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Nighttime in New Orleans had a way of feeling alive — humid air, distant music, the low hum of a city that refused to sleep. But inside the Mikaelson compound, the silence was suffocating.
You knew something was wrong before you even reached her door.
There were no screams.
No crashing furniture.
Just a terrible, trembling quiet.
“Aurora?” you called softly, pushing the door open.
The room was dark except for a single lamp on the floor, its shade cracked, light spilling sideways across the walls. Shadows stretched long and distorted, swallowing corners whole.
She stood in the far end of the room.
Still. Too still.
Blood streaked her hands.
Your stomach dropped.
“Aurora…”
Her head turned slowly.
Her eyes were wrong.
Not the bright, theatrical fury she wore like a crown. Not her playful madness. This was something hollow. Dissociated. Like she wasn’t entirely inside herself.
“Don’t come closer,” she said quietly.
You froze.
“What happened?”
Her lips trembled. “I don’t know.”
Your gaze flicked to the deep gouges carved into the wall, the splintered dresser, the broken picture frames scattered like fallen leaves.
“Aurora, talk to me.”
“I told you not to come closer.”
Her voice cracked — not angry, not threatening.
Terrified.
But you stepped forward anyway.
Her hand shot out faster than sight.
One moment you were walking toward her, the next your back slammed into the wall, her arm braced beside your head, fingers digging into plaster. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.
Her face hovered inches from yours.
Fangs down.
Eyes blazing gold.
You could feel the predator in her — ancient, starving, uncontrollable.
Your pulse hammered so loudly you were certain she could hear it.
She inhaled sharply.
Her body jerked like she’d touched something burning.
“Go,” she rasped. “Go now. Please.”
You didn’t move.
Her hand slid from the wall to your throat — not squeezing, just resting there, trembling violently.
“So fragile,” she whispered, horrified. “I could break you without meaning to.”
Her thumb brushed your pulse.
Her eyes squeezed shut like the sensation hurt.
“Why did you come here?” she choked. “Why would you come to me when I am like this?”
“Because you’re hurting,” you said softly.
Her grip tightened involuntarily.
Pain sparked at your throat.
She gasped and recoiled as if she’d stabbed you, stumbling backward so fast she nearly fell.
“I nearly—” Her voice shattered. “I nearly killed you.”
You rubbed your neck, wincing, but stepped toward her again.
She shook her head violently.
“No. No, no, no. Stay back. I cannot control it. I cannot control myself.”
Her hands clawed at her hair, dragging through the pale strands, shaking harder and harder.
“Everyone leaves when they see this part,” she said, voice dissolving into panic. “Everyone runs. They should.”
You stopped only when you were right in front of her.
She looked up at you like you were a ghost.
“Why are you still here?” she whispered.
Instead of answering, you reached out slowly — giving her time to stop you, to move away.
She didn’t.
Your arms wrapped around her.
For a heartbeat, she went completely rigid.
Then she started shaking.
Not the elegant trembling of someone trying to maintain composure. Not theatrical sobbing.
Full-body, uncontrollable shaking — like something inside her was splintering apart.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped into your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Shh,” you murmured, holding her tighter. “You didn’t hurt me.”
“I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
Her hands gripped your clothes desperately, clutching fistfuls of fabric like you might disappear.
“You should hate me,” she said weakly.
“I don’t.”
“You should fear me.”
“I don’t.”
A broken sound escaped her — something between a sob and disbelief.
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered. “I have given you every reason to run.”
You rested your cheek against her hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing hitched violently.
“Don’t,” she whispered, voice barely there. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it.”
She pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy, mascara smeared faintly beneath them — not that she’d ever admit to crying.
“I am not… safe,” she said. “Not for you.”
You cupped her face gently.
“You’re safe with me.”
Her lips parted, stunned, like no one had ever said those words to her before.
Her lower lip trembled.
“I am so tired,” she confessed in a whisper. “So tired of fighting myself.”
“I know.”
Another tremor ran through her, but weaker this time. Exhaustion replacing chaos.
Slowly, cautiously, she leaned into your touch.
Like a wounded animal testing whether kindness was real.
Her forehead rested against yours.
“You stayed,” she breathed. “You saw the worst of me… and you stayed.”
“Of course I did.”
A long pause.
Then, almost shyly — a version of Aurora de Martel the world never saw —
“May I…?” she asked softly.
You nodded.
She leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
Her lips brushed yours in the gentlest kiss imaginable — tentative, reverent, like she was afraid you might shatter beneath the contact.
Not hunger.
Not possession.
Relief.
When she pulled back, her eyes searched your face anxiously.
“You’re still here,” she said, almost in awe.
“I told you.”
Her hands slid up to hold your wrists lightly, grounding herself.
“Then… please,” she whispered, voice fragile in a way that would destroy anyone who heard it. “Don’t leave me in the dark.”
You kissed her again, soft and certain.
“I won’t.”
This time, when she leaned into you, the shaking didn’t return.