AN: Trigger warning for this one. It gets darker here. Assault is blatent.
Chapter Four: What Lies Beneath
The dream came again. A different one, but with the same dark, sharp feeling as the last one.
Stefan stood on the edge of a field, surrounded by tall grass swaying under a sky gone blood-red.
The Salvatore estate loomed behind him, stretched and wrong, like it had been stitched together from memory and nightmare.
He heard a voice.
Not his.
"She said she loved me."
He turned.
A figure knelt in the grass. Hands in his hair. Shoulders shaking with sobs.
Damon.
But not the Damon Stefan knew now. This Damon was younger. Raw. Desperate. Human.
"I would've done anything for her," Damon whispered into the wind. "She knew that."
Katherine's laugh echoed in the air like a crack of thunder.
Stefan looked up at the red sky instinctively, but didn't see her.
He heard a whimper and looked back to Damon, only to see him clamp his hand to his neck, though that didn't stop the blood from seeping between his trembling fingers.
Then the sky split open.
And the dream bled black.
Stefan woke with a jolt, the sheets damp with sweat, heart pounding like he'd been running.
Two nights in a row now. Two dreams that weren't his. Two memories that didn't belong to him.
And somehow… they felt real.
Elena found Damon tucked into the far corner of the Mystic Falls Public Library, lounging in an armchair with a book he clearly wasn't reading. He wore his usual black-on-black, one leg draped casually over the side of the chair.
"Didn't peg you for a reader," she said, approaching carefully.
Damon didn't look up. "I'm full of surprises."
"You always hide in here during the day?"
"I like the quiet. People don't ask questions in libraries."
She tilted her head. "Are you hiding from questions, Damon?"
He finally looked up at her, something half-playful, half-defensive in his expression. "Depends on who's asking."
"I'm just trying to get to know you."
"That's your first mistake."
She sat down across from him, not too close. "I don't think so."
Damon was quiet for a moment. Then he closed the book and leaned back. "Why are you so interested in me, Elena?"
"I don't know," she said honestly. "Maybe because you're the first person I've met who makes me feel like I'm not the only one pretending to be okay."
That knocked something loose behind his eyes. She caught a flash of vulnerability in them before he abruptly stood.
"Lunch is over," he said, though she still had plenty of time. "Don't want to be late to your next class."
And just like that, he was gone.
Stefan caught up with Elena as she was heading toward the parking lot after school. He offered her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Hey, you have a minute?"
"Sure."
They walked in silence for a bit before Stefan spoke.
"I've been thinking about what you said the other day. About not being afraid."
She glanced at him. "You thought I was lying?"
"No," he said. "I think you're brave. And maybe… a little reckless."
She smiled faintly.
"I like talking to you," Stefan added. "Being around you makes things feel… normal again."
Elena paused.
"Stefan," she said gently, "I like talking to you too. But I don't think I'm where you are."
He nodded slowly, trying to mask the disappointment in his eyes.
"I figured," he said. "But I had to try."
She squeezed his arm. "You're kind. That matters."
But even as she said it, her thoughts drifted back to Damon's retreating figure in the library—the way his eyes had softened for just a second before he pushed her away.
And she wondered what it would take for him to stop running.
The Salvatore boarding house was quiet, the kind of heavy silence that felt thick in the air. Rain tapped against the windows like it was trying to get in.
Damon poured himself a drink out of habit.
He sat by the fire, still dressed in black, the glass of bourbon untouched in his hand.
It was after two in the morning.
He hadn't slept.
Didn't plan to.
Every time he let himself drift off—even for a second—he felt it. That weight pressing down on him. The flicker of a memory that didn't stay buried. Katherine's voice. His father's belt. The laughter that wasn't his.
The Shadow.
He'd only seen it clearly once, in the dream. But he could feel it now. In the darkened corners of rooms. In the mirrors that didn't quite reflect right. In the cold spot by the top of the stairs that hadn't been there before.
He downed the bourbon and poured another.
The second glass burned more than the first.
He wished they actually helped.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, digging his fingers into his temples until stars burst behind his lids.
He didn't want to see her again.
Didn't want to see himself again.
The boy who couldn't fight back.
The man who let her win.
He was slipping.
He knew it.
But if he could just stay awake, maybe he could hold the walls up a little longer.
Just a little longer.
In the fireplace, a log cracked. The flames flickered.
And in the reflection of the bourbon bottle, a tall, faceless figure stood behind him—silent and watching. Waiting. Infinitely patient.
The empty glass of bourbon slipped from his hand.
It hit the rug without breaking—just rolled sideways and stilled.
Damon's head lulled back against the armchair, muscles giving out like threads unraveling. His eyelids flickered. The fire dimmed.
And then the world blurred.
The room around him rippled like heat rising off pavement.
He's human again. Twenty-five. Freshly returned from a war he never wanted to be involved in. Hands still healing from gunpowder burns. Soul still scarred from things he saw that he never told anyone about.
And she's waiting for him.
Katherine.
Her room is candlelit, draped in deep red silk. Velvet curtains flutter as if from a breath that doesn't exist.
She looks at him with hunger and something gentler—something fake. Though he doesn't know it yet.
"Damon," she purrs, stepping barefoot across the floor. "You're late."
"I came as soon as I could," he says, voice too soft. Hopeful. That hope will kill him one day. But not yet.
"You always come back."
"I didn't want to," he whispered.
She laughed softly. "But you did. That's what matters."
Her fingers slid down his neck.
"I made you feel good, didn't I?"
Damon's throat tightened. "You made me."
"Did it hurt?"
He nodded.
"Did you beg me to stop?"
"Yes."
She leaned closer.
"But did you stay?"
Damon's eyes burned. His voice broke: "Yes."
She tilted his chin up and smiled.
"There it is," she whispered. "My good boy."
He flinched, but didn't leave.
"Did you miss me?" she asks, standing close enough for her perfume to coil around him—jasmine, wine, danger.
"Yes," he says before he thinks better of it.
She smiles. "Then show me. Close the door, Damon."
He did.
"Kneel."
He kneels before her because she likes him like that. He doesn't know why it matters—but it does. She tells him he looks better this way. She calls him "pretty," and "devoted," and sometimes "mine."
That word makes something ache in his chest.
The room was quiet but pulsing with something unspoken.
She ran her fingers through his hair, slow and possessive.
She kisses him deeply, and he melts into it. Her mouth is soft, her hands firm. She pulls back, standing up and unlaces her corset slowly, deliberately, her gaze never leaving his.
She's undressed by the time she sits on the edge of the bed.
He swallows thickly. Will it be the same as last time, or will she let him touch her this time.
"Take off your shirt," she commands.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Discomfited by the strange atmosphere in the room.
Her smile vanishes. "I said take it off," she snaps.
He obeys.
"Come lie down on the bed," she pats the space next to her, and he climbs up, laying beside where she sits, still perched on the edge of the bed.
"You've never been with a woman apart from me, right?" Katherine asks sternly.
"No," he whispers. "Just with you before I left for the war."
"Oh, pet," she said, bending down to whisper in his ear. "That was nothing. That was just a bit of fun. This time I'll teach you how to be a real man."
Damon tried not to show how nervous he was. Or that he was having second thoughts. He had always had the romantic notion that he would only ever be with a woman intimately once they were married. But maybe if he gave Katherine what she wanted, she would marry him, and they would be together forever.
Katherine began to kiss down his neck, her hands exploring his muscled chest and abs. She touched a tender spot on his upper abdomen that made him gasp and she paused, examining it.
"What happened here?" she asked, curiously.
"Shrapnel wound," Damon said, trying to keep his voice strong.
"Hmm, it's still a bit red. Does it hurt?" she asked, looking at him.
"Yes," he whispered, fear skittering up his spine.
Katherine moved her fingers over the healing wound gently before suddenly pressing down on it harshly.
Damon sucked in a sharp breath followed by a quiet whimper.
"None of that now," Katherine admonished. "You are a big strong man now. Toughen up," she bit out before pressing on the wound again.
Damon kept as quiet as he could, holding his breath.
She finally stopped once she was satisfied by his lack of reaction.
"That's my good boy," she said seductively. She moved down the bed to kneel between his legs, and ran her hands up his thighs. There's no asking—there never is.
Damon took in a slow, shuddering breath, trying to focus on Katherine rather than his nerves. But when she suddenly reached up to undo his pants, he flinched involuntarily.
"Is something wrong, Damon," she asked him, narrowing her eyes.
"No, no. I'm sorry, you just startled me," he tried to soothe her, sitting up and reaching for her.
"I told you to lie down," she snapped, pushing him back down to the bed harshly. She then tore his pants off him, and he was exposed before her. She sneered down at him, "I thought you were supposed to be a man, Damon. Don't look like a man to me." She glared down at his flaccid member.
Damon turned his head, trying to hide the embarrassment he was feeling.
"Aw, it's ok, lover. I'll help you out," Katherine purred. She moved up to lay down beside him, and grabbed his head, turning him to just the angle she wanted, and kissed him hard and deep. As she bit his bottom lip, she moved her hand down his body and began to stroke his manhood. She let out little mewls of pleasure as she continued to kiss him and stroke him, and soon enough, he was at attention.
"That's better," she smiled down at him sweetly. "Now we can start to have some fun."
Damon nodded, happy that he seemed to have pleased her. He wanted to make her happy.
She moved back down to position herself between his legs again, and didn't hesitate to take him into her mouth.
Damon let out a hiss of pleasure at this. She'd never done this to him before. Soon, she put her hands into play as well, and way before either of them were ready, he was nearing his release.
"Katherine," he panted. "I'm close."
She knew he was, of course, and with a few more swipes of her tongue, she stopped and moved back up to kiss him some more.
She continued this pattern, bringing him right to the edge, only to stop right before he could reach his climax, over and over again. At first, he hadn't minded much, but after the fifth time, he was in actual pain.
"Katherine, it hurts," he whimpered. "Please."
"Mmm, I like it when you beg me," she purred, and bent back to him.
This time she didn't stop, and he climaxed so hard and painfully that he nearly blacked out. When he came back to himself, Katherine continued to stroke him, looking up at him with a devious smirk on her face.
"It's too much," he gasped out, trying to move his hips away from her.
"I'll tell you when it's too much," she said. Leaning up to look him in the eyes, she compelled him. "Do not move, and don't make a sound until I tell you you can."
Damon eyes widened and he lay back, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the intense sensations shooting through his lower abdomen. It was so intense it was beginning to feel like knives were being run through him. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the tears of pain and humiliation from running down his face.
After a few more pain filled minutes, he felt another climax coming and he hoped she would stop after that.
His body jerked, and he came a second time, gasping quietly.
This time Katherine stopped and crawled cat-like up his body, rubbing herself on him as she went.
"You can move and talk now," she said, before she kissed him again, much softer this time.
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back. Not because he really wanted to, but because she wanted him to.
The next thing he knew, she was impaling herself on his still stiff and aching member.
When he flinched, she cooed. "You're so sensitive, sweetheart."
He cried out, but she swallowed it with her kisses.
When he started to shake, she straddled his thighs and whispered, "You know you need this."
"Shh," she whispered against his lips as she moved her hips, drawing him further inside of her.
Damon moved his face to the crook of her neck, trying not to show her how much pain he was in.
Katherine jerked his head to face her. "You better stay hard for me until I'm done with you," she compelled him.
He nodded, gasping.
She sat up and rode him hard, hands pressed into his chest for leverage.
As she got close to her climax, her vampire visage appeared, and she suddenly and viciously sank her fangs into his neck, taking long pulls of his blood as she rode out her release.
When he starts to cry—quietly, barely—it's because she's biting his neck too hard and calling it love.
And he believed her.
Because if this isn't love, then what has he given himself to?
He clutches her waist like a drowning man, desperate to feel anything but shame.
When she's done, she pulls him closer and murmurs, "There's my good boy."
That breaks him.
And still he stays.
The Shadowborn rise from the corners of the room.
Tall. Faceless. Watching.
Katherine doesn't notice. She never does.
But Damon does.
They speak in his voice, overlaid with hers:
"You wanted it."
"You never said no."
"You begged her to keep going."
"You stayed."
They surround him like ghosts made of memory.
"You let her win."
Damon shot upright in the chair with a gasp that ripped his throat raw.
His chest heaved. His skin felt soaked, with sweat, not tears. Though he couldn't be completely sure.
The fire had burned down to glowing coals.
His shirt clung to his back. He realized his nails had cut deeply into his palms—fresh half-moons of blood bloomed against his skin.
He didn't cry.
He never did anymore.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Damon didn't know how long he sat there.
The remaining embers in the fireplace crackled softly, low and harmless now, but every pop made his shoulders flinch.
His shirt was still damp. His breath still uneven. His hands were red from pressure—small cuts continued bleeding where his fingernails had pressed too hard.
He should've moved. Gone upstairs. Washed the sweat from his skin. Hidden the evidence.
But he stayed. He didn't have the energy to move.
Something in him was still there—in that room, on that bed, on his knees. Her voice echoed in his skull louder than the embers.
There's my good boy.
His stomach turned.
Upstairs, Stefan stirred.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep again, not after the dream from the night before—but exhaustion had claimed him before midnight. Now he woke with his heart racing and a chill running down his spine.
He sat up, listening.
Something was wrong.
Not loud. Not immediate.
Just… off.
He threw on a sweatshirt and headed downstairs.
Damon didn't look up when Stefan appeared in the doorway.
The glow from the fireplace cast him in eerie light—his silhouette sharp, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world had finally started to settle into his bones.
Stefan didn't speak right away.
Just stood there.
Something was bleeding from Damon's hand.
"Damon?" Stefan called softly.
No answer.
"You okay?"
Damon finally turned his head, eyes bloodshot, face unreadable.
"I'm peachy," he said, voice flat.
"You're bleeding."
Damon looked at his palm like he hadn't noticed. "Huh."
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Damon huffed a breath. "Worse."
Stefan stepped in slowly. "Was it a dream?"
Damon's head snapped toward him. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
"What did you just say?"
"I—" Stefan hesitated. "I've been having them too. Dreams. Nightmares. But they don't feel like mine."
Damon stood abruptly, the chair creaking beneath him. "Don't."
Stefan blinked. "Don't what?"
"Don't act like we're bonding," Damon snapped. "I don't need your sympathy."
Stefan held his ground. "I didn't say I pitied you."
"You don't know anything about me," Damon growled.
"I'm starting to," Stefan said, his voice quiet but steady.
That hit something.
Damon looked away; jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched. His hands were still shaking, but he shoved them into his pockets.
"I'm going upstairs," he muttered, brushing past his brother.
Stefan didn't stop him.
But as Damon's footsteps faded up the stairs, Stefan looked down at the blood on the floor and felt the first sharp edge of dread settle into his chest.
Elena sat cross-legged on her bed, her journal open in her lap. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the nightstand, gone cold over an hour ago.
The window was cracked. She liked the sound of the rain. It made things feel softer.
She tapped the end of her pen against her lips and stared at the last thing she'd written:
He's always running. But what is he running from?
She hadn't meant for it to be about Damon.
At least, not entirely.
But every time she tried to write about her parents, or school, or even Stefan—her mind wandered back to Damon. To the way he changed the room when he entered it. To the weight in his gaze, like he was always seconds from unraveling.
She'd seen that same look once in the mirror. The week after the accident.
She'd known grief. Known numbness.
But this was different. Damon wasn't numb. He was in pain. Constantly. Quietly.
And for reasons she couldn't explain, she wanted to understand it.
She flipped to a new page and wrote:
What if the darkness isn't the danger?
What if the danger is the part of him that's still human?
The part that hurts, and remembers, and feels too much?