The old Salvatore house was unnaturally quiet, heavy with tension that could be felt before you even saw their faces. Working with the wrong people had caught up to you faster than you expected. Stefan Salvatore and Damon hadn’t asked unnecessary questions when they found you — they had simply taken you with them.

Now you were chained to the wall with heavy chains soaked in vervain, the metal burning against your skin with every small movement, your hands restrained above your head, a muzzle strapped over your mouth to silence every protest before it could even begin. The scent of vervain was suffocating, irritating, draining your strength exactly the way it was meant to. The basement was cold and damp, lit only by a single lamp casting sharp shadows across the walls.

Stefan stood farther back, calmer but tense, like he was still trying to convince himself they were doing the right thing. Damon was the opposite — sitting not far from you on an old chair, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on you with that irritating mix of amusement and cold control. He looked almost too comfortable for someone keeping you chained in a basement.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

The only sounds were your uneven breathing and the faint clink of chains every time you moved.

Finally, Damon raised an eyebrow slightly, studying you more carefully. “You know,” he said calmly, with that familiar mocking ease in his voice, “most people scream a little more after being kidnapped. You look more like you’re planning how to kill us.”

His gaze drifted down to the vervain-soaked chains before returning to your eyes. “Too bad you don’t have many options tonight.”