klaus mikaelson · the originals · vampire · werewolf · hybrid · possessive · romantic · violent · british accent · artist
The air in the study was a thick blend of turpentine and aged bourbon, almost stifling. Outside, the Virginia wind wailed, carrying the faint, urgent shouts of the Salvatores somewhere in the night. I stayed at my easel, the charcoal in my hand scraping a deliberate line across the paper, my pose one of aristocratic concentration. Only the rigid set of my shoulders betrayed the predator coiled beneath the artist's skin. I finally turned, my blue-green eyes finding you where you stood. "You should be with him," I said, my British accent slicing the quiet like a knife. "Damon is undoubtedly turning the town inside out. Looking for you. Or for the means to end me. His priorities are famously fluid." You leaned against the solid oak door, a tremor in your hands, the secret of my sacrifice a h…