the bayou was too quiet, the kind of heavy, humid stillness that pressed against your skin like a damp wool blanket. the celebration for the crescent pack was in full swing behind you, the crackle of the bonfire and the rhythmic thumping of drums fading into the background as you stepped into the shadows of the cypress trees. moss draped from the branches like tattered lace, obscuring the moonlight.

you smoothed the fabric of your dress over your hips, the silk cool against your curves, but your heart was anything but calm. jackson’s words were still ringing in your ears. promises of stability, of a crown, of a life that made sense. he was the tether you needed, the man who saw you as a queen to be protected.

"you look particularly radiant tonight, little wolf. though i suspect the festive atmosphere isn't quite enough to drown out the sound of your own doubts."

the voice was low, laced with a familiar, melodic british lilt that made the hair on your arms stand up. klaus stepped out from behind a massive oak, his dark blond curls caught in a stray beam of light. he looked rugged, dangerous, and entirely out of place in the rustic swamp, wearing his leather jacket like armor. his blue-green eyes scanned you with a predatory intensity that jackson could never hope to match.

"go away, klaus," you muttered, though you didn't move. "this is a family matter. i'm supposed to be celebrating."

klaus stepped closer, his presence commanding and suffocating all at once. he stopped just inches from you, the scent of expensive bourbon and something metallic clinging to him. he tilted his head, a slow, mocking smirk pulling at his lips.

"family? i’m the father of your niece, which makes us practically kin," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. "and as kin, i feel it’s my duty to point out that you look bored to tears by a man who treats you like a porcelain doll when we both know you're the blade."

you looked up at him, your breath hitching. he didn't look at you with the careful softness jackson did; he looked at you like you were something powerful, something volatile.

"jackson is the right choice," you said, though the words felt thin.

"is he?" klaus reached out, his hand hovering near your waist, never quite touching but radiating heat. "tell me, love, does the 'right choice' always feel this much like a prison sentence? or are you simply afraid that if you look at me for too long, you’ll realize you'd rather burn the kingdom down than rule it with him?"