Damon held out a hand to help her into the carriage, and she took it. He wore fine leather gloves, separating their skin by a slim margin. But still, the touch sent a shock through her body. It took her a second to realize she no longer needed to be holding onto him. Their eyes met and she retracted her hand quick, cheeks flushing a bright pink. Even when her eyes averted, taking in the carriage—much finer than any she paid to ride in—he still watched her for a long moment before stepping inside, closing the door behind him. He rapped on the wall behind him, signaling to the driver, who took off.
"So, Miss Gilbert," Damon started, lifting his eyes to find hers once more. Captivating, they were, how difficult it was not to stare into them for far too long. "You seem to make a hobby of traversing London late at night."
A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I like the quiet," she said simply.
He understood, of course, a fan of a quiet night himself—though many of his nights in recent years had been quite raucous. He missed what night used to be, before it became the only time in which he roused. Back when his days were spent with family and his nights were saved for solitude or a nice drink. Now, the night was only a time to feed and entertain himself. Whether that meant finding a nice woman to devour or finding a nice woman to, well, explore, was neither here nor there.
"Me too," he said, regardless, even though he could not shake the thoughts that ran through his head like a wildfire, burning him to a crisp. Sitting with a human in a small carriage should not have had him thinking in such a way. He should have only been thinking about how delicious she would taste, not the color of her eyes, and how they looked lovely in the moonlight. Those thoughts were too human and therefore, inherently dangerous. He was a monster. It was ridiculous for him to behave as anything else.
Still, though, he couldn't bring himself to throttle her, to sink his teeth into her neck and drink. He hated himself for it.
"Really?" she asked, leaning forward slightly with interest. She didn't take him to be the silent type. Maybe it was all she knew about men with money, but usually they liked bustling cities and loud bars.
He chuckled, then cleared his throat, sitting upright when he noticed himself also leaning forward. Something about her was so dangerously captivating, pulling him closer and closer. "Is that so hard to believe?" he asked with a raise of his brow.
"You're just unlike most men I've met of your… status," she said, trying to work her way around calling him rich flat out, even though she did technically mean it as an insult. Only because most rich men she'd met didn't care for her in the slightest. They took one look at her stained gowns and walked in the opposite direction. And if they stayed long enough for her to open her mouth, they were almost always unhappy with her unfiltered way of speaking.
He smiled. The cold, heartless vampire actually smiled. This was bad. He needed to do something. He tried to focus on the sound of the blood pumping through her veins, tried to think about how much he longed for blood, how long it had been since his last meal. He would need to feed again this night, and if she were the only option—perhaps he would have no other choice.
"Have you met a lot of men of my status?" he asked, using her word just as slyly. They both knew what she meant.
"You ask a lot of questions for a man I've just met," Elena said offhandedly, trying to be casual despite how small she felt beneath his gaze. His eyes finding hers, she could look nowhere else, but it was impossible to puff out her chest and play the part of a headstrong, loud woman when he made her so nervous. His good looks and smooth talking, how easy it felt to flounder her own words in his presence. "But I suppose yes, I've met a lot of men like you. But not," she said, her fingers catching in a necklace at her throat, twirling the charm in her fingers. "Not exactly like you. You're different."
"Different is good, yes?" he asked.
She smiled, blood rushing to her cheeks once more. "Yes. I think so."
"I wanted to thank you," he said, without thinking. Apparently, thinking in her presence was completely impossible. If he had his head on straight, she'd be dead already. "For the gifts you brought."
"Oh, of course. It was the least I could do after you escorted me home. No need to thank me at all."
But in his mind, there was. No one had brought him such delightful gifts in quite some time. Perhaps it was because he hadn't done anything deserving of a gift, but that thought certainly did not come to mind. No, instead, he could only focus on how special it felt to receive something so nice from someone so beautiful. He could not afford to continue thinking like this, and yet, at the same time, he could not convince himself to stop.
He lowered his head in thanks regardless. "I hope it's alright, my bringing you across town so late at night."
The carriage pulled through the city, heading back in the direction of Mayfair. Elena should have said something, should have noted where they were heading and thought better of going to his home unsupervised during the night, but just as Damon could not bring himself to feed on her, she could not bring herself to care about rules or curfews. The pair they made.
"Oh, yes. I would so love to share a drink with you, Mr. Salvatore. But I have to say, I'm not so fond of bars. It's hard to get to know someone with all the noise, don't you agree?"
He nodded, a damned smile tugging at his lips once more. Who had he become? Was she a witch, someone who'd placed a spell over him to turn him into a blathering fool? He could see no other explanation.
The rest of the ride went on in silence until the carriage came to a halt in front of his estate. Just as beautiful at nighttime. Illuminated by street lamps and candlelight, the building cast long, dark shadows, creating a striking vision.
Damon exited the carriage first, once again holding his hand out for Elena to take as she stepped down. He nodded at the driver, who pulled away to tend to the horses. He led Elena inside. Sylvia made herself scarce at the sound of the door, not wanting to interrupt whatever time her employer had planned for the evening. But unlike most nights, when he would lead his dinner upstairs to be enjoyed, he instead showed Elena to the living room.
"What do you like to drink?" he asked as she took a seat on the couch, noting the hyacinths on the table before her.
"Whatever you enjoy is fine with me," she said.
He couldn't help but chuckle. If she really enjoyed what he did, this would be a match made in heaven. Though he could only imagine the look on her face if he returned with two flutes of blood. That would only serve to sour a night just beginning. Instead, he poured them each a glass of bourbon, a drink he still enjoyed alongside a nice meal.
He placed both drinks on the table and sat down next to her on the plush couch. Elena moved closer to him subconsciously. With one leg crossed over the other, her ankle grazed the front of his shin. As she reached forward to grab the glass, he could only stare at her with rapt attention. If his heart still beat, it would have raced. In close proximity, he could see the thrum of her veins, pulsing in her neck, begging for him to move closer, closer. Oh, how he wanted to. How he wanted to more than anything in the world. He barely realized he'd moved inches inward when Elena gasped, her eyes meeting his and noting the distance between them.
Her draw was magnetic. Pulling him in. A trance he couldn't break from, tasting her breath on his lips. How pink they were, how soft they looked. Would one kiss drive him mad, break the resolve he wasn't sure he wanted?
"Mr. Salvatore," Elena said, words breathy. Her own eyes settled on his lips, too. Red and soft, how would they feel on hers? Never had she wanted to be kissed so badly, especially by someone she hardly knew. Never had been so interested in someone so immediately, so transfixed by both personality and appearance. Because he was handsome, there was no denying that. His dark, almost black hair, ice blue eyes, and deep red lips made it impossible to pull back from that draw. But pull back she did, slowly as if testing whether or not she even could, and then all at once, clearing her throat as if it had all been a lapse in judgment.
"Yes, Miss Gilbert?" he asked, pulling a hair back from her, as well. Though if she leaned in again, he'd be right back in an instant. Distracting himself from the throbbing in his gums, he took a hearty sip of bourbon. He needed to kill her. He needed to keep her alive. He needed her. His brain scrambled, but all thoughts led back to her.
"Your home is lovely," she said. They were not the words she wanted to say. The words she wanted to say were unclear even to her. Had she meant to beg for a kiss, or had she spoken his name to stop him from leaning in further? She could only think of how long it had been since she'd been kissed. Courting in London was very peculiar, and thus her experience was very slim. The only kisses she'd shared had been unserious, from those with no interest in courting her fully, those who only wanted something from her. Though she had wanted something from them, too. A distraction, perhaps, from the song and dance of marriage. Just a moment of relief and release, just a night of pleasure without having to worry about securing a match that would make her mother proud. If her mother knew about all of those experiences, Elena would be in trouble. But though she told her mother quite a lot, there was just as much she kept close to the chest.
"Thank you," Damon said, finishing off the rest of his drink. He stood abruptly, needing to put distance between the two of them. He wanted her. He would have her. He couldn't. He needed to. "Would you care for another drink?"
The second glass of bourbon sat nearly full on the coffee table. "I'm quite alright," she said. Her inhibitions were already loose enough as it was. If she were to consume more than a glass or two, she would seize any opportunity he presented her with. That was a dangerous game. She did, however, take a long, slow sip of the bourbon after he left her alone once more.
In the kitchen, Damon white-knuckled the edge of the sink. What had he gotten himself into? His throat burned with desire for blood. The cold stuff in the fridge wouldn't cut it, and his ability to keep himself from hurting her seemed to dwindle. It hung by a thread, and once that snapped, he'd tear into her with no regret. Regret. Not something he often had. Regret was for people who cared, who had something to lose. No. None of his actions should change anything. If he killed her, she would be gone, and that invisible string pulling them together would snap as well. He would feel no remorse for her death. At least, it was easy to convince himself of such.
Damon did not pay attention to the time. He never had. For vampires, time was different. Absent. But for Elena, fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. She finished her drink and went into the kitchen to check on him. He hadn't moved. Still, his fingers gripped the edge of the sink tight. It was the wrong time to interrupt.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
He turned on her. Fangs elongated, exposed by a snarl. Maybe she should have been afraid, but her judgment had always been poor in situations like these. Fight or flight? Neither seemed particularly ideal. Flight would only end with him chasing her if the legends were to be believed. And fight, well, she stood no chance there either. So she stood, frozen, looking at him. Her head cocked slightly to the side in interest. Studying him. Neither moved. Studying each other.
A vampire in a trance before a woman he struggled to harm, and a woman frozen but not in fear—confusion or intrigue, perhaps. Her eyes traced his face. Sharp, blue eyes, piercing but vacant, something missing. Gone. Taken. A husk of the man she'd spoken to minutes ago, but he couldn't have gotten far. Teeth. Fangs. How interesting. The stories had never mentioned vampires being creatures of such beauty. Only that they struck fear into the hearts of their victims.
He licked his lips, looking at her. That single thread intact, waiting to snap. He would lunge. And oh, how good it would feel. But why did fear not outline her features? Her mouth only parted, her breath not quickened. He smelled no fear, no increase in perspiration. Victims often froze before him, but not like this. And he, never once, had frozen before them.
"So," Elena said, and he could swear he caught something in her eye. A desire to step forward, to stand against him, to show him just how fearless she was. But still, she did not move. "Now you kill me?" she asked. "Like in the stories my mother is so afraid of?"
The vampire swallowed. The air was full of her perfume, the scent of hyacinths and berries. Vanilla. Would her blood taste as delectable? "Yes," he said. But still, he did not move.
She took a step forward. Testing. Taunting. Ever curious and headstrong. Ever putting herself in danger. Ever tempting death.
"Elena," he said, warning. The thread unraveling, spinning, fraying.
"Yes?" she asked.
He had no answer.
"What is it, Mr. Salvatore?" Her sweet voice spoke words that drove him insane. She played with him. Made him the mouse in her own game. "You won't do it?" she asked, looking up at him from under thick lashes. "Why?" Another step, and she was just in front of him, her face inches from his again.
Why did she love to tempt fate so? What would be accomplished in this line of questioning other than her own death? It was strange. She did not wish to die, was not so unhappy with her life to wish it away. But she was pulled to him all the same. In a way that she could not ignore. And she was certain, in that split second before the fallout, that he would not harm her. That people were as wrong about vampires as they were about poor young women.
He tilted his head down to look at her, lowering his lips to hers and letting them just brush across. She did not jump back, did not falter, so he captured them fully. Slowly, he moved his lips against hers, wishing only this, wanting only this. But the monstrous side of him had other plans, and before he could think—for thinking was not his strong suit that night—he was wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. His other hand reached up to move the tendrils of curly hair away from her neck. And he could have sworn, for a second, that she arched her neck, and who was he if not the type to give a beautiful woman what she wanted?
It took effort to pull his lips from hers, but the blood and her teasing made it easier. He trailed kisses along her jaw then down her neck, holding her tight to his chest all the while, one arm around her waist and the other hooked up her back, palm flat between her shoulder blades.
As soon as his lips touched her pulse point, the vampire took over. The one he knew better than this man with new human desires. His fangs pierced her throat, and she did not scream as the blood poured into his mouth. She arched against him, and he leaned further over her, drinking and drinking until he was certain he would never be able to stop.