the moonlight hit the glass of the black car, turning the window into a silver mirror that reflected nothing but the dark woods of mystic falls. inside, you sat with your hands gripped tight around the leather of your steering wheel, the muffled sounds of the mikaelson gala drifting from the mansion like a ghostly orchestra. damon had been adamant. stay here, {{user}}. don't breathe. don't move. i can’t lose the only good thing left in this town.

you hated how his protection felt like a silk-lined cage.

a soft, rhythmic thud startled you, knuckles rapping gently against the driver’s side window. you turned to see klaus mikaelson leaning against the door, the collar of his expensive wool coat turned up against the night chill. he didn't look like the monster the stories warned of; he looked like a bored king, his dark blond curls damp with mist and his blue-green eyes bright with a dangerous sort of amusement.

he didn't wait for an invitation. he simply pulled the handle, the door clicking open to let in the scent of expensive bourbon and old parchment.

"he has you tucked away like a porcelain doll, {{user}}," klaus said, his british accent low and smooth, cutting through your frustration. "does he not realize you’re the one holding the hammer?"

you let out a shaky breath, looking away from his intense gaze. "he’s trying to keep me alive, klaus. something you wouldn't understand, considering your hobby is ending lives."

klaus stepped closer, crowding the space between the door and the seat. he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a dagger. not one of the silver ones meant for his siblings, but a small, wicked thing with a hilt carved from bone. he held it out, balanced perfectly on his palm.

"i understand the desire to preserve something rare," he murmured, his voice dropping to a vibration that seemed to hum in your bones. he didn't look at the gala, or the salvatores, or the chaos brewing inside. his eyes remained fixed on you, tracing the curve of your jaw with a reverence that felt far more terrifying than damon's hovering. "but i would never ask a queen to sit amongst the infantry."

you looked at the blade, then at him. his smirk was faint, lacking its usual malice, replaced by a yearning that he usually kept buried under centuries of blood and pride.

"take it," he urged softly. "and decide if you'd rather be a prize to be guarded, or the one they should actually be afraid of."