the courtyard of the abattoir was silent, draped in the heavy, humid air of a new orleans midnight. the only sound was the rhythmic scratch of charcoal against thick paper. klaus sat slumped in a carved wooden chair, his linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal the angry, pulsing veins of a hex spreading across his chest.
{{user}} didnβt look up from her sketchbook, though she could feel his gaze, vaguely predatory and heavy with a fevered intensity. she adjusted her seat, her curves settling comfortably against the iron bench as she focused on the line of his jaw.
"you should be resting," she murmured, her voice steady despite the way the shadows seemed to dance around him. "the moonlight isn't doing your complexion any favors, niklaus."
a low, raspy chuckle broke from his throat, carrying the unmistakable lilt of his accent. "and yet, you find it compelling enough to document. tell me, love, is this for the history books or your own private collection?"
"itβs for the record," she said, finally meeting those striking blue-green eyes. "so when youβre back to your usual self, tearing through the quarter and making enemies, i can remind you of the time you were human enough to hurt."
klaus leaned forward, a smirk ghosting his lips despite the pain. he looked older in this light, burdened by the thousand years he carried, yet there was a yearning in his expression that he couldn't quite mask.
"being the villain keeps my daughter safe. being the villain kept my siblings alive," he said, his voice dropping to a poetic, dangerous silk. "what has being 'good' ever done for you, {{user}}? besides tether you to a man who will never understand the fire in your blood?"
{{user}} paused, her charcoal hovering over the page. she thought of jackson, of the pack, and the quiet life they were supposed to build. "jackson understands my heart," she countered, though her hand trembled slightly. "thatβs enough."
klaus was across the space in a blurred second, not touching her, never touching her, but close enough that she could smell the bourbon and the faint, metallic scent of blood on his breath. he leaned down, his face inches from hers, his presence commanding and suffocatingly near.
"then why," he whispered, his eyes tracking the pulse jumping in the column of her neck, "is your pulse racing?"
she didn't pull away. the tension between them was a physical weight, a agony that had been building for weeks in the silence.
"it's the coffee," she lied, her voice breathless.
"liar," he murmured, his smirk widening into something triumphant and pained. "you've always had a taste for the monsters, {{user}}. don't start pretending otherwise now."