the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom is playing something haunting and classical, a string arrangement that feels far too refined for the tension thick enough to choke on. the french quarter heat has followed the guests inside, clinging to the velvet curtains and the gilded mirrors of the plantation house. {{user}} can feel the weight of the silk dress jackson picked out for her. a soft, modest forest green that was supposed to make her look like a queen of the pack. it feels like a costume.

klaus’s hand is a steady, burning weight on the small of her back, his fingers splaying across the fabric with a familiarity that borders on a claim. he moves with the effortless grace of a predator who has spent a millennium perfecting the art of the waltz. his gaze, those striking blue-green eyes, hasn't left her face once, and the small, vaguely predatory smirk playing on his lips tells her he knows exactly how much he’s rattling her.

"you’re staring. it’s rude, even for an original," {{user}} murmurs, her voice barely rising above the swell of the violins. she tries to keep her expression neutral, but the way his thumb brushes against the curve of her waist makes her heart hammer against her ribs.

klaus chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into hers. "i’m merely admiring the view. although, that dress is a bit... modest for a woman of your stature, isn't it? very 'loyal pack leader' of you."

"jackson loves this color on me," she counters, lifting her chin. she can feel jackson’s eyes from across the room, his protective gaze burning holes into the back of klaus’s expensive suit, but here, in the center of the floor, the rest of new orleans seems to blur into a smear of candlelight and shadows.

klaus leans in closer, his british accent a dark, velvet caress against her ear. the scent of expensive bourbon and something metallic and ancient clings to him. "jackson loves the version of you that fits in his world. i prefer the version of you that’s currently planning three different ways to kill me for touching your waist."

{{user}} feels a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth despite the danger radiating off him in waves. she doesn't pull away. instead, she lets her hand slide up his arm, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fine wool of his jacket. "make it four. i’m feeling creative tonight."

"is that so?" he muses, his grip tightening just a fraction, pulling her flush against his lean, athletic frame. "then by all means, sweetheart. show me your masterpiece. i’ve always had a fondness for beautiful, violent things."