The Long Dark
The house smelled of dust and old wood and, underneath both, of him. Elena stood in the doorway of the upstairs room she had not meant to enter, hands still on the banister, and felt the familiar pull in her chest — not hunger, not yet, just the awareness of him that lived in her like a second pulse now. Damon was on the bed, shirt unbuttoned to the waist, cleaning a wound on his forearm with a rag that was going to be ruined anyway. He did not look up.
"You're blocking the door."
"Was going to say goodnight."
"Goodnight."
"You said goodnight."
"I said goodnight."
"Stay."
She stayed. He looked up then, dark eyes, slow smile, and the smile did what it always did: took a piece of her and kept it somewhere she could not reach for. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, careful of her skirt, careful of nothing else.
"Anna's journal," he said. "Page forty-one."
"I've read it."
"Read it again."
"The blood remembers what the mind forgets."
"Yeah."
"You keep doing that."
"Doing what."
"Quoting her at me."
"She was smarter than both of us."
"She was wrong about some things."
"Which?"
"That we'd end up like this."
"Like what."
"This."
He set the rag down. Rolled his sleeve back up, slow, deliberate, the way he did everything when he wanted her to watch. The wound was already closed — it had been closed for minutes; he had been cleaning it for her, for the audience of one.
"Elena."
"Mm."
"Take your shoes off."
"Damon."
"Your shoes."
"They're not even uncomfortable."
"Take them."
She took them off. He reached over and took her skirt up with two fingers at the hem, then let it fall, then took it up again, slower, like a man weighing whether to make a bet. His hand came under the fabric once, brief, almost nothing, and she went very still because she was not ready to be honest about how long she had been waiting for exactly that.
"Jesus."
"You're shaking."
"Cold in here."
"It's ninety-two degrees outside."
"Vampire houses run cold."
"Vampire houses run cold," he agreed, and pulled her off the edge of the bed.
She went over against him, back against his chest, his arm around her waist, and the room turned into a smaller thing, and she could feel the temperature of him through both shirts, steady as a stove. He pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, below her ear, and did not bite, not yet, just held his lips there, breathing slow heat into the spot where the pulse ran.
"Okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah"
"Again?"
"Okay"
"You sure?"
"Mhmm"
"Are you sure? "
"Yeah " She said quietly.
"I'll ask again, are you sure?"
"Yes"
"Good girl"
"Damon"
"Mmm"
"Don't call me that."
"Good girl."
"I will end you."
"Promise."
His teeth found the pulse at last, shallow, then deeper, and she arched into it with a sound she did not recognize as her own, her fingers in his hair, holding him the way you hold a railing on stairs that have gone too steep. He drank slow, measured, the way he did everything — taking exactly enough, counting every drop, and she understood in her body, before her mind caught up, that he was rationing himself, keeping himself from swallowing her whole, keeping the door open between them.
"Elena."
"Mm."
"Turn around."
"Why."
"Because."
"Damon."
"Turn."
She turned, back to him, and felt him behind her, full length, forehead to the small of her back, and his hands came up around her waist, slow, thumbs drawing once, twice, along the seam where skin met cotton. She felt herself come apart in stages, like a house going quiet floor by floor.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
"Again?"
"Okay."
"You sure."
"Yes."
"Good girl."
"—"
"Hush."
Afterward, they lay tangled in the dust and the dark, her head on his shoulder, his fingers still in her hair, slow, idle, counting nothing. The streetlight outside moved across the ceiling in its patient arc.
"Elena."
"Mm."
"Page forty-one."
"I know."
"The blood remembers."
"The blood remembers."
"What does it remember."
She was quiet for a while. The light moved on.
"This." she said.
"Yeah." he said.
"Yeah."
