that happens... power vacuums tend to form."
Hugo leaned in just slightly. "And yet, you haven't come in force." His eyes swept over them. "Just the four of you."
Elijah's smile was subtle, unwavering, unreadable. "That should tell you all you need to know."
A beat of silence stretched between them before Valentin inclined his head, conceding the point.
"A reasonable concern." He sounded nonchalant.. "Chicago has flourished under our guidance, but I understand the need for reassurance."
Dmitri made a low, unimpressed groan but offered no challenge.
Valentin's focus settled back on Elijah. "You are, of course, welcome to observe. But I trust you will keep your presence here... non-disruptive?"
Elijah dipped his chin in acknowledgment. "Naturally."
Valentin let the moment stretch before giving a slow nod. "Then consider this an official welcome." He lifted his glass in a display of authority. "To old blood and new alliances."
The council followed suit–Dmitri, Nathaniel, Isabella, and Selene not as readily as Victoria, or Hugo–but the tension was no longer so taut with the unspoken challenges, now tempered by the thin veneer of civility.
For now, the Mikaelsons had bought themselves time.
As crystal clinked, the charged undercurrent eased, giving way to the well-rehearsed façade of decorum. Outwardly composed, Elijah's mind was already working, dissecting every exchanged word, every glance. This dance–the interplay of politics and power–was as intricate as it was unrelenting. The council had extended their permission, but beneath their polished smiles, the unspoken test remained.
His gaze moved to Liza, a reminder of the stakes. She stood straight, but he could feel the stress in her frame, see it in the minute shifts of her expression. Without conscious thought, his fingers moved at her outer hip–a fleeting touch, a reassurance that spoke in a language of its own. She instinctively leaned into him, and he held her, unyielding yet grounding all the same.
Beside them, Klaus' posture was deceptively relaxed. Elijah could feel the charge in him, the restless energy of a predator in uncertain terrain. He knew his brother well enough to sense his thoughts before he voiced them–assessing threats, calculating responses. Even Rebekah wore her charm like armor, her smile just sharp enough to deflect any misstep.
Their presence here was delicate–a display of strength without provocation, an exercise in restraint disguised as diplomacy.
As the council members drifted apart, their parting glances still covertly assessing, the energy in the ballroom recalibrated. Conversations resumed, laughter rippled through the air in hushed, carefully controlled tones, and the quartet's melody shifted–livelier now, a rhythm that thrummed through the space like a pulse.
The gathered immortals–some with centuries of social mastery–began to move with the music, falling into familiar patterns. Even in this new age, vampires clung to their rituals, their traditions of power and courtly games. And dancing was no exception.
Partners paired off, some fit into each other's arms with the comfort of familiarity, others sizing each other up with the thrill of the chase–the game that had begun the moment the Mikaelsons stepped through the door.
Klaus, naturally, was the first to act. His head tilted, a slow smirk carving the edges of his mouth as his gaze locked onto Ollie. He started to her. Her attention snapped to him.
"Well, love," he drawled, "it seems our hosts appreciate the finer traditions. Care to indulge me in one?"
Ollie, mid-sip of her champagne, arched a brow, unimpressed but not entirely dismissive. "You're actually asking?"
Klaus chuckled. "I do have my moments of civility." He extended a hand, palm up, an invitation laced with impish air. "Come now, don't make me beg."
Ollie exhaled through her nose, casting a quick glance toward Liza–though her best friend remained absorbed in a silent exchange with Elijah. With a resigned sigh, she set her glass aside. "Fine," she relented, sliding her fingers into his. "But if you step on my feet, I'm throwing you into the nearest table."
Klaus grinned, leading her onto the dance floor. "Darling, I'm far too graceful for that."
Elijah observed their interaction with veiled interest, but his true focus remained on the room. The dance floor had become a stage, where power was spoken through movement rather than words.
Only then did he finally withdraw his hand from Liza's waist, though not before offering a small nod–a silent reassurance, a promise of continued protection. Then, he held out his hand toward her, a small smile at his lips. "Shall we?"
It wasn't just a polite offer. Dancing, in this setting, was a statement–a declaration of unity, of trust. And while he had no intention of making it more than it was, he was keenly aware of how it would be perceived. It would also cement his claim over her, subtle yet unmistakable.
Liza's gaze dropped to his outstretched hand, eyes widening slightly. "I... I don't know how to dance," she whispered, casting an uncertain glance toward the elegantly moving couples before returning to him. "Like that."
Even so, she placed her palm in his, instinct overriding hesitation.
Elijah's expression softened, his thumb tracing a fleeting circle over her knuckles. "It's quite simple," he assured, his voice warm. "Just follow my lead."
He guided her onto the floor, his other hand settling at her waist. The contact was firm yet careful–anchoring without constraining. Their steps eased into the cadence of the music, the tempo a rhythm she didn't have to understand to match.
"Trust in me. Trust in yourself," he murmured, their bodies shifting in seamless motion. "The steps will come naturally."
Eyes had followed them, whispers snaking through the room.
Yet all Liza could focus on was the way Elijah's hand fit against her waist, solid and pleasant. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, their proximity closer than necessary. The front of his suit barely brushed against her. She exhaled slowly, adjusting to the movement. But it was impossible to ignore the ripple in the atmosphere–the attention pressing against them.
She tilted her chin up, studying him as she tried to keep pace. "Do you actually like this?" she asked, voice low. "Dancing?"
Elijah's gaze flashed with something indecipherable before he offered a small nod. "I find it... meditative, in its way. It's an expression of control–every step, every turn, a discipline of precision."
Without warning, he guided her into a graceful spin before pulling her back against him.
Liza gasped, a startled laugh escaping before she could stop it. Dancing at a club when Ollie dragged her out wasn't remotely comparable to this. Her hand instinctively settled back on his shoulder, as if it belonged there, her body relaxing a bit.
Elijah's lips quirked slightly. "And yes," he continued, "it's enjoyable–when in the right company."
The words lingered between them.
Liza swallowed. "I'm the right company?"
Something softer settled in his dark eyes. His hand flexed slightly at her waist–not just with reassurance this time, but something more. "More than you realize."
The space between them felt smaller, the dance floor a world of its own.
"You're doing well," he noted, his voice pitched lower now, laden with tenderness.
Liza glanced down at their feet before looking back up with a wry smile. "I think... you're biased."
Elijah chuckled, the sound deep, resonant. "Perhaps." His head tilted just so, his cheek ghosting against her temple. "But that doesn't make my observation any less true."
Her breath caught. She hadn't expected him to be so near. It should have unsettled her–the intimacy of it, the way his voice brushed against her hair like a whisper. But instead, she found herself leaning in without thinking, her lips barely grazing his jaw as she spoke.
"Thank you, then," she murmured.
His presence wrapped around her, certain, a rare vulnerability neither of them acknowledged aloud. Dancing with him–moving in perfect step, guided by the steadiness of his hold–felt... natural. Right, even. And for Elijah, whose world had been one of rigid control for centuries, there was something profoundly disarming about that.
Ollie hadn't danced like this in–well, ever. Clubs, sure. Dive bars with sticky floors and a half-decent jukebox? Absolutely. But a ballroom waltz, with a string quartet, chandeliers glinting overhead, and a thousand-year-old vampire who moved like he was born for it? Yeah, not exactly her scene. And yet, here she was, allowing Klaus Mikaelson to sweep her onto the dance floor with a confidence so smug it bordered on audacious.
"You know," she muttered, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder as he led her into the steps, "I half-expected you to step on my toes just to prove a point."
Klaus smirked, his touch at her waist light but assured, guiding her into the rhythm with precision. "Oh, love, I only step on toes when it's necessary." His eyes glittered with amusement as he navigated them seamlessly between the other dancers. "And I must say, for someone who feigned reluctance, you're rather good at this."
Ollie scoffed, rolling her eyes–even as her feet followed his lead. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Ah," Klaus countered smoothly, "but you trust me to make it look otherwise."
Ollie exhaled sharply, annoyed at how easily he backed her into a corner–metaphorically speaking. He was good at this–not just the dancing, but the entire game. The teasing, the control, the way he twisted moments in his favor without even trying. She'd had her fair share of men attempting to charm their way into her good graces, but Klaus? He did it without effort. Because effort wasn't required.
"Do this often?" she asked, arching a brow. "Sweep unsuspecting women onto the dance floor, dazzle them with impeccable footwork?"
Klaus gave a low chuckle, the sound warm but infused with something darker, something devilish. "Only when I find someone worth the effort."
Ollie fixed him with a dry, unimpressed stare. "Charming."
"I try," he said, voice velvet-smooth. His smirk lingered, but beneath it–an awareness of the game they were playing, of the eyes watching their every move.
Ollie wasn't oblivious either. This wasn't just a dance. It was a performance. A carefully measured display of control, of presence. And she was part of it now. Fine. If they wanted a show, they'd get one.
With a small, challenging smirk, she shifted closer, pressing squarely against him, her movements bolder. "Well," she said, tilting her head slightly, "if we're going to make a spectacle of it, we might as well make it look good."
Klaus' grin widened, his grip adjusting just enough to pull her smoothly through another turn, making it almost theatrical. "Now that," he murmured, his voice dangerously close to approval, "is the spirit."
Rebekah had felt Marcel's eyes on her all night. Even as he moved through the crowd, charming and maneuvering like the seasoned player he was, his attention kept drifting back to her. It was subtle–a fleeting glance here, a flicker of awareness there–but she knew him too well to mistake it for anything else.
So when he finally made his move, crossing the floor with that signature unhurried swagger, she wasn't caught off guard. She was, however, irritated.
"You're late," she remarked the moment he stopped before her, arching a brow. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."
Marcel smirked, holding out his hand, his voice as smooth as ever. "Never." The single word carried the reminder of history between them. "Just waiting for the right moment."
Rebekah hesitated just long enough for him to notice–long enough to remind him that he wasn't the only one who knew how to play games–before she slipped her fingers into his. His grip was firm, familiar, just warm enough to stir memories she refused to acknowledge.
They fell into step with ease, muscle memory guiding them as if the years had never passed.
"So," she mused, tilting her head, studying him. "Are we dancing for nostalgia's sake, or is there another reason you finally decided to stop pretending I don't exist?"
Marcel let out a low chuckle, his hand settling against her waist. "Can't it be both?"
She exhaled an amused breath, but her expression remained steely. Marcel never acted without reason–not when it came to her, not when it came to any of this. And sure enough–
"I need to talk to you," he murmured, his lips close to her ear, low enough that no one else would hear.
Rebekah's expression didn't shift, her steps never faltering. "About what?"
Marcel's fingers tightened fractionally at her hip, his jaw tensing just enough to betray his concern before he spoke. "Benny."
She inhaled slowly, keeping her features composed. "You told me you were looking into it," she replied evenly, her voice a careful balance of interest and indifference.
Marcel gave a slow nod as he pulled away a little, his gaze skimming over her face, searching for something unspoken. "And now, I've found answers you're going to want to hear."
His words settled between them, grave beneath the surface tension. Around them, the party continued as though nothing had changed–laughter, music, the low whirring of political maneuvering disguised as casual conversation.
Marcel's grip tightened more, the pressure subtle but deliberate. He spun her in time with the music, leading her through the steps. To the outside world, they were nothing more than an old romance rekindled. But beneath the veneer of graceful movements and exchanged smiles, suspense coiled between them like a drawn bowstring.
Rebekah's smile was more habit than genuine mirth. "And what exactly have you found, Marcel?"
His answering smile was just as practiced, but his voice dipped, low and serious. "Not here," he muttered, casting a quick glance around the room. "Meet me later. My condo."
Rebekah arched a brow, feigned amusement flickering across her face. "How very clandestine of you."
Marcel exhaled a quiet laugh, his hand pressing just a fraction firmer against her back as they moved. "I'm serious, Bek." His dark eyes locked onto her blue ones, no trace of mischief now, just gravity. "I haven't told anyone else."
That made her pause. Marcel was careful with information, but he wasn't reckless. If he had chosen to keep this quiet–not sharing it with the council, not even confiding in his most trusted allies–it meant one of two things. Either it was too volatile... Or it was something that threatened her family.
Rebekah let a long breath slip past her lips, her fingers trailing absently along his shoulder–a movement meant to look casual, though they both knew better. "Fine," she said, keeping her tone light, as if he weren't holding a loaded gun of information between them. "But this better be worth my time."
Marcel's smirk returned, but this time, it lacked its usual ease. "Oh, it will be," he assured her, his voice dipping even lower. "And for the record, I don't think you're going to like it."
A tendril of unease curled beneath her chest, but Rebekah masked it, tilting her face just slightly as if dismissing whatever momentary concern she might have felt. She knew Marcel too well to fall for a bluff. He wasn't bluffing.
The air outside the ballroom was crisp and bracing, stark to the cloying atmosphere they had just left behind. As the Mikaelsons, Ollie, and Liza stepped onto the downtown Chicago street, the evening settled over them like a hood. The din of the city–cars slipping through the streets, distant voices blending into the night–felt far more tangible than the curated, suffocating opulence of the council's domain.
Liza exhaled slowly, barely holding herself together. Her thoughts churned in endless loops–meeting the council, the scrutiny in their gazes, the unspoken threats underlining every word. And then there was Elijah. Dancing with him, the feel of his hand at her waist, the way he had looked at her like she was something rare. Then I am honored to be a part of your light, Liza.
Her fingers clenched around the fabric of her dress, lifting it a little so she wouldn't trip, trying to ground herself in the present before her thoughts spiraled further. She had just been put in a part of a play that she didn't know the lines for. There was no slipping back into obscurity now. Elijah was still close, steady as ever, his presence an anchor against the whirlwind inside her.
Nearby, Klaus stretched, rolling his shoulders with a dramatic sigh. "Well," he mused, his grin razor-sharp, "that was... civilized." His attention flicked toward Liza, amusement deepening at the tightness in her posture. "Don't look so pale, love. The real fun is just beginning."
Liza shot him a flat look. She was not in the mood.
"Can the dramatics wait until after I eat something?" Ollie groaned, rubbing her stomach. "I don't know how you vampires manage these extravagant parties with no actual food. I'm starving."
Rebekah arched a brow. "Oh, believe me, darling, we're quite accustomed to gatherings with... more indulgent refreshments."
Ollie pulled a face. "Right. Forgot who I was talking to."
The lighthearted exchange barely registered for Liza. The moment she had stepped beyond the council's reach, the walls of control she had carefully upheld began to splinter. She turned to Elijah, her voice quieter than before. "Am I in more or less danger now?"
Elijah studied her, his dark eyes searching hers. There it was–the deliberation, the careful balancing of truth against reassurance.
Before he could answer, Rebekah smoothed a hand down over her hair and announced, "Marcel wants to meet me." She lifted her chin, her posture casual but firm. "Alone."
Klaus, predictably, bristled. "Absolutely not."
Rebekah exhaled, clearly expecting his reaction. "Oh, please. If he wanted to turn me into a pile of ash, he would've done it already." A slow smile played at her lips. "Besides, you lot would only slow me down. I want to hear what he found."
Klaus muttered something under his breath but didn't press further. He knew better.
Rebekah glanced at Liza, her expression hard to read save for a flicker of something almost resembling reassurance. "You'll be fine," she said. "If anything, this was a test. And you survived the first round."
Liza wanted to believe her.
The Aston Martin pulled up alongside the Bentley, the gleaming cars a reminder that they were still very much in the Mikaelsons' world now.
"Shall we?" Elijah murmured, tilting his head toward the Bentley.
Liza hesitated. Her pulse was erratic, her thoughts still replaying everything–how he had looked at her inside that ballroom, how he had touched her face, how he had said her name.
Elijah noticed. Without a word, he lifted his hand toward her. An invitation. A reassurance. A choice. Liza took a slow breath. And then she reached for him. The moment his fingers enclosed hers, the world didn't feel quite as heavy.
They got into the Bentley, the doors sealing them inside a quiet hush. The viel of silence was broken only by the distant noise of the city outside. Through the tinted windows, Chicago's skyline glittered, streaks of gold and silver flashing against the dark glass as they drove.
Elijah watched Liza in the dim interior–seeing the tension in her composure, the way her fingers curled in her lap. The way her chest rose and fell with breaths that weren't steady. She was unraveling.
His voice was gentle. "You did well tonight."
She kept her gaze on the window, the lights outside blurring into long ribbons of color.
"More than that, Liza," he continued, his tone softened just for her. "You were remarkable."
She exhaled slowly. Remarkable. Funny. She didn't feel remarkable.
The entire evening had felt like a battle to stay afloat–like being cast into deep waters while everyone else already knew how to navigate the tides. Every glance, every pointed word, every change of the council members' expressions had been an unseen current, pulling her further beneath the surface.
Liza rubbed her arms, trying to shake the sensation. "I don't know about that," she admitted, her voice quieter than she intended. "I felt like a deer in a den of wolves."
Elijah studied her, his attention wholly on her. Here was a woman thrust into a world she barely understood, yet she moved through it with a quiet strength she didn't seem to recognize in herself.
"Every great journey begins with a single step, Liza," he murmured, as if sharing a truth meant only for her. "In that room, you were surrounded by wolves, but you never cowered. You stood your ground, and they noticed. You carried yourself with a dignity that could not be ignored."
Liza huffed, a dry exhale of breath. "Maybe I was just... stunned."
Her phone buzzed in her purse, the sound abrupt in the quiet of the car. She took her phone out and glanced down at the screen. Ollie's name flashed across the notification.
Ollie: I'm forcing Klaus to stop and get Thai. If you want something, speak now or starve.
Liza stared at the message, her stomach knotting at the mere thought of food. She wasn't hungry. Not remotely. But she knew Ollie–knew that refusing to eat would only earn her relentless badgering.
Her fingers moved on instinct.
Liza: Pad See Ew. Chicken.
She locked her phone and sighed, tilting her head back against the seat. The soft glow of passing streetlights rippled on the car's ceiling, casting shifting shadows. She focused on them, as if she could brace herself in their pattern.
"It's just…" she started, then she stopped, releasing a slow, shaky breath. "Everything's a lot."
Elijah watched her, noting the way her fingers gripped her purse. Even in the midst of all this, she reached for normalcy–a friend, a familiar meal, something tangible to hold onto.
At her words, he turned slightly toward her, his expression unwavering. "It is a lot, Liza," he agreed, his voice quiet but firm. "You've been thrust into a world where the rules are written in shadows, where nothing is what it seems. Anyone would find that overwhelming."
Liza swallowed hard, her throat tightening. The pressure behind her eyes burned, a sharp ache blooming in her chest. She blinked rapidly, keeping her gaze on the car's ceiling, willing the rising sting to fade. Not here. Not now. She hated crying in front of people. Hated feeling exposed. But no matter how fiercely she tried to push it down, the constriction in her ribs wouldn't ease. It pressed in, made every breath feel too shallow, made her hands tremble.
Elijah saw the sheen in her eyes. Something stirred within him, raw and unrelenting–a fierce protectiveness, an ache at her distress, a deep-seated need to make it right. He reached over, his fingers closing over hers, surprisingly warm against her clammy skin.
"Liza." His voice was low, steady. "Look at me."
Liza clenched her jaw, but her grip tightened around his hand in response. A reflex. An instinct. She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. "I just–" she exhaled, a brittle laugh slipping past her lips. "I just want to get back to the house. That's all."
Elijah gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Alright," he murmured, his voice calm, unshakable. "We'll be back soon."
He watched her for a moment longer, the conflict still simmering beneath her guarded expression. He wanted to say more, to offer more, but for now, she needed space. So he did the only thing he could–he held her hand, a promise that she was not alone.
The cityscape melted into shadows as the Bentley glided onto the mansion's driveway. Before the car had fully settled, Liza pushed open the door, slipping out before Elijah could extend his usual courtesy. Her heels struck the pavement with purpose as she strode up the stone steps, crossing the threshold without ceremony, without pause. The grand foyer was dimly lit, silent. No Klaus. No Ollie. No Rebekah. Just the vast emptiness of a house that wasn't truly theirs.
The soft click of nails on polished floors signaled Ramses' arrival. The Akita trotted toward her, tail swaying lazily, his dark eyes warm with unspoken understanding. The moment her fingers found his fur, something inside her cracked. Her breath hitched, and she clenched her hands in his thick coat, grounding herself, trying to, before she was fully consumed.
"I'm gonna–" Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat. She turned slightly, catching Elijah in her periphery. He had followed but kept his distance, ever patient. "I'm letting him out in the courtyard. And I'm gonna smoke."
Elijah didn't try to dissuade her. Instead, he simply inclined his head. "I'll be nearby. Should you need anything."
She swallowed, nodded once, then turned away, kicking her heels off as she hurried down the hall. The glass doors opened soundlessly, revealing the cool hush of the courtyard. The crisp night air hit her like pricks. She welcomed it. Let it bite. She didn't hesitate. Didn't look back.
Ramses padded beside her, sniffing at the stone path before wandering toward the far end of the garden to relieve himself. Liza barely noticed. Her fingers shook as she fished a cigarette from her pack, which was in her purse, and set it between her lips. The flick of the lighter. The inhale. The burn at the back of her throat.
Routine. Familiar. Except it wasn't steadying. Not tonight. The first sob wracked through her chest before she could stop it.
Liza pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if sheer force could keep the dam from breaking. But it was useless. The night squeezed in, heavy and relentless, suffocating in its weight. The party. The feeling of being examined, assessed, picked apart piece by piece. The smarmy stare of Valentin.
And then–Elijah's words, circling her mind like a ghost. You captivate me. Another sob tore through her. What did that even mean? Why did it make everything feel even heavier?
Ramses' ears flicked at the sound of her crying. He let out a whine before moving back to her side, pressing his solid weight against her leg. Liza sank down, her hands threading into his fur as if he were the only thing tethering her to the earth. The cigarette dangled from her fingers, its smoke curling into the cold, empty night.
Inside, just beyond the glass doors, Elijah stood in the dim light of the house, watching.
Her dark silhouette was etched against the dim lighting of the courtyard, her shoulders shaking, the faint ember of her cigarette glowing in the shadows. He could hear every breath, every cry. And for all his restraint, for all his unwavering self-control, something inside him twisted. A part of him–a deeply human part–wanted to go to her. To close the distance. To be the shield between her and the torment threatened to consume her. But he didn't. Instead, he remained where he was, a silent guardian in the doorway. Present. Watching. Waiting.
Liza held her free hand to her face, her breath shuddering from everything she had buried deep. Tears streaked black down her cheeks, smudging her flawless makeup, but the lashes that had been painstakingly applied didn't budge. It was almost ironic–everything else was crumbling, but that? The lashes remained untouched.
And then–the words slipped from her lips, unbidden, fragile, broken as she took a trembling drag of her cigarette.
"Я боюсь... Я не знаю, что делать..." (I'm scared... I don't know what to do...)
She barely registered the language shift, barely noticed the ache in her words as she whispered into the night.
"Боже, что мне делать?" (Dear God, what do I do?)
She exhaled sharply, her shoulders quaking from the crushing unknown. She let her cigarette slip from her fingers onto the ground. Embers sparked briefly.
"Бабушка... прости меня..." (Grandma... I'm sorry...)
Her head tipped back, the stars overhead blurred through the flood of tears.
"Я не знаю, смогу ли я это сделать." (I don't know if I can do this.)
She wasn't speaking to anyone in particular. Maybe to the night itself. Maybe to the ghosts of memories long past. Maybe to herself. Maybe, if she said it aloud, it would lose its grip on her. But it didn't. And she wasn't alone.
Because behind the glass doors–Elijah understood every word.
His grasp of Liza's whispered confessions wasn't just a matter of knowing so many languages. It was something deeper, something that had been growing between them since the moment their paths had crossed. The rawness in her voice, the desperation in her tone–he felt it clench in his own chest.
He changed his decision.
Elijah stepped outside, the night air coolly wrapping around him, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling between them. His footsteps barely disturbed the stillness as he approached, allowing her space while making sure she knew she wasn't alone.
Liza heard him. She inhaled sharply, gasped, and then lifted her wide, tear-bright eyes to meet his. But she didn't move from where she sat, hunched on the low stone ledge bordering the flower beds.
"Elijah," she whimpered, his name barely more than a breath, thin with an unspoken plea. "I... I don't want to–I'm, I'm..." Her voice broke, the words unspooling before she could finish. Scared. She would have said it if she hadn't then buried her face in her hands.
Ramses, ever watchful, remained at her side, his head tilting slightly as he observed the approaching vampire.
Elijah's expression softened, his heart twisting at the sight of her. Slowly, he crouched to meet her at eye level. "It's alright," he murmured. "Whatever you're feeling, let it out. You don't have to apologize, and you don't need to have the answers right now."
Liza shook her head, pressing her palms hard against her eyes again as if she could push back the flood of emotions clawing their way out. But there was no stopping it. The dam had broken wide open.
"I don't know how-how to do this," she whispered, frayed.
Elijah's gaze gentled. "No one does at first," he said. "There is no guide for this–no script to follow. But you don't have to navigate it alone."
Through her blurred vision, she caught the faint outline of his hand hovering above her knee. "I don't know how to be... whatever everyone expects me to be."
A slight furrow creased his brow. "And who, exactly, decided what you're meant to be?" His tone was calm, but there was something resolute beneath it. "You are not beholden to expectation, Liza. Not theirs, not even mine."
Her hands dropped from her face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks, dark lashes clumped together but still stubbornly intact. A brittle laugh slipped past her mouth–thin, hollow, more exhaustion than humor. She gestured vaguely at herself.
"Look at me. I'm falling apart before we've even started."
Ramses had settled by Liza's feet, his broad frame pressed lightly against her leg. Every so often, he lifted his head, sniffing the crisp night air before letting out a quiet huff. His brown eyes shifted between Liza and Elijah, as if trying to decipher the unspoken thing between them. When Liza's voice wavered, he nudged her gently, a silent reassurance–I'm here, too.
Elijah exhaled quietly, finally resting his hand against her knee–a steady, comforting touch. With his other, he reached inside his jacket, retrieving a white handkerchief. He held it out to her, his offering silent, patient.
"No," he said, voice firm but gentle. "You are feeling. And that is not weakness. It means you are still standing."
"Barely," she murmured, her lips twisting ruefully. She eyed the handkerchief. "I'll ruin it."
"It doesn't matter. Please use it," he dismissed lightly. "Let yourself breathe, Liza." His gaze never wavered, a solemn promise woven into every syllable.
Her throat tightened. She took the handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes in quick, almost embarrassed motions, but it was useless–another sob was already clawing its way up, threatening to spill over.
"You have every right to feel overwhelmed. To be afraid. But do not mistake your emotions for weakness." Elijah's thumb brushed over her knee. "They make you human."
Liza's breath hitched, his words threading through the fractures in her resolve. Not alone. He kept saying it, kept promising it, and she wanted–desperately–to believe him.
Her throat tightened. "You said something earlier... at the party." She sniffed, swiping at her damp cheeks before forcing herself to meet his gaze. "You told me you were–were drawn to me."
The words barely made it out, hesitant, fragile–as if saying them aloud might fracture whatever tenuous thing had begun to take shape between them.
Elijah didn't flinch. Didn't waver. His dark eyes held hers, a soft intensity settling into every inch of his expression. "Yes," he murmured, his voice steady. "I did."
Liz slowly lowered the handkerchief to her lap. Part of her thought maybe he'd dismiss what he'd said.
But he understood the hesitance, the weight of what she was acknowledging. "Being drawn to you isn't about destiny or prophecy. It's a connection–a pull I cannot fully explain... but I feel it." His throat bobbed with a careful swallow, his thumb tracing a slow, unconscious caress along her knee. "And it is something I do not wish to ignore."
Liza exhaled, shaking her head slowly. "You–you also said I was a light in all of this darkness... and that you wanted to be a part of-of it." Her voice wavered again, rough around the edges. "But what if I don't feel like light, Elijah? What if I'm just–" She sucked in a sharp breath, biting her lip. "What if I fail?"
His gaze softened, but the intensity never faltered. "Liza." The way he said her name was an attempt to pull her from the abyss of her self-doubt. "There's a reason your grandmother believed in you. And it's the same reason I do."
He reached up with his free hand, his fingers curling gently beneath her chin, tilting her face up. He made sure she wouldn't look away. That she would hear him, believe him, and most importantly believe in herself. Liza found herself not moving a muscle as he spoke.
"You are stronger than you know. The fear you carry–it does not diminish your light. If anything, it makes it burn brighter." His conviction was absolute, carved into every syllable. "You won't fail, Liza." His thumb grazed the line of her jaw, a fleeting touch. "I won't let you."
His words settled deep, bracing her. Her heart gave a single, hard thud. And her stomach–it erupted with fluttering warmth. You won't fail. I won't let you. He said it as if his will alone could bend fate in her favor. As if he could stand between her and whatever was coming.
Her throat constricted, but she pushed through it. "I... I had another dream." The confession barely carried past the space between them.
Elijah didn't move, didn't break their eye contact. The shift in her tone caught his full attention, his brows knitting together.
"Tell me about it," he said, firm yet patient. A quiet invitation. A promise to listen. A vow not to let her face it alone.
Liza exhaled, steadying herself. "It happened after I warded my apartment. It was my grandmother." Part of her wanted to light another cigarette, but she didn't. She didn't want to interrupt herself, and he had her rooted in place. "She told me I wasn't alone. That I was on the path I was always meant to walk. And then... she showed me you."
Elijah absorbed every word. His fingers moved, of their own accord, to tuck some hair behind her ear. "And what did I do in this dream?" he asked softly.
Liza twisted the handkerchief in her lap, her fingers moving restlessly over the soft fabric. Her tears had stilled–for now. But the weight of Elijah's gaze, the way he searched her face with such unwavering focus, left her unmoored. She idly wondered if this was what compulsion felt like, or if it was simply him.
"You were there, at the edge of a field, watching. Like you always do," she said, her voice slow. "And she... she said some paths cross for a reason."
His attention never wavered. His hand shifted, his fingers tracing a slow, soothing path along her jaw, brushing just beneath her ear. The touch was featherlight, reverent. She shivered, unable to suppress the way her breath caught–the way he looked at her as if she were the only thing in the world, gave her the courage to let more slip free.
"She told me to trust myself," Liza whispered. "And when the time comes... to trust you."
The words lingered between them, thick and charged.
A flicker of emotion passed over Elijah's face–something unreadable, something deeper than mere understanding. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, as if steadying whatever stirred within him. Without breaking eye contact, his hand drifted from her knee to cover hers, stilling the restless twisting of the handkerchief in her lap with a firm touch.
"You can," he said, his voice quiet, resolute. "And when the time comes, I hope you will."
"I do. I already do," she murmured without hesitation. Her fingers lifted, hesitating only for a breath before covering the hand on her jaw, leaning her head into his touch. Her other hand turned over, curling around his where it rested atop her lap. "I trust you, Elijah."
The quiet intimacy between them was broken only by the soft rustling of the breeze through the trees and hedges, the distant hum of the city beyond the courtyard. Ramses shifted beside them, his presence a silent reassurance. But Elijah only felt her–the way she gripped his hand, the resolve in her voice, the fragile vulnerability she let him see.
For a long moment, he simply looked at her, absorbing every detail as if committing them to memory. Liza fought the instinct to shrink away, to let self-consciousness take hold of her. She knew how she must've looked like–her once-flawless makeup now smudged, mascara trailing down her cheeks, her lipstick faded. But if Elijah noticed, it wasn't in the way she feared. His gaze traced her features, slow, reverent–the slope of her nose, the way her dark lashes, clumped but stubbornly intact, framed eyes that still searched his, still guarded.
His focus flickered, barely perceptible, to her lips. A fraction of a second. And then back to her eyes, searching–waiting.
Liza's breath caught. Her grip on his hand slid down to his wrist, her touch tentative. The coolness of his palm against her face felt good, made her melt. She wanted him to keep it there for as long as possible. His thumb brushed the curve of her cheek. Her heartbeat pounded against her ribs, loud enough that she knew he could hear it. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the quickened pulse, mirroring his own.
"Liza," he breathed–her name barely more than a whisper. A confession.
She didn't pull away. Her fingers curled tighter around wrist, as if fixing herself in this moment, letting everything else slip away–the fear from the party, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, the looming expectations inching closer in from all sides. None of it mattered. Just him. Just this.
Her gaze flickered downward–just for a second, to his lips–before meeting his again, wide, uncertain. But he saw it. The shift in her expression. The hesitation. The silent question.
Elijah caught the glance, subtle yet telling, and something in him tensed. Slowly, he leaned in, giving her every opportunity to stop him. Their faces hovered centimeters apart, the space between them thrumming with the inevitable.
"Liza," he murmured again, his voice lower now, huskier. His mouth was close enough that their breaths mingled, yet he held still, waiting. Letting her decide.
Her lips parted, her breath unsteady, her heart a rapid staccato against her ribs. "Yes," she whispered–not a question, but an answer. Soft. Certain.
A single word, yet it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken ones.
Her hand lifted without thought, pressing lightly against his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath crisp fabric. Her fingers curled slightly, grounding herself with the touch. As her eyes fluttered shut, his focus narrowed to the soft curves of her lips, the shape he ached to learn.
And so, he closed the distance.
Elijah's mouth met hers, tentative at first–a featherlight brush, as if neither of them dared to shatter the spell between them. Liza held her breath. The night's chill, the remnants of her grief, everything else faded.
Still kneeling before her, one hand cradling her face, he kissed her–slowly, tenderly. She fitted her lips against his, and somehow, it felt right. The initial touch was hesitant, exploratory, barely more than the press of mouths. But when she exhaled, a faint, breathy sound escaping her throat, Elijah deepened it–just slightly, just enough to let her feel the careful unraveling of his restraint.
She parted her lips, tasting him, the barest hint of something unfamiliar yet intoxicating. She'd never kissed a vampire before.
His thumb traced light strokes along her cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth moved against hers–unhurried but firm. Even now, even here, Elijah was controlled, precise. Yet Liza could feel it–the control he usually had not as in check. The way his fingers curled ever so slightly above her knee.
Then a sound–soft, involuntary–escaped her throat. A barely audible whimper that sent something taut snapping inside him. Elijah caught it. Felt it. And for a fleeting second, he wanted to drown in it.
If not for Ramses shifting beside them.
The Akita let out a long, drawn-out huff, turning his head to fix them with a look of unimpressed scrutiny–the kind only a dog could master. Then, as if making his stance on their moment abundantly clear, he flopped down onto the stone path with a dramatic sigh, his large paws crossing lazily in front of him.
The noise was enough to slice through the haze, just slightly. Elijah exhaled a quiet laugh against Liza's lips, but he didn't move far. He only pulled back a fraction, his forehead resting against hers. His hand remained on her cheek, his thumb still tracing slow, rhythmic circles.
His eyes stayed closed for a beat longer, as if imprinting the moment into his memory. Liza's lips remained parted, her breath shallow, her hand still against his chest. Slowly, dazedly, her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. A flicker of wonder lingered in them, fragile and.
"Elijah," Liza murmured.
Elijah let his touch drift from her cheek to the nape of her neck. He could feel the pulse at her throat, rapid beneath his fingertips, mirroring the storm raging beneath his own skin. He looked for a good moment at her lips, the trace of red still on them. Liza naturally did the same, her expression smoldering just enough.
A small, satisfied smile tugged across his mouth–not of arrogance, but of relief. She hadn't pulled away. She hadn't turned from him. If anything, she had leaned closer.
His voice, when it finally emerged, was a low murmur, roughened by emotion. "Liza," he breathed, the name moving past his lips like a vow. "Don't be afraid of me."
Her brows knitted slightly, as if the thought had never once crossed her mind. Did he truly believe she feared him? Or did he simply need to hear her say otherwise?
"I'm not," she promised. "Elijah, I'm not afraid of you."
Her fingers slid up from his chest, brushing against the strong cut of his jaw, tilting his face toward hers. Her gaze flickered to his mouth again. He took a slow breath, the weight of her touch centering him. It wasn't just his hands that held her now–she was holding him too. It was different. And it meant something.
"Good," he murmured. "You have nothing to fear from me. Not ever."
It wasn't a mere reassurance–it was an oath. He kept his oaths to people he held dear.
This time, there was no hesitation. Elijah kissed her with intent, with certainty–yet beneath the control, something deeper smoldered, restrained but undeniable. His lips molded to hers, unhurried, yet the pressure carried an intensity that sent a shiver through her. Liza sighed softly through her nose, the sound dissolving into him. When she parted her lips, it was an invitation.
Elijah accepted. His hand left her knee, finding the curve of her waist, drawing her closer. As their kiss deepened, as he finally allowed himself to taste her fully, their tongues brushed. He could detect the lingering traces of cigarettes, but beneath it was something distinctly hers–something he found intoxicating.
Liza shifted, the brick beneath her no longer comfortable. Before she fully processed it, she slipped from her perch, settling onto her knees before his own. The silk of her dress whispered against his suit as she leaned into him without thought, fitting seamlessly against the solid strength of him, seeking his warmth, his steadiness.
Ramses, ever the unimpressed observer, let out a dramatic sigh, turning his head away as if thoroughly appalled by their display.
Elijah barely registered it. His body reacted instinctively, his arm coiling around her lower back, his other hand still cradling her face. The kiss deepened, languid yet fervent, as he felt her mold against him. The way she clung to him–the delicate press of her fingers at his jaw, the arm that wound around his neck–unraveled something in him. It had been a long time since he'd felt this. Since he'd been held like this.
Then–a shift.
A prickle along the edges of his senses.
Elijah tensed, just slightly, catching it before the sound fully registered. The faint click of the front door unlocking. Nearly imperceptible, but enough.
His grip on her waist eased, his lips slowed against hers, though he didn't pull away just yet. Instead, his forehead rested against hers, his breath still mingling with hers, grounding them in the present. A beat of silence stretched between them before he murmured, "We have company."
Liza, still cocooned in his warmth, still caught in the lingering pull of the kiss, took a moment to process his words. Blinking, her dazed expression shifted to reluctant awareness. And then–the distinct sound of voices filtering through the house.
The moment–whatever it had been, whatever it was–was gone.
She didn't want to let him go. Not yet. But reality pressed in, particularly the fact that they were still on their knees in the courtyard, tangled together in a position that, if discovered, would replace the heady intimacy of their kiss with pure mortification.