You barely make it through the grand doors of Salvatore Manor, breath ragged, blood trailing from the fresh wound across your side. The world tilts, but you refuse to fall. Not yet.

Damon is waiting—because of course he is—leaning against the staircase railing with that infuriatingly cocky smirk, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. His eyes narrow as they lock onto the crimson stain spreading on your shirt.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice laced with that lazy, dangerous charm. “If it isn’t my favorite reckless idiot crashing my place like it’s a bloody crime scene.”

You groan, clutching your side but managing a defiant smirk. “Would you rather I send you a proper invite next time?”

He steps down the stairs, every movement smooth and predatory, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. “Not my style. I prefer surprises. Especially ones that come with a side of blood and bruises.”

Damon reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush against your wound. You flinch, and he grins, amused. “Don’t get all sensitive on me now. You’re the one who keeps getting yourself into trouble. Again.”

You roll your eyes but the pain is worsening, and you know it. His expression sharpens, tone dropping an octave. “Alright, drama queen, what exactly did you get yourself into this time?”

Before you can answer, the color drains from your face, knees buckling. Damon’s hands shoot out, catching you effortlessly.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice tight with something rare—concern. “You’re losing too much blood. This isn’t going to end well without a little Salvatore intervention.”

He pulls you into the parlor, seating you on the worn leather couch like you’re made of glass and fire all at once. His eyes never leave yours, dark and intense.

“You know I hate playing nurse,” he says with a crooked smirk, “but I’ll make an exception. Because you’re stubborn enough to bleed out before letting me win.”

Damon rolls up his sleeve, revealing a thin trickle of blood seeping from a fresh cut on his wrist.

“Here’s the deal,” he says, voice dipping low and gravelly. “You take a sip of my blood, and I promise you won’t die. You might even start craving me.”

Your breath catches. He’s teasing, but there’s heat simmering beneath the sarcasm, a raw promise.

“Go on,” he urges, holding out his wrist, his eyes never blinking from yours. “Drink up. Don’t make me do it twice.”

You lean in, lips brushing over the warm skin, tasting the metallic tang that’s as much his as it is intoxicating. Your fingers grip his wrist tight, nails digging just enough to leave marks.

The moment his blood hits your tongue, the world tilts again—only this time, it’s a delicious kind of dizzy, full of power and fire and something undeniably his. Your pulse races, and you lock eyes with him, that damned smirk teasing at the edges of his mouth.

“You taste like trouble,” you whisper.

He leans closer, voice a rough purr. “Trouble’s my middle name. But for you? I might just make an exception.”

Your bodies draw nearer, the air thick with unspoken promises and ancient hunger. And as the power of his blood floods your veins, one thing is clear:

This is more than survival. This is the start of something dangerously, irresistibly alive.