The music from Mystic Grill echoed all the way into the parking lot behind the building, mixing with loud laughter and conversations from people far too drunk to notice how strange things happened around them almost every night. The party was still going strong, but for a while now you had started feeling like you couldn’t breathe in there anymore. Too many people. Too many scents. Too much noise.

So you stepped outside through the back entrance, hoping for a few minutes of silence.

The night was cold, damp after a light rain, and the city lights reflected faintly against the wet asphalt. You rested your hands against the cold railing near the stairs and took a deep breath, trying to calm the exhaustion pulsing inside your head.

And then you felt the cold.

Not ordinary cold wind. Something heavier. Deeper. The kind that crawled over your skin like instinct instead of temperature.

A second later a strong hand closed lightly around your wrist.

A shiver ran down your entire spine instantly.

Power.

Massive. Ancient. Dangerous.

You turned your head sharply and saw him.

Klaus Mikaelson stood right behind you with that calm, almost amused expression of his, as if appearing out of nowhere and terrifying people was completely normal for him. Elegant coat, hands partly tucked into his pockets, and that familiar gleam in his eyes that looked far more like a warning than flirtation.

“Easy, love. If I wanted to hurt you, you’d already be dead in this parking lot,” he said calmly, the slight British accent only making his confidence more unsettling.

He didn’t let go of your wrist immediately.

Quite the opposite — his thumb slowly brushed across your skin as if testing your reaction while he studied you with something strangely interested in his gaze.

“And yet you came out here alone…” he murmured more quietly. “Brave… or terribly reckless. I still haven’t decided which one I like more.”