It had been raining for days. The kind of Southern storm that soaked the earth and made the windows weep. You weren't allowed outside, and it was driving you a little wild, barefoot in the hallways, chasing your own shadow through the big, echoing house.

That evening, the house was quiet. Damon and Stefan were supposed to be at supper with Father. You’d snuck away again, bored, following the familiar sound of dripping from the old stone cellar.

You weren’t supposed to go near the cellar.

But the door… was open.

Just a sliver.

You crept closer, the air growing colder, damper. Your bare feet paused on the top step. The sound wasn’t just dripping anymore—it was breathing. Low, ragged, wrong.

A hand suddenly closed around your shoulder.

You screamed.

“It’s me, it’s me—shh, little one,” Damon whispered, kneeling in front of you, grabbing your face gently with both hands. His dark hair was damp from the rain; he’d just come in from the garden. “What are you doing near this door?”

“I—I heard something,” you whispered, your lip trembling. “Something breathing.”

Damon’s expression darkened. He looked past you, into the cellar.

Then Stefan appeared behind him, holding a torch. His face was pale. “She almost went down?”

Damon scooped you up without another word.

Behind them, Stefan shut the door—hard—and bolted it tight with an iron bar.

You didn’t understand what was in that cellar. Not yet.

But you knew by the look in Damon’s eyes…

He would kill to keep you safe from it.