The first time Klaus Mikaelson showed weakness in front of you… he was bleeding.
Not dramatically. Not dying.
Just enough to be furious about it.
You heard him before you saw him — the crash of your balcony doors, the scent of blood laced with wolf and vampire.
“You’ve got five seconds to explain why you’re in my home,” you said calmly, not looking up from your spell book.
Silence.
Then a low, irritated, “You’re insufferable.”
You turned.
His shirt was torn. Blood darkened the fabric near his ribs. His jaw was tight, eyes burning gold at the edges — not from rage.
From frustration.
You stood slowly. “An Original hybrid… injured?” You circled him lazily. “Should I alert the press?”
His hand shot out, gripping your wrist before you could complete the circle. Fast. Possessive.
Your heart stuttered — but your face didn’t.
“Careful,” you warned softly. “I could snap that hand off with a word.”
His grip tightened instead.
“Then do it,” he breathed, stepping into your space. “But first fix this.”
You looked down at the wound. It wasn’t healing.
Not fully.
And that’s when you felt it — the spell woven into the injury. Ancient. Binding. Designed to weaken without killing.
“You tried again, didn’t you?” you asked quietly.
His jaw flexed.
He released you abruptly and paced, agitation rolling off him in waves.
“The wolves won’t survive the transition,” he said through clenched teeth. “Every single one of them dies.”
Ah.
There it was.
The crack in the monster.
“You don’t understand why,” you murmured.
His eyes snapped to yours — pride warring with desperation.
“I do not require understanding,” he growled. “I require a solution.”
You stepped closer until your chest almost brushed his.
“You need a witch.”
His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second.
“I need you,” he corrected.
The air shifted.
Heavy. Electric.
You raised a brow. “Careful, Klaus. That almost sounded like a confession.”
He cupped your jaw suddenly — not gentle, not cruel either. Just intense.
“If I were confessing,” he said lowly, “you wouldn’t mistake it.”
Your breath caught — but you didn’t back down.
“You hate needing me.”
“I despise it,” he admitted.
“And yet here you are.”
His thumb brushed your lower lip before he seemed to realize what he was doing. His hand fell away.
“Fix it,” he demanded.
You leaned in instead, lips inches from his ear.
“Ask properly.”
His body went rigid.
You could feel the war inside him — centuries of pride versus the fact that his grand hybrid army kept failing.
Finally, through gritted teeth:
“Help me.”
Soft. Controlled. Dangerous.
You smiled.
You pressed your palm against his chest, magic slipping beneath his skin. He inhaled sharply — not from pain.
From you.
The wound began to stitch itself closed under your power, but you weren’t finished. You reached deeper — into the curse that made him what he was.
“It’s not the wolves,” you whispered. “It’s you.”
His eyes darkened. “Explain.”
“The balance of nature rejects forced loyalty. You can’t build an army through blood alone.”
His jaw tightened.
“You need consent,” you said softly. “A binding ritual. Shared magic. Not compulsion.”
Klaus stepped closer, noses nearly brushing.
“And you would give me that?” he asked.
You tilted your head. “For a price.”
His hand slid to your waist — slow, deliberate.
“You are playing a very dangerous game.”
You smirked. “So are you.”
For a second, it felt like he might actually kiss you.
Or snap your neck.
Maybe both.
Instead, he whispered against your mouth:
“If you betray me…”
“I won’t,” you interrupted. “But you’ll think I will.”
His laugh was dark and low.
“You infuriate me.”
“And you crave me.”
Silence.
He didn’t deny it.