Ollie padded barefoot into the kitchen, deciding that unpacking could wait. There was no rush to settle in—plenty of time for that. Right now, she was more interested in the scene unfolding in front of her. Ramses was happily munching away at his kibble, which, in itself, wasn't unusual. What was unusual was who had filled his bowl. Klaus Mikaelson. The Original Hybrid, the world's most infamous supernatural menace, was feeding Liza's dog.

Ollie blinked, arms folding across her chest as she stepped further into the kitchen. Well, that's new. And then came the distinct pop of a champagne bottle.

She raised a brow. "Uh, it's ten in the morning."

Klaus, utterly unbothered, plucked a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. "And?" he drawled. He already had two empty champagne flutes waiting on the kitchen island, and with a slow, deliberate smile, he poured the bubbly.

"You don't like mimosas?" he asked.

Ollie gave him a flat look. "Not usually before at least noon on a weekday."

"A shame." He tipped a splash of orange juice into each glass before handing one to her. "But an exception must be made. We're celebrating, love."

She eyed him warily but accepted the drink. "Celebrating what, exactly?"

"You and Liza moving in, of course." Klaus took a slow sip and watched her over the rim of his glass. "A momentous occasion. You'll forgive me for wanting to toast to it properly."

Ollie huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Right. Because you're so thrilled to have us invading your space."

"Invading?" Klaus pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. "On the contrary. The manor could use a bit of liveliness. And I do find your company… stimulating."

Ollie took a sip, leveling him with another look. "Stimulating? You mean because I don't let you get away with your usual bullshit?"

"Precisely." Klaus grinned, his blue eyes twinkling.

At that moment, Ramses, apparently having decided Klaus was now his best friend, padded over and nudged his massive head against his leg.

Ollie's lips parted slightly. "You have to be compelling him," she accused.

Klaus crouched and ruffled the dog's thick fur with an exaggerated expression of delight–his smile toothy and white. "Nonsense, love. He simply recognizes greatness."

Ollie rolled her eyes, but the small smile tugging at her lips was undeniable. Setting her mimosa down, she put her hands on her hips. "Alright. If we're celebrating, we're doing it properly."

Klaus lifted a brow. "Oh?"

"I'm making breakfast."

His smirk deepened, and so did the dimple in his cheek. "You intend to cook again?"

"Yes," Ollie said, already moving toward the fridge. "Liza and Elijah will be back soon, and I highly doubt they've eaten. Besides, if I'm stuck living here, I am taking over the kitchen."

Klaus stood and leaned against the counter, watching with mild amusement as she pulled out eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns. "Shall I assume my previous assistance was not entirely unwelcome?"

Ollie hesitated. The last time they had cooked together, Klaus had—annoyingly—not been useless. Which was frankly unfair. The man was over a thousand years old. He should be terrible at modern kitchen appliances. Instead, he had been competent. Helpful.

She sighed and shot him a sideways look. "Fine. If you insist."

Klaus clapped his hands together once, utterly pleased with himself. "Marvelous."

"You're making the pancakes then," she declared, detaching a thin hair band from her wrist to pull her dark hair up into a messy bun.

Klaus arched an eyebrow. "You trust me with something so delicate?"

He turned toward the pantry, already knowing where to go from their last cooking venture—a long walk-in closet lined with neatly organized dry goods. He plucked a box of fancy organic pancake mix from a shelf before giving her a sidelong glance.

Ollie snorted as she started cracking eggs into a bowl. "I'll supervise."

They fell into an easy rhythm at the massive stove, standing side by side like they had done this a hundred times before. Ollie handled the bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns, while Klaus mixed the pancake batter. Naturally, he cheated, using vampire speed to whisk it into the perfect consistency.

Ollie shoved his arm. "Unfair."

Klaus only smirked, wholly unrepentant. His smile was devastatingly adorable, and Ollie—regrettably—did her best to ignore it. Ramses, ever the opportunist, had settled at Klaus' feet, eagerly looking up whenever Klaus threw a glance his way.

Ollie flipped the bacon, letting the savory scent fill the air, when Klaus spoke, casual—too casual.

"You know, I can't help but wonder…" he mused. "Do you really have to keep working?"

Ollie blinked and glanced at him as she moved onto the hashbrowns, flipping them with ease. They sizzled, the edges crisping into a perfect golden brown. "Excuse me?"

"The daycare," Klaus elaborated. He finished pouring batter onto the griddle, waiting for the tiny bubbles to form. "You could simply leave."

Ollie scoffed. "And do what? Lounge around the mansion all day?"

Klaus chuckled. "I could think of worse fates."

"Well, I couldn't," she shot back, smiling despite herself. "I like my job, for your information."

Klaus hummed as he glanced at his annoyingly perfect pancakes. "Mhm. If you say so."

Ollie narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, the turner still in hand as she studied him. "What are you getting at?"

Klaus reached for his mimosa—his third mimosa—and took a leisurely sip before answering.

"There's that little barbecue your pack is having on Saturday," he said casually.

Ollie groaned. She could already see where this was going. "Klaus—"

"I don't see why you're so determined to deny me," he cut in smoothly. "I said I would play wolf. I'll even go by… Nick, from… Indiana." And, dear God, as he said that, he affected the most exaggerated Midwestern accent she had ever heard.

Ollie almost choked on her laughter. "Nick from Indiana?" she repeated. "Who I met where? Hinge?"

Klaus grinned, waggling his brows. "I thought Tinder would suffice, but Hinge works. Let's say we met recently, bonded over the misery of modern dating, and soon realized we were both wolves. You thought I was rather charming—"

Ollie rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, flipping the hashbrowns again even though they probably needed more time. Her face was warm. And not from the cooking.

"—and," he continued, "after some inevitable seduction on my part, you discovered I was excellent in bed. Which I am, if you're curious." His smirk was downright wicked as he finally flipped the pancakes at last.

Ollie, without looking at him, reached for her mimosa and took a long, long drink. Then, she focused on plating the bacon, layering it over several sheets of paper towels to soak up the grease.

"Nick from Indiana is going to get his ass kicked," she muttered, though there wasn't as much bite in it as she would have liked.

Klaus laughed, the sound rich and warm as he leaned in, watching her movements with an amused glint in his eye. She could feel his gaze, feel the way he was seeing her—her flushed cheeks, the way she was avoiding looking at him directly.

"Come now, love," he said. "You're telling me you can't spin a simple story? Your pack wouldn't question you bringing a date?"

Ollie stilled—just for half a second—before taking her mimosa again. A date. She knew he was playing the angle, trying to charm his way in. But the way he said it—so easily, so coolly—made something tighten in her chest. She had a slow sip, biding her time.

And then, as if he could sense her hesitation, Klaus' voice softened. Gone was the teasing lilt, replaced with something quieter. "Admit it, love," he said, tilting his head as he watched her lick a stray drop of champagne from her lips. "You just don't want to say no."

Ollie clenched her jaw, her eyes darting to his, then flicking away. Damn him.

Klaus turned back to the stove and poured four more pancakes onto the griddle, but the energy between them had shifted. Another beat of silence stretched out before he exhaled and set down the ladle. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all trace of amusement.

"I've never been a part of a pack before."

Ollie froze. Slowly, she turned to him, and for the first time since this ridiculous conversation had started, she really looked at him. The usual smugness was gone. That ever-present glint of mischief had dimmed. And in its place was something raw. Something real. She swallowed. Oh. He wasn't just trying to be annoying. He wasn't just trying to manipulate his way in. He wanted this. Not in the same way he wanted power, or control, or chaos. This was something different.

She had always assumed Klaus relished his solitary existence—untouchable, unbothered. The great Hybrid, powerful and alone. But here he was. Asking. Not demanding. Not scheming. Just asking.

Ollie ran her tongue over her teeth, sighing through her nose before facing the stove again. "I'll think about it," she said, scooping the scrambled eggs from the third pan into a large serving bowl.

Klaus perked up immediately, his eyebrows rising. He looked—God help her—almost boyish in that moment. "Oh?"

"Yeah," she grumbled, shooting him a side-eye as she turned off the burner beneath the hashbrowns. "I'll think about it. If I can figure out how to explain why I'm bringing a random lone wolf to a pack gathering."

Klaus grinned, looking positively victorious. He lightly bumped her arm with his own, and before she could react, he leaned in close—too close—his breath warm against her ear. "I have every confidence in you, love."

Ollie scrunched up her shoulder, leaning dramatically away from him, but a small smile tugged at her lips. As she plated the rest of the food, her mind drifted back to the conversation she'd had with Liza in the car—how she had admitted, reluctantly, that maybe there was something there with Klaus. That she was intrigued. But intrigued wasn't the same as safe. He was the Hybrid. The Hybrid. Her pack would never accept him if they knew. Hell, if they suspected anything, it would be over before he even set foot at the barbecue.

And yet—for the first time—she found herself wanting to say yes. She exhaled, shaking the thought away. One problem at a time.

0000000

For the first time in a long time, Rebekah had slept in. Her room was still dark, the blackout curtains keeping the morning sun at bay, but she felt the difference in the air—how the house was alive with movement downstairs. Voices drifted through the walls, the scent of fresh coffee and bacon curling into the quiet of her room. She stretched, exhaling slowly. Normally, she didn't sleep much. Centuries of being undead had trained her body out of the habit. But last night, as she lay staring at the ceiling, thinking—dreaming—she hadn't been able to settle. Not until the early morning.

The images had kept her awake. The impossible daydreams of what it could be like to be human. To have a life with Marcel. To have a family. The thought still stirred something painful yet warm in her chest as she finally rolled out of bed. She pulled on her robe over her pajamas, knotting it loosely at her waist before padding barefoot down the grand staircase. The scent of breakfast grew stronger, the quiet clatter of plates and soft murmur of conversation guiding her to the kitchen.

She stepped inside and took in the scene.

Klaus and Ollie, of all people, were arranging the table, their movements surprisingly in sync. Ramses sprawled contentedly on the floor nearby. A half-full bottle of champagne sat on the table, along with a new one, and extra flutes had already been pulled out—Klaus, always prepared when it suited him.

Rebekah narrowed her eyes at her brother but said nothing, still shaking off the remnants of sleep. The warmth of the wood floor against her bare feet and the sight of breakfast—so human, so domestic—were unexpectedly grounding.

Klaus, ever the gracious host when it pleased him, plucked a waiting flute from the table and poured a generous mimosa, the orange juice more of an afterthought. With a flourish, he held it out to her.

"A drink for the lady of the hour," he said smoothly.

Rebekah rolled her eyes but took it, sipping slowly. The champagne was crisp, the small trace of citrus bright on her tongue. "And what, exactly, are we celebrating?"

Ollie, arranging the utensils by the plates, quirked a brow with a smile. "Apparently, Liza and I moving in is a momentous enough occasion to warrant day drinking."

"Ah," Rebekah nodded. "So you're just looking for an excuse."

Klaus took a languid sip of his own drink, utterly unbothered. "Why must you always assume I need an excuse, sister?"

Rebekah sighed. Klaus in a good mood was always cause for suspicion, but for once, she let it be. Instead, her gaze drifted over the breakfast spread—the eggs, the bacon, the hashbrowns, and the stack of perfectly golden pancakes. It had been ages since she'd participated in something so… ordinary. Something as simple as drinking mimosas in the kitchen with family—no fighting, no threats, no underlying tension pulling them taut. Just this. For once.

Ollie, always observant, noticed the shift in Rebekah's demeanor—the way the sharpness in her expression had softened, just slightly. "So," Ollie said, plucking a strip of bacon from the plate. "Still want to go shopping sometime?"

Rebekah blinked, caught off guard. She turned to Ollie fully, her lips parting slightly. "Do you?"

Ollie smirked as she chewed thoughtfully for all but a second. "Of course. A deal's a deal. Sunday work?"

For the first time that morning, something bright flickered across Rebekah's face. A rare, genuine smile. "Yes," she said. "Sunday is… perfect."

Klaus let out a dramatic sigh, falling into a chair with all the weariness of a man suffering greatly at the hands of his family. "Must you encourage her spending habits?"

Rebekah, unbothered, shot him a look over the rim of her glass. "It's encouraging when I have impeccable taste and your bank account at my disposal."

Ollie snorted and stepped over to the cupboards to grab a few empty mugs. "Yeah, Klaus. Be supportive."

Klaus rolled his eyes and leveled his sister with a pointed look of his own. "Very well. But you're using your credit card. I'm certainly not giving you mine."

Rebekah simply smiled into her drink, clearly unfazed by the supposed restriction.

With a sigh of exaggerated suffering, Klaus reached for the bottle of champagne, topping off his glass.

Rebekah took her seat at the table as well and rested her elbow on the wood, her fingers idly running along the stem of her glass. She felt lighter than she had in… a long time. It was a small thing, really—talking about shopping, sharing breakfast, indulging in something normal. But she would take it where she could get it.

0000000

The Bentley pulled onto the long driveway of the estate once the gate opened, the quiet purr of the engine fading when it rolled to a stop. Liza's silver Mustang was already parked near the entrance—Ollie and Klaus had been home for a while now.

Liza exhaled and let her head rest against the seat for a moment before closing her eyes. The drive had been quiet, both of them in their own thoughts—that of their conversation, the resignation when she'd spoken of her past, the intensity that had built between them in the confined space of the car after. Even now, she could still feel the ghost of Elijah's lips on hers, the firm, the weight of his arms around her.

"You're quiet," he noted as he shifted the car into park.

Liza blinked, pulled from her thoughts. She turned her head toward him, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Just thinking."

Elijah's gaze didn't waver. "About what?"

She hesitated, her fingers brushing idly over her seatbelt buckle before she unfastened it. "You… mostly."

Something flickered behind his dark eyes—something knowing. He remained composed, as always, but the slight quirk of his brow, the way his fingers flexed against the leather of the steering wheel, gave him away.

"Should I be flattered?" he asked as he pushed the engine button, turning off the Bentley.

Liza glanced down, biting her lip, before lifting her gaze to meet his again. "I think you already know the answer to that."

Elijah studied her for a moment longer, and something undeniably satisfied lingered in the depths of his expression. Then, ever the gentleman, he pushed open his door and stepped into the crisp morning air before circling around to hers. Liza barely had time to move before he was there, opening the door and offering his hand.

She stepped out and inhaled deeply. The late-morning air was cool, fresh, carrying the scent of the lake nearby, the damp earth, and the budding greenery. She hadn't forgotten about the prophecy, the magic she needed to hone, the looming presence of the Vampire Council. Benny's killer was still out there. There seemed to be a hundred things demanding her attention, pulling her in every direction.

But despite all of it, her mind kept circling back to Elijah—to the way he made her feel. To the way she had felt in his arms, in his car, in the quiet moments between words. It wasn't productive. It wasn't practical. But a part of her wanted to ignore the inevitable, just for a little while longer. Maybe even corner him in a room somewhere.

They stepped into the kitchen just as Ollie was mid-bite into her pancake, shaking her head at Klaus, who sat across from her looking far too pleased with himself. The air was full with the smells of syrup and fresh coffee, a warm contrast to the usual undertones of expensive cologne, aged wood, and the ever-present trace of bourbon that clung to the walls like a signature since the Mikaelsons had moved in.

Ollie quickly swallowed and grinned. "Speak of the devil. Welcome back, jobless wonder."

Liza snorted, rolling her eyes as she pulled out a chair beside her. "Thanks for that."

Klaus, already nursing what was probably his six or tenth drink, shot her and Elijah a grin, too, gesturing to the spread on the table. "We've saved you breakfast. And mimosas. Because we are gracious hosts."

Seated elegantly, sipping her second mimosa like royalty, Rebekah scoffed without even glancing up. "Gracious, my ass." She delicately forked some eggs and hashbrowns and had the bite.

Elijah pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is far too early for all of you."

"Disagree," Klaus countered smoothly. "It's never too early."

Ollie smirked and gestured toward the empty chairs. "Sit. Eat. We've had an eventful morning."

Elijah sat down next to Liza, taking the provided linen napkin, unfolding it, and putting it down on his thigh.

Liza didn't need to be told twice. She wasted no time digging into the food, making a satisfied groan as she bit into a crisp strip of bacon. "Chef Olympia knocks it out of the park again." She arched an eyebrow, glancing between Ollie and Klaus with mild suspicion. "Did he help again?"

Elijah, meanwhile, took his food at a much slower, more deliberate pace, but even he had to admit—it was quite good.

Ollie sighed and leaned back in her chair as she sipped her coffee. She couldn't go without it in the morning, and mimosas couldn't replace it. "He did. His pancakes aren't half bad, which is, frankly, shocking."

Klaus placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. "I'll have you know, I've mastered many skills over the centuries. Cooking, when required, happens to be one of them." He smiled wide as he speared a piece of bacon with his fork. "You'd be amazed at what one can pick up when one has time."

"Right," Liza said dryly, sipping her own mimosa. "I'm sure perfecting the art of pancakes was top priority in your thousand years of villainy."

Klaus pointed his fork at her. "First of all, I prefer antihero."

Elijah, already bracing himself, let out a quiet sigh as Rebekah rolled her eyes.

Klaus, undeterred, raised his glass, smirking. "To new roommates," he began, tipping his head toward Liza and Ollie. "To helping a certain witch unlock her powers." His gaze lingered on Liza, almost conspiratorial, before shifting to Ollie. "To making a wolf friend." He winked, the amusement in his eyes glinting with a flirtatious edge.

Ollie shook her head, biting back a smile. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here you are," Klaus quipped, and clinked his glass against hers before taking a long, smug sip.

Ollie groaned and dragged a hand down her face. "Jesus Christ."

"And," Klaus continued, undeterred, "to… possibilities. To change."

His voice was casual, offhanded, but there was something beneath it—something heavier, just barely audible. He wouldn't outright admit to wanting humanity. Not yet. But it hung in the air nonetheless.

Rebekah, who had been mid-sip of her mimosa, didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge the sentiment. The idea of becoming human had already consumed too much of her thoughts. Instead, she merely lifted her glass in silent agreement. One by one, Liza and Elijah followed suit before drinking.

Ramses, curled up near the table, let out a soft huff and rested his head on his paws.

Conversation resumed in a way that felt normal—easy, almost. Ollie and Klaus inquired about how Liza's resignation went. Klaus, naturally, joked that snapping Liza's manager's neck would have been a far more efficient—and entertaining—way to quit. Elijah called the idea childish and unnecessarily messy. Liza asked why Klaus always defaulted to murder as a solution. Klaus made some excuse about simply wanting to get a rise out of Elijah.

Rebekah, watching the exchange unfold, exhaled dramatically. "And here I thought we might actually make it through one morning without discussing homicide."

Ollie, sensing a quick way out of that particular topic, sat up straighter. "Speaking of, we're going shopping on Sunday."

Liza perked up. "Where are we going?"

Rebekah, clearly pleased by the change in topic, sipped her drink. "The Magnificent Mile. It has respectable stores, despite the tourist infestation."

Liza hesitated, already bracing herself for the answer to the question forming in her head. "And… who's paying?"

Rebekah scoffed, looking personally offended. "Me, obviously. You're living under our roof now. Consider it an investment in making sure you don't look cheap."

Ollie, biting off a piece of bacon, tilted her head thoughtfully. "I don't know, Bekah... I think Liza looks pretty cute in her beat-up leather jacket."

Rebekah arched a perfectly sculpted brow—not quite in agreement, but also not entirely dismissive of the sentiment.

Elijah, however, glanced at Liza, something warm and lingering in his expression. "It suits you."

Liza rolled her eyes as she reached down to scratch behind Ramses' ears. "So, what—you're telling me your whole family is just my—our… sugar family now?"

Elijah shook his head, his expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

Klaus, naturally, smirked. "We prefer generous benefactors, love."

Elijah shot him a look but said nothing. From an outsider's perspective, Elijah supposed, it might seem that way. Especially between him and Liza. But to Elijah, there was no question—money was irrelevant, and if she needed anything, he would give it freely. Not out of obligation. But because it was her.

Ollie, unbothered, shrugged. "As long as we don't have to reciprocate, I don't mind the arrangement."

Klaus choked on his mimosa, coughing out a laugh. "At least let me take you to dinner before you wound my ego like that, love."

Ollie groaned. "God, stop."

They kept drinking, the energy in the room settling into something light again. For the first time in a while, despite everything looming in the background, things felt… normal.

But soon, after finishing off the last of her food, Liza groaned heavily and slumped back into her chair. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, feeling the exhaustion settle in like a slow tide, creeping up her limbs.

"Ugh," she said. "I think I need to lie down."

Elijah immediately straightened and set his napkin aside with a flicker of concern. "Come. I'll help you to your room."

Across the table, Klaus smirked into his drink. "I took the liberty of carrying her things there earlier, brother. No need to make a grand show of chivalry."

Liza barely lifted her head, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm just gonna crash on the couch in the parlor."

Elijah frowned, clearly disapproving. "You would be far more comfortable in your own room."

"Probably," she admitted. "But I don't feel like climbing stairs. Couch wins."

"Very well," Elijah said. He wouldn't force her.

Ollie, now standing, patted Ramses on the head before leveling Klaus with a pointed look. "No ruckus. For once." She began gathering their plates, stacking them, before moving toward the sink.

Klaus's expression, predictably, was all mock innocence. "Me? Cause trouble? Never."

Rebekah scoffed into her mimosa. "That's a blatant lie." Then, after a beat, she reached for the champagne bottle and topped off her glass—sans orange juice. "But thank you for the food, Ollie. It was rather good." A pause. "Even your pancakes, Nik."

Klaus lifted his glass in smug acknowledgment. "Finally, some well-earned recognition."

Liza didn't fight it when Elijah extended his hand to her, his fingers wrapping securely around hers as he gently guided her from the table. She was already half-tuned out when she heard Klaus reminding Rebekah—and loudly—about the time he had commandeered a sushi restaurant in Osaka during a rare family trip years ago, forced the chef to teach him his craft, and how Rebekah had rather enjoyed the result. Even if Klaus might have killed the chef later.

Ollie stopped rinsing a plate mid-motion and turned, her face deadpan. "Might?"

Klaus merely took a slow sip of his drink and grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

Liza shook her head and suppressed a laugh as Elijah led her away. And it was strange—as exhaustion settled over her, the voices of the Mikaelsons and Ollie faded into the background–despite the chaos, despite the supernatural whirlwind she'd been thrust into, this house, of all places, could perhaps feel like home.

The parlor was quiet, bathed in the soft golden glow of late morning light that filtered through the cracks in the heavy drapes. Despite its grandeur—the ornate furniture, the towering bookshelves, the marble fireplace—it felt comfortable at this time of day, almost inviting.

The velvet fabric of the couch was cool against her palms as she sank onto it with a contented sigh and kicked off her boots. Her arms and legs were heavy, her body finally surrendering to the weight of fatigue. With little ceremony, she shrugged off her leather jacket and let it slide onto the floor before stretching out fully, a yawn creeping up before she could stop it.

Elijah was gone only for a moment before returning, a blanket draped over his arm. He moved with grace, as he did with every action—like ensuring her comfort was simply instinctual. The blanket—soft, expensive, utterly decadent—settled over her in a gentle sweep, and then, as if this was some sacred duty, he plucked another pillow from the chaise and positioned it beneath her head, adjusting it just so. He also picked up her jacket and draped it on the back of the couch.

Liza smirked up at him, her cheek sinking into the plush cushion. Such a regal man, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, fussing over blankets and pillows as if this were a matter of great importance. It was endearing—the warmth from it blooming in her chest. It was also deeply amusing.

"If I were a horrible person," she whispered, her voice thick with approaching sleep, "I think I'd take advantage of your help."

Elijah arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in that subtle, devastating way of his. "Oh? And what, precisely, would that entail?"

Liza stretched out languidly beneath the blanket. "Dunno. Maybe I'd have you feed me grapes while I lounge dramatically. Or carry me everywhere so I never have to walk again."

Elijah's expression had a softness to it now—warm, indulgent. "That would be rather impractical."

"For you, maybe," she teased. "I think I'd find it delightful."

Elijah smirked and teased back: "Your penchant for dramatics rivals Niklaus."

Liza grinned sleepily. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but then, rather than step away, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

A sigh slipped from her lips, but before he could pull away, her fingers curled around his wrist, holding him there. Elijah stilled, hovering above her, watching as her warm brown eyes flickered to his mouth. She was still tipsy from the mimosas. He knew this wasn't the time or place to indulge in their affections. And yet—he was a man, in the end. And she was his. So he obliged her.

Liza moaned softly as he kissed her, her lips warm and unhurried against his. The taste of citrus and champagne lingered between them, mixing with something deeper, something far sweeter.

Elijah pulled back just enough to then brush a kiss to her cheek, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sleep, darling," he whispered, his voice a low, velvet promise. "I will be here when you wake. And we will spend more time together then."

A soft, contented sound escaped her as she let go of his arm, fluttering her eyes shut. "Mmm."

Elijah's lips grazed her forehead before he pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. He watched as she nestled further into the couch, her breathing slowing, her body finally giving in to rest.

Only then did he straighten, smoothing a hand over his cuff as if the past few moments hadn't just stolen the air from his lungs. With one last glance at the sweet little witch, he turned, took her jacket to hang in a proper place, and left her to sleep.

0000000

At first, there was only silence—deep, encompassing. The parlor was gone. The weight of the couch beneath her vanished, and she drifted between wakefulness and something else. And then—she found herself slowly getting up, pushing the blanket off of her, and standing.

The mansion surrounded her, yet it wasn't quite the same. The edges of the room blurred like candlelight, flickering between its lavish present and something older, something steeped in magic. Wooden walls and floors, bouquets of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, the faint scent of pine and aged parchment. A white stone Russian pech' stood in the corner—where the fireplace should have been, where it never had been. The walls pulsed with an unseen presence, a slow, steady hum beneath the surface, like the house itself was breathing.

It was as if two realities had been layered over one another—the familiar grandeur of the Mikaelson manor, and something far more ancient. An izkba, a cottage, like the ones from old Russian villages, where warmth radiated from the masonry stove, where the hearth was the soul of the home.

Liza turned, disoriented, the world shifting slightly beneath her feet. The velvet couch she'd slept on was gone behind here. And then—she saw that she wasn't alone.

A presence settled in the center of the room, flickering into solidity, and Liza's breath caught.

Her grandmother stood before her, looking as she had in the last dream—sharp, intelligent brown eyes framed by silver-streaked waves of dark hair, deep lines around her mouth carved from years of knowing smiles and quiet wisdom. She was wrapped in soft, layered fabrics—dark reds, deep forest greens, intricate embroidery at the edges, as if she had stepped out of a time long before Liza's own. But her form was different this time, luminous at the edges, flickering slightly as though she was made of light and memory. The air around her shimmered with unseen energy, warping the space like heat on pavement.

This was the second time Liza had seen her like this.

Her throat tightened. "Baba?" Grandma?

Her grandmother's gaze softened, a small, approving smile tugging at her lips. "Lizachka," she murmured, her voice both firm and warm, wrapping around Liza like a familiar embrace.

Liza took a step forward, though the air felt thick—charged, humming with the unseen.

Her grandmother lifted a hand and gestured around them. "The house must be warded." She did not mean the izba, though. She meant the Mikaelson manor that still shimmered beneath the dream's location.

Liza blinked, her mind struggling to keep up. "What?"

"The same protection you placed over your home—you must do it here," Valeria said, her tone patient but insistent. "This house is larger. It will be harder. But it must be done."

A weight settled deep in Liza's bones. She wanted to say, I don't know if I can. But her grandmother already knew.

"You can," Valeria said, stepping closer and placing a warm, steady hand over Liza's heart. The touch felt impossibly real, grounding her, anchoring her in the dream–just like in the last one in the field. "You are stronger than you realize."

Liza let out a shaky breath, doubt making her frown. "It's just—" she hesitated. "Magic this big—it takes more than just me."

Valeria tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. "Does it?"

Before Liza could respond, the air around them shifted. The walls of the mansion rippled, the shadows stretching, stretching—and then, from the folds of the dream, they began to appear.

Figures. They surrounded her. Not menacing. Not threatening. Just watching.

Silhouettes at first, flickering between shadow and light. And then—they became clearer. Men and women of all ages, standing in quiet observance, their presence tangible. They looked out of time, their clothing a patchwork of centuries. Some wore the layered sarafans and embroidered blouses of old Russia, the fabric thick and warm against winter's bite. Some wore tunics belted at the waist, high leather boots laced to the knee, the symbols of their trade stitched into their sleeves. Some—elders, perhaps—draped in heavier garments, shawls wrapped around their shoulders, beads strung around their throats, the deep red of dried berries gleaming in the dim light. Their faces were obscured, shifting between moments of clarity and smoke, but their eyes—dark, luminous—remained fixed on Liza.

Her breath hitched. She could feel them. Their presence wove into her own, a thread pulling tight in the fabric of her being, her soul.

"Who—?" Her voice barely made a sound.

Her grandmother's voice was soft, reverent. "Our blood," Valeria said. "Our kin. Ved'my, Mag'i, Kolduni—all who came before you. They have always been here, waiting." Witches, mages, and sorcerers.

Liza turned in slow realization, her gaze sweeping over the gathering. The figures flickered at the edges, ephemeral, but their energy—their magic—shimmered, stirring something deep within her bones.

"This magic is not yours alone, Lizachka," her grandmother continued. "It runs through all of us."

Liza's chest tightened and her fingers curled into fists. "I don't know if I'm ready."

Valeria smiled and brushed a strand of hair from Liza's face, just as she had when she was a child. "Then let us help you." She stepped back, and her gaze was knowing. "You must protect your new family now."

Liza swallowed. "New family?"

"It is fate, Liza."

A lump formed in her throat. "Is this about Elijah?" She hesitated. "We just—Baba, I don't even know what we are—"

Valeria hummed, her smile cunning. "He and his siblings will become a part of your family. Olympia too. You are their witch now."

Liza's breath caught at the words. Their witch. The phrase sent something warm yet daunting curling through her chest. And yet—she couldn't help the thoughts that followed. Family. She already had a family of her own–her parents, her younger brother–so that must have meant that the Mikaelsons would… become an extension of it? Elijah too? She didn't see him in the dream this time, but the thought of him made her heart swell.

Her eyes flickered over her grandmother's face, searching. These dreams had always been about her magic, her future. But never her past. Never the before.

Liza clenched her jaw, something fragile cracking open inside her. "Baba," she whispered, her voice uneven. "I'm s-sorry."

Valeria tilted her head as her brow furrowed slightly. "For what, moya dorogaya?" My darling.

Liza swallowed hard. "For being a shitty granddaughter. For not understanding. For—" She exhaled sharply and shook her head. "I was afraid to become like you. I was afraid I would—"

Valeria reached out again and cupped her cheek with warm, steady gnarled fingers. "You will do better than me, Lizachka."

Liza blinked rapidly, her vision blurring with brine.

"I never faulted you for anything," her grandmother continued, voice soft but firm. "I was never angry at you."

Liza let out a shaky breath as guilt clenched her stomach nonetheless. She leaned her face into her grandmother's palm.

Valeria's thumb brushed over her cheek, wiping a tear. "Here, I am free from torment. As soon as I passed, my mind cleared. The weight I carried in life no longer binds me."

Liza's chest tightened, and she blinked a few more tears.

"You needn't carry that guilt," Valeria said gently. "All that matters now is that you embrace your destiny. Your magic. So that our ancestors won't be forgotten. Their magic." She took her hand back, stepped back. Her form began to shimmer, her presence humming in the air around them. "I know you will use it wisely."

The voices of the ancestors rose softly around her, a distant echo, a hum of forgotten names and whispered blessings. Old Slavic languages that sounded familiar but Liza couldn't discern.

"You will help the Mikaelsons," her grandmother said.

And then—

Liza woke up. She stared at the far Venetian plaster wall with its intricate millwork–no trace of the old wood of the izba walls. Feeling the tears, she quickly wiped her eyes and lay there for a moment, under the soft blanket Elijah had covered her in.

The parlor was bathed in golden afternoon light, long shafts of warmth stretching from the tall windows, casting soft patterns against the polished floor. The house was quiet, peaceful in a way it rarely was, the only sounds the distant murmur of voices somewhere deeper inside.

She exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling as the remnants of the dream clung to her skin, sinking into her bones. She was alone, but her grandmother's words lingered and wrapped around her like unseen threads, pulling tight with certainty.

A soft thud against the rug pulled her back.

Ramses, as if sensing her stirring, trotted into the room, his nails clicking lightly against the hardwood. He circled the couch once before pressing his cold nose into her outstretched hand, exhaling a warm breath against her fingers.

Liza sighed, scratching behind his ears. "Hey, buddy," she murmured, her voice a little croaky from sleep. He licked her palm in response, then shoved his head beneath her hand, a silent demand for more affection. His weight against her grounded her, pulling her fully into the waking world, tethering her to the now.

She lay still for a moment, blinking against the golden afternoon light filtering through the curtains, letting the last remnants of sleep fade away. But the dream lingered, heavy in her chest, pressing down with quiet insistence. The warding spell. She had to do it. She would do it. That didn't mean the knot in her stomach was any less tight.

With a sigh, she pushed herself upright and ran a hand through her tangled hair. Her limbs felt sluggish, reluctant to shake off the pull of sleep, but she forced herself to move. The grandfather clock across the room read half past one. She'd slept a few hours, though the dream had felt shorter in her mind.

Stretching briefly, she padded toward the hallway, Ramses trotting close at her heels. As she passed the dining room, she caught a glimpse of Ollie and Rebekah, seated close, heads tilted toward one another in quiet conversation. Something about it made Liza pause—not just the casual ease between them, but the way Rebekah's usually guarded expression had softened, like she was enjoying herself more than she wanted to admit.

"So Karl Lagerfeld just sent you designs?" Ollie asked, incredulous, mimosa in hand.

Rebekah twirled her champagne flute between her fingers, smirking. "Of course. He adored me."

Ollie, thoroughly engrossed, leaned in, as if proximity might help her absorb the sheer audacity of the statement. Before she could pry further, her gaze flicked up, catching sight of Liza passing through the room.

"Hey, you're up!"

Liza barely slowed, already halfway to the stairs. "I'll be back!" she called over her shoulder.

Ramses, however, didn't follow. He veered into the dining room instead, making a beeline for Ollie—an intentional choice, given that Rebekah wasn't particularly fond of him.

Ollie shot him a delighted grin, ruffling his fur. "Okay…"

Rebekah, unfazed, took a slow sip of her drink. "Anyway," she continued, her tone unbearably smug. "It was 1974. And Karl just so happened to want my opinion on his latest collection."

0000000

Liza took the steps quickly, two at a time, ignoring the exhaustion still clinging to her body. The moment she stepped into her new bedroom, she barely spared a glance at the suitcase and duffle bag still sitting untouched in the corner. She didn't have time for them now.

Instead, her focus locked onto her backpack, tucked beside her duffle. Crossing the room, she crouched down and unzipped it with quick, slightly unsteady fingers. The moment her hand brushed over the familiar, timeworn leather of her grandmother's grimoire, she exhaled.

From the outside, the book was unassuming. Just an old, slightly battered journal, its leather softened by time, its edges worn down by years of handling. But the moment her fingers had closed around it, something flickered beneath her skin. A hum of energy. Subtle, but undeniable.

It started at her fingertips, skating up the length of her arm, curling low in her stomach before settling deep in her chest. Her pulse stuttered, her breath catching for half a second. Was this different? She swallowed, fingers tightening around the spine. Did it connect her to her ancestors now, not just her grandmother? Was that the shift she was feeling? The faint, lingering awareness at the edges of her senses? Or was it just her own anticipation? The weight of expectation making her hyperaware of every pulse of magic in the air?

Taking a steadying breath, she clutched the grimoire to her chest and turned—only to nearly collide with Elijah as she stepped into the hall. She started slightly but recovered quickly. Of course, he was here. Of course, he had heard her wake.

Elijah simply tilted his head, his dark eyes sweeping over her, assessing. Not just looking at her, but reading her, attuned in a way that had become second nature. "How did you sleep?"

His voice was smooth, low, carrying that concern that always lingered between them. He had shed his suit jacket, left in just his slacks, button-down, and tie—still impeccably put together, but slightly more at ease. And yet, no less him. No less Elijah.

Liza hesitated as her hands curled just a little tighter around the book. "Fine," she said, then sighed, shaking her head. "It was… okay. I had a dream."

His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening. And then, before she could stop herself, she felt it—the warmth of his hand at her shoulder. A light touch. Not pressing, not demanding. Just there.

Liza glanced down at the grimoire in her hands. "It was my grandmother. Again."

She felt the way Elijah stiffened, only slightly. He didn't let go.

"She told me I need to ward the house," she continued, her voice quieter now. "Like I did at my apartment. But this place—it's huge. It's going to be harder."

His fingers flexed against her for just a second before he withdrew them, but the shift in him was tangible. Liza didn't have meaningless dreams. Every vision, every whisper from the other side, every flicker of magic in the air—they all meant something.

Starting with the first one. The one where she had seen him and his siblings, standing at the edge of Lake Michigan, the sun rising as she turned them human. Prophecy. Fate.

It was something Elijah had spent centuries resisting—this idea that anything or anyone could dictate his future. And yet, every time she spoke of these dreams, these omens, and they all started coming true… He felt the pull, the magnetism. He felt it every time he looked at her.

"So," she said, voice dipping slightly, "I need to figure out how I'm going to do it."

Elijah studied her for a moment, but his answer came without hesitation. "Would you like my help?" It wasn't just an offer. It was a promise.

Liza's lips parted slightly, caught off guard by how easily he said it. "I think so," she admitted. "I feel like I need to walk the perimeter first. Get a sense of the space before I try."

Elijah considered this, nodding once. "That would be wise."

Liza looked up at him, and before he even spoke, she already knew what he was going to say next.

"I'll walk with you." It wasn't a suggestion.

Her mouth twitched in a small smile. "Of course you will."

His gaze softened, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Of course."

And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he offered his arm. Liza hesitated for only a second. Her nerves were still buzzing beneath her skin, in anticipation of the spell, but despite all of it—the uncertainty, the fear—there was one thing she was sure of. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, let him steady her, and together, they stepped out into the halls of the mansion.

0000000

Rebekah was mid-sentence, recounting the time she had sat front row at a Dior show after World War II—sandwiched between a scandal-ridden European socialite and an overzealous American journalist who wouldn't stop prying about her connections—when her phone buzzed against the dining table.

She barely spared it a glance, lifting her champagne flute for a slow sip.

Across from her, Ollie, chin propped in her hand, smirked. "Please tell me you just name-dropped. Did I hear Dior?"

Rebekah huffed and set her glass down with a soft clink. "Of course you did. You think I'd discuss anything less than the best?"

Ollie snorted. "I don't know, Bek. I think I'd pay good money to hear you talk about, like… H ."

Rebekah scoffed, thoroughly unimpressed. "Don't be disgusting."

Ollie's grin widened, but the moment was short-lived. Rebekah's phone vibrated again—twice, insistent this time. Something in the pattern of it prickled at her, the kind of urgency that made her stomach tighten.

She glanced down.

Marcel: Come clean, Rebekah.

Her grip tightened around the phone. A small frown tugged at her lips.

Then, another vibration.

She swiped the screen open, reading.

Marcel: I have the footage from Benny's home security cams. I watched him talk to a spirit. I know what Benny died for.

A cold weight settled in her chest, sharp as a blade beneath her ribs.

Ollie's expression shifted. "Rebekah?"

But she didn't hear her.

The phone vibrated again.

Marcel: Elizaveta Belova. Mikaelsons' salvation. Blood sickness. Cure.

Marcel: That's what Benny wrote down in the middle of the night.

Rebekah inhaled sharply, a quiet, controlled breath. But inside? Inside, she felt the walls closing in.

Marcel: We need to talk. Tonight. All of you.

Her pulse quickened.

Ollie leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Hey. You okay? You look like Klaus just drank the last of your favorite wine."

Rebekah didn't answer right away, her nails clicking idly against the glass screen as she typed. There was no way around this. Marcel had seen too much.

Rebekah: Who did you tell?

His response came immediately.

Marcel: No one. For now. Not unless you and your brothers talk to me.

Her breath hitched. This was it. The last straw. Twice now, she had humored him—two carefully measured conversations, two near slip-ups, two rounds of circling the truth without ever touching it. She had given him fragments, never enough to hold in his hands, but just enough to make him dig.

Now, he had found something real.

Marcel: Meet me. All of you. Tonight.

Rebekah exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together.

Marcel: I haven't gone to Valentin yet. But I need answers, Rebekah. Enough bullshit.

Her nails tapped against the stem of her flute. Marcel knew. And he was giving her the chance to tell the truth before he took it somewhere worse. She could stall again, lie, convince him it was nothing—but she knew Marcel too well. He wouldn't be reaching out like this unless he was certain.

Across from her, Ollie waved a hand. "Earth to Bekah?"

Rebekah's gaze flickered up, then back down at her phone.

Rebekah: Fine. 1355 N Astor Street. 6PM.

Marcel's response was instant.

Marcel: Got it. See you then.

Rebekah blinked up at Ollie and turned her phone facedown against the table, as if that could create distance between her and what had just transpired.

"It's Marcel," she said grimly.

Ollie, mid-sip of her mimosa, paused and set it down. "Oh yeah? What's Chicago's most eligible bachelor want?"

Rebekah didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached for the champagne bottle and poured herself another drink—straight again this time, no orange juice to soften the edge.

Ollie narrowed her eyes. "That bad, huh?"

Rebekah swirled the liquid in her glass, watching the bubbles rise, watching her reflection warp faintly in the gold. "He's meeting us tonight," she murmured. "Here."

Ollie's expression shifted, subtle but sharp. "And?"

Rebekah exhaled. "And I think we're going to have to tell him everything now."

Ollie's brows furrowed. "Define everything."

Rebekah's answer was clipped. "Liza. The prophecy. Becoming human. Marcel isn't stupid. He connected the dots."

Ollie went still. For a beat, she just stared at Rebekah, the weight of those words sinking in, twisting something deep in her gut. Then, slowly, she sat back, crossing her arms. "Shit," she muttered.

Rebekah didn't disagree.

Ollie exhaled sharply and ran a hand through her hair before shaking her head. "I mean, we knew he was gonna put it together eventually. Marcel isn't some random guy off the street—he's Marcel." She gestured vaguely, as if that said everything. And it did. "But I was hoping we could hold off a little longer before rolling out the 'Hey, surprise, we're rewriting supernatural history' speech."

Rebekah tipped her glass back, swallowing half of it in one go. "You and me both."

Ollie studied her, then sighed, rubbing her temples. "Okay. Okay. So we tell him. And then what? What if he loses his shit?"

Rebekah's grip tightened slightly on her glass, but her expression remained composed. "That's why we tell him first. Before he starts making decisions without us."

Ollie let out a humorless laugh. "God, I need another drink for this." She reached for the champgne, skipping the orange juice as well.

Rebekah smirked faintly, though there was little humor behind it. "Then by all means, darling. Let's get properly prepared for our impending doom."

0000000

The morning air had shifted, no longer thick with lingering dampness but laced with the sweet promise of spring. The scent of budding trees and freshly turned earth wove through the historic Gold Coast district, where old wealth stood undisturbed by time.

The Mikaelsons' borrowed estate was no exception—an architectural marvel, a fortress of privilege carved into the city's gilded past. The neo-classical façade stretched an imposing eighty feet across, its Georgian Revival columns standing like sentinels, timeless and unyielding. Behind the wrought-iron gates, the courtyard was its own secluded world—pristine gardens sculpted with meticulous care, marble fountains murmuring against the hush, ivy creeping up the stone as if trying to reclaim the past.

Liza could see why this place had been built—not just for beauty, but for endurance. For legacy. And now, she was about to thread something even older into its foundation.

She and Elijah moved along the estate's perimeter, her boots whispering against the stone path. She studied every line, every towering window, every detail of the structure she was meant to protect. The sheer scale of it made her pulse quicken.

"You're quiet," Elijah observed, his voice cool, his eyes watchful.

Liza exhaled deeply. "Just… taking it in. Warding my apartment was one thing, but this?" She gestured vaguely at the sprawling estate. "This is an entirely different beast."

Elijah's gaze swept across the property. "Indeed. But you are more than capable."

There was no hesitation in his tone—just certainty, as if failure had never been a consideration. His arm around her tightened slightly, a steadying presence.

Liza swallowed, her arms pressing around the grimoire at her chest. "I hope you're right."

Elijah turned to her then, his expression softening, his unwavering belief in her settling between them. He reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch light and gentle.

"I am always right," he murmured, his mouth tugging into a tender smile. But there was no arrogance in his voice, only reassurance, which steadied rather than overwhelmed. His fingers traced the line of her jaw and tilted her chin up just enough to meet his gaze. "And I have never been more certain of anything than I am of you."

The words sent a shiver down her spine, a deep and unshakable feeling in her chest. She exhaled again and willed herself to hold onto the moment, to let his conviction sink into her bones.

She swallowed hard and nodded, even if her heart was still hammering. "Okay," she whispered.

Elijah ducked his head and his lips brushed her forehead, a brief but deliberate touch, before he straightened, his arm still resting at her back. "Then let's go inside and begin."