Tales From The Crypt

The suite never got loud.

That was the problem.

New York didn’t do quiet like this. The silence wasn’t empty — it was coiled. Like something holding its breath just beyond the walls.

Bonnie felt it before she heard it.

Her laptop screen had dimmed minutes ago. She leaned back, eyes sliding toward the door.

Kol’s voice kept going in her ear, half-laughing through the comms.

“—I’m telling you, this isn’t encryption, it’s foreplay with extra steps—”

“Hold on,” she cut in, already rising.

The shift in the hallway wasn’t a footstep. It was heavier. More deliberate. Intention, not sound.

Behind her, Klaus’s voice came low and certain.

“You feel that too.”

Not a question.

Bonnie’s hand closed around the gun on the table.

“Stay down.”

A quiet huff of amusement answered her.

“I rarely do what I’m told.”

The door didn’t open.

It exploded inward.

Wood splintered as the assassin burst through, blade flashing once in the low light before the world narrowed to motion and instinct.

Bonnie fired.

Too close. The shot went wide as he closed the distance. The knife caught her arm on the turn, slicing hot and clean.

Pain sharpened everything.

She slammed him backward into the wall hard enough to crack the frame. The gun clattered to the floor.

They both lunged for it.

A single shot cracked through the room.

Klaus.

On his feet — barely — but his aim held steady.

The assassin staggered.

Bonnie didn’t hesitate. She ended it with two more shots, breath sawing, pulse hammering in her ears.

The body dropped.

Silence rushed back in.

Behind her, Klaus exhaled once, slow and controlled.

Then his body betrayed him.

Bonnie turned just in time to catch his weight as he folded. She staggered under it, arms locking around his torso.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up,” she said, sharper than she meant.

“And miss that?” His voice was thin, but the smirk was still there, faint and stubborn. “Unlikely.”

“Idiot.”

There was no heat in it. Only something rawer, something she didn’t want to name.

His head dropped against her shoulder, too warm, too heavy. The fever was climbing again.

That decided it.

“We’re leaving,” she said.

He didn’t argue.

“Alright,” he murmured, the word barely shaped.

The drive out of the city bled together.

Bonnie didn’t remember most of it — just the tunnel of headlights, the low hum of the engine, and the constant pressure of Klaus’s gaze on the side of her face.

He leaned against the passenger window, but his eyes weren’t on the dark rushing past. They were on her.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” he said after a long stretch of silence.

“I told them enough.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

She didn’t answer.

Her phone buzzed. Ric.

She let it ring twice before picking up.

“You haven’t checked in,” he said, voice tight. “You going off-grid on me now?”

“I handled a breach. We’re relocating.”

“That wasn’t cleared.”

“There wasn’t time for clearance.”

A beat.

“You could’ve called first.”

“I am calling.”

“That’s not what I meant, Bonnie.”

Her jaw flexed.

“I’m keeping him alive. That’s the priority.”

Silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “Just… don’t shut me out.”

Something in his tone sat wrong. Not false. Just off-balance.

“I’m not,” she said.

It didn’t feel convincing, even to her.

They hung up.

Klaus was still watching her.

“You trust him,” he observed.

“I work with him.”

A low hum. “Careful distinction.”

She glanced sideways. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Making me question everything.”

A small pause.

“No,” he said softly. “Making sure you don’t have to do it alone.”

That landed somewhere tender. She looked back at the road and didn’t reply.

But her shoulders eased, just a fraction.

The cabin was waiting when they arrived — isolated, unremarkable, far enough from everything to buy time.

Bonnie helped him inside, slower now, hyper-aware of how much of his weight she was carrying. He noticed.

“You’re adjusting,” he murmured.

“I’m compensating.”

“For me.”

“For the situation.”

A ghost of a smile. “Of course.”

Inside, the air felt thicker. Contained.

Bonnie guided him to a chair at the wooden table.

“Sit.”

He did, without protest.

That alone made her glance at him twice.

“You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

“Smart.”

“I have my moments.”

She pushed up her sleeve. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was ugly.

Klaus’s focus sharpened instantly, fever or not.

“Let me,” he said.

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can.” His voice was quiet, steady. “Let me anyway.”

There was no command in it. Just a simple, certain offer.

Bonnie hesitated, then stepped closer.

“Three minutes,” he added, reaching for the supplies. “Before whatever you plan to sedate me with kicks in.”

She met his eyes. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything about you.”

The words slipped out low, almost accidental. A faint beat passed between them.

“And I’d rather not waste it.”

His hands were surprisingly steady despite the fever. Warm. Precise. He cleaned the wound with careful, unhurried strokes, then began stitching.

Bonnie found herself watching him instead of the injury.

There was no performance here. No sharp edges or calculated charm. Just focus — and something quieter underneath.

His gaze lifted briefly to hers. Blue, clear even now. Not teasing. Not guarded.

Just… present.

“You’re very calm for someone who just fled the city under fire,” he said.

“I’m not calm.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “But you’re holding. That’s rarer.”

The words settled somewhere behind her ribs.

She looked away first.

“Focus,” she muttered.

“I am.”

He tied off the last stitch, fingers lingering a second too long against her skin before he let go.

“There. You’ll keep the scar.”

She exhaled a short breath. “Comforting.”

A faint curve touched his mouth. “Memorable.”

Bonnie reached for the syringe.

Klaus tracked the movement without pretense.

“You’re about to make me very uncooperative,” he said.

“I’m about to make sure you stop ripping your stitches.”

“Semantics.”

She stepped in closer. The space between them shrank until it felt deliberate.

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t break the look.

“This isn’t just business anymore,” he said quietly.

The words hung there, simple and undeniable.

Bonnie stilled.

“Then what is it?”

A pause. Something flickered across his face — not doubt, but consideration.

“Something I haven’t decided how to ruin yet,” he answered, the lightness undercut by truth.

It didn’t feel like a joke.

Bonnie searched his expression for a beat, then shook her head slightly, as if refusing to chase the thought further.

“Hold still.”

He did.

The needle slid in smooth. He barely flinched, just exhaled long and slow, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured as the sedation began to tug at him.

“So are you.”

A tired, almost-smile ghosted across his lips. “Occupational hazard.”

His gaze softened, the sharp edges blurring.

“You shouldn’t have chosen me,” he said, voice fading.

“I chose the situation.”

He didn’t argue. Just watched her a moment longer, something unreadable and gentle in his eyes.

“Of course you did.”

But the way he said it sounded like he knew better.

His eyes lingered, then slowly drifted shut.

The knock came minutes later.

Bonnie stepped back from Klaus before crossing to the door.

Elijah stood on the threshold, composed as always, a sleek case in his hand. His eyes moved past her — taking in the sedated Klaus, the blood on the table, the too-close space she’d just occupied.

He absorbed it all without a flicker of surprise.

“You were attacked,” he said evenly.

“Yes.”

He stepped inside, setting the case down. “Antibiotics. And a few other things you may need.”

Bonnie nodded, moving toward the supplies.

“You got here fast.”

“I was already concerned.”

Klaus shifted faintly on the chair behind her, barely conscious.

Elijah’s gaze flicked to his brother, then returned to Bonnie. For a fraction of a second, something deeper moved behind his calm expression — awareness, perhaps. Not judgment. Not even surprise.

Just recognition.

“You handled it,” he said.

“I did what I had to.”

A small, knowing pause.

The penthouse wasn't just a home; it was a gilded cage with a five-star view of a city that currently wanted Bonnie’s head on a platter.

She had traded her gala silk for something deceptively simple: a slim-fit black turtleneck and charcoal trousers. Following Ric’s orders, she’d left her service weapon in the lockbox at the office. He wanted her "soft" for this stage of the play—a civilian paramour, not a soldier. Without the familiar weight of the holster at the small of her back, she felt dangerously light. Exposed.

The elevator doors slid open, and she was immediately hit by the scent of expensive lilies and the sound of someone being threatened.

“If you put me in another floral print, I will burn your atelier to the ground with you inside it!” Rebekah’s voice rang out from the terrace. She marched into the living room, trailing a terrified-looking tailor. She stopped dead when she saw Bonnie. Her blue eyes swept over Bonnie’s plain outfit with a mix of pity and fascination.

“Finally,” Rebekah sighed, waving the tailor away. “The girl of the hour. I was starting to think Nik had imagined you.”

“Hardly,” Bonnie said, clutching her medical bag.

Rebekah stepped into her space, circling her like a shark. “You’re smaller than I expected. But you have a spine. I saw the footage from the gala—most people run away from the gunfire. You ran toward my brother. That’s either very brave or exceptionally stupid.”

“I’m an analyst, Rebekah. We’re trained to move toward the data.”

Rebekah laughed, a bright, jagged sound. “Data? Is that what we’re calling him now? Careful, Bonnie. In this family, 'data' has a habit of biting back.”

“Leave the girl alone, Bekah,” a new voice chimed in.

Kol was sprawled on a velvet sofa, a laptop on his knees and a stolen Interpol file sitting casually on the cushion next to him. Bonnie’s heart skipped—that was her file.

“You shouldn't have that,” Bonnie said, stepping toward him.

Kol smirked, his dark eyes glittering with mischief. “And you shouldn't be so easy to hack. Honestly, darling, your agency’s encryption is a joke. I’ve found more interesting things in your browser history than in your personnel file.” He tossed the file onto the coffee table. “I like her, Nik! She’s got that ‘I might poison your coffee’ look about her.”

“She’s quite capable of it, I assure you,” Elijah’s voice cut through the room.

Elijah stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking at a tablet. When he turned, his presence silenced the room. He walked toward Bonnie, his formal movements making the modern penthouse feel like a royal court.

“Bonnie,” he said, his voice a low, respectful baritone. “A debt to the Mikaelsons is a heavy thing, Bonnie. But a debt to me? That is a luxury few have ever possessed. If you should ever find yourself in a position where the agency turns its back on you... you have but to ask.”

Bonnie felt the weight of it. A blank check from the moral compass of the world’s most dangerous family. “I’ll keep that in my back pocket,” she said softly.

“Elijah!” Klaus’s voice barked from the bedroom. “If you’re done flirting with my nurse, I’d like to discuss the security breach in Marseilles!”

Inside the bedroom, Klaus had migrated from the bed to a leather armchair. He was dressed in a pair of silk trousers and a black shirt left open, revealing the heavy bandaging across his ribs. He was sketching—a charcoal drawing of Bonnie at the gala, the lines jagged and intense.

“You look comfortable,” Bonnie noted, setting the medical tray down.

“I’m miserable,” he corrected, though his eyes brightened as they raked over her. He went still, his gaze lingering on her hip. “You’re unarmed.”

“Orders from Ric,” she said, stepping between his knees to check the dressing. “He wants me to look the part.”

Klaus let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached out, his hand coming up to rest on her hip, his palm flat against the fabric of her trousers. Without the gun there, his touch was direct—warm and possessive.

“He’s sent you into a den of wolves without a silver bullet. Bold of him. Or perhaps he simply knows I wouldn't let anyone touch a hair on your head.”

Bonnie ignored the comment, focusing on the wound. As she worked, the silence grew heavy, the air thick with the scent of his bourbon and the heat radiating off his skin.

“You saved my life, Bonnie,” he said, his voice suddenly losing its sharp edge. It was quiet, grounded, almost vulnerable. “My family... they’re a lot to handle. But they’re only here because of you. I don't give thanks often. Usually, I just pay people off. But you...”

He reached up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch lingered on the shell of her ear, sending a jolt through her.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Bonnie froze, her hands still resting against his chest. She looked up, caught in the gravity of his blue-green eyes. For a second, the "cover" and the "assignment" vanished. It was just them.

Then, the corner of his mouth quirked into that signature, devastating smirk. He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek.

“Though, I must say, love... you’re lucky I’m currently in recovery,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a wicked, suggestive rasp. “If I weren't taped up like a Christmas hamper, I wouldn't be nearly this well-behaved while you’re hovering over me.”

Bonnie’s face went hot. She shoved a pill bottle into his hand with more force than necessary. “Take your medicine, Klaus. Clearly, the blood loss has made you delusional.”

“Delusional?” He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “I’ve never been more clear-headed in my life.”

Bonnie picked up her tray, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “I’m leaving. Try to stay in the chair for five minutes without starting a war.”

Klaus watched her walk toward the door, the smirk never leaving his face. “No promises, Bonnie! The world is watching—we have a reputation to uphold!”

Enzo closed the office door, the click sounding like a hammer falling on an empty chamber.

“You’re being positioned,” he said, his voice dropping into that warning register he saved for her.

Bonnie didn’t look up from her tablet, her thumb scrolling through encrypted manifests. “I’m being assigned, Enzo. There’s a difference.”

“By Ric? The man treats the board like a chessboard and you’re his favorite knight.”

“That’s how hierarchy works. I follow the move.”

“He requested you for the Mikaelson file specifically.”

Now she looked up, her green eyes sharp enough to cut. “And?”

“And he knows we have history.”

Her expression cooled into a mask of professional indifference. “We had coffee and bad timing, Enzo. Let’s not rewrite the past into a tragedy.”

“We had more than that,” he countered, stepping into her space.

Bonnie stood, her chair scraping the floor. “If this is about you being uncomfortable seeing me in the field with a target—”

“It’s about you being used.”

The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized.

“Ric wants proximity,” Enzo continued, his voice low and urgent. “The Mikaelsons are a fortress of secrets, and you’re the cleanest access point to Klaus. He thinks your... disposition will open doors.”

“I’m not bait.”

“No,” Enzo said quietly, his gaze softening with a pity she hated. “You’re leverage. And Klaus Mikaelson doesn't respect leverage. He breaks it.”

A flicker of doubt passed through her—a ghost of a shudder—gone as quickly as it arrived. “Ric wouldn’t risk an asset.”

Enzo held her gaze, his hand on the doorknob. “You’re assuming you’re the asset, Bonnie. In this play? You might just be the sacrifice.”

The gala glittered with the kind of decadence that felt like an insult.

Black tie. Gold masks. Champagne bubbles rising through the room like gilded currency. A string quartet played a frantic, minor-key arrangement that sounded less like Vivaldi and more like a threat.

Bonnie adjusted her silk mask as she entered. It felt like a second skin, cold and impersonal.

She felt him before she saw him—a shift in the room’s gravity, a sudden spike in the atmospheric pressure.

Klaus stood near the center of the ballroom, a predator in a bespoke suit. His dark jacket was cut sharp enough to bleed, his gold half-mask framing eyes that were already locked onto hers. He didn’t move immediately; he was a man who understood the power of the hunt. He let her cross the room, let her feel the weight of every eye in the gallery, before he stepped into her path.

It was seamless. One moment she was walking; the next, she was caught in his orbit.

“You’re late,” he murmured. His voice was a low vibration that skipped down her spine.

“I like to make an entrance, Niklaus. I thought you’d appreciate the drama.”

His gaze moved slowly over her—deliberate, appreciative, and entirely devoid of subtlety. It lingered on the curve of her throat before returning to her eyes. “You’ve succeeded. Though I suspect you’d stand out even in a shroud.”

“And you’re hosting,” she said, ignoring the heat blooming in her cheeks.

“I’m acquiring,” he corrected.

“Same difference in your world.”

A faint dimple appeared, a flash of boyish charm that didn't reach his lethal eyes. He reached up—slowly, giving her every chance to flinch away—and adjusted the edge of her mask. His knuckles grazed her temple, a spark of static electricity that made her breath hitch.

“Careful, Bonnie,” he said quietly. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re scanning exits. Your pulse is thrumming against your throat like a trapped bird.”

She exhaled, forcing her shoulders to drop. “Occupational hazard. I don't like crowded rooms.”

Across the room, Enzo stood near the security perimeter, a dark shadow against the marble. He was watching them. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were burning. Nearby, Elijah drifted between investors, the calm center of a storm, composed and terrifying.

The music swelled, the violins screaming toward a crescendo.

And then—the world tilted.

A man in a black mask moved wrong. Too direct. Too focused. A predator breaking cover.

Bonnie’s pulse spiked. It wasn't a bird; it was an alarm.

“Klaus—”

The gun cleared the fabric of a waiter’s jacket.

The shot cracked through the air, a violent punctuation mark that shattered crystal and silenced the strings.

Klaus moved—a blur of instinct—but the shooter was close. The bullet tore through the air, grazing his side.

Gasps. Screams. The rhythmic tinkle of falling glass.

Elijah was already a streak of motion, intercepting the shooter with a precision that was more mechanical than human. Enzo tackled a panicked socialite out of the line of fire, his hand already reaching for his own weapon as he signaled the security team.

Bonnie didn't think. She caught Klaus's arm before he could stumble, her fingers digging into the expensive wool of his sleeve.

“Walk,” she said, her voice a jagged command.

“I am walking, love,” he replied, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone.

Blood was already darkening the side of his jacket, a deep, blooming crimson against the black. She didn’t ask for permission. She maneuvered him down a side corridor, slipping past heavy velvet drapes and through a set of mahogany doors into a private gallery office.

The chaos of the ballroom dulled to a distant, muffled echo.

She locked the door. The silence in the room was sudden and suffocating.

“Let me see.”

“It’s a scratch, Bonnie. Nothing more.”

“Don’t,” she snapped, pointing to a leather chair. “Sit.”

He met her eyes, a dangerous glint in his pupils, then he gave a sharp, pained huff and unbuttoned the jacket.

The bullet had gouged a path along his ribs. It wasn't fatal, but it was angry—raw, weeping red against his pale skin. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she peeled the ruined silk of his shirt away from the wound.

“Hold still.”

“I am perfectly still. You, however, are trembling.”

“You’re bleeding on imported silk, Klaus. Forgive me if I’m worried about the dry cleaning bill.”

He let out a dry, raspy laugh that turned into a hiss of pain when she pressed a clean linen handkerchief to the wound.

Her fingers were warm. She was close—so close she could smell the iron of his blood mixed with the scent of sandalwood and expensive bourbon.

“You hesitated,” he said quietly.

She didn't look up, focusing entirely on the task of stemming the flow. “I assessed the situation. There’s a difference.”

“You were afraid.”

“Yes.” The admission hung in the air, heavy and honest.

“And you still moved,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “You stepped into the line of fire for a 'variable'.”

Her hands stilled for a heartbeat. “Don’t make it something it’s not, Klaus.”

“And what is it?”

She tied the makeshift bandage tight—tighter than necessary—hearing him intake a sharp breath. “It’s me doing my job. You’re the file. I protect the file.”

He studied her face now, ignoring the room, the shooter, and the threat outside. He was looking at her like she was the only mystery worth solving in the building.

“You didn’t move for the file,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You didn't move for the room. You moved for me.”

Her breath faltered. Her hands were still resting on his ribs, the heat of his skin seeping into her palms. She realized it, felt the intimacy of the contact, but she didn't pull away. Not yet.

“I don’t like variables,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Am I a variable, Bonnie? Or am I the problem you can't bring yourself to solve?”

A faint dimple appeared as he looked down at her hand. Her thumb had brushed the edge of the bandage—a ghost of a caress she hadn't intended.

“Does it frighten you?” he asked.

“What?”

“That you cared if I lived.”

The silence stretched, thin and fragile. She stepped back first, the cold air of the room rushing in to fill the space between them.

“You’re stable,” she said, her professional mask sliding back into place.

A heavy knock hit the door.

“Elijah,” came the calm, melodic voice through the wood. “The room is secured. The threat has been neutralized.”

Enzo’s voice followed, sharper and laced with an edge Bonnie recognized all too well. “The shooter is in custody. Bonnie? Open the door.”

Bonnie moved toward the lock, but Klaus’s hand shot out, catching her wrist. He wasn't forceful, but the contact was electric.

“Stay,” he murmured. It wasn't a command. It was a plea.

For a fraction of a second, the "sacrifice" Enzo warned her about felt like a choice she was willing to make.

Then she twisted her wrist free, the silk of her sleeve sliding against his skin.

“Try not to get shot again,” she said, her voice steadying. “It’s bad for the upholstery.”

The warehouse smelled like oil, damp concrete, and impatience.

Bonnie adjusted her grip and didn’t wait for the signal.

“Interpol!” she called — and the room erupted.

A crate splintered near her shoulder. She dropped, rolled, fired twice. Clean. Controlled. One man went down clutching his thigh. Another scrambled for the side exit and caught her sweep to the knee before she disarmed him with a sharp twist and a hard shove into the ground.

The third tried to reach for the duffel.

She kicked it out of reach.

“Don’t,” she warned.

By the time backup burst through the doors, it was finished.

Enzo stepped into the wreckage, gaze sweeping the scene, then landing on her.

“You couldn’t wait ten minutes?”

“They were about to move product,” she replied, ejecting the magazine and reloading with steady hands.

“You don’t get to freelance.”

“I didn’t freelance. I prevented.”

His jaw flexed. Not angry. Not impressed.

Concerned.

“You’re not invincible.”

Her mouth tightened. “Did I say I was?”

A beat lingered too long between them. Too familiar. Too personal.

He lowered his voice. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

The sting was small but sharp. She had once liked him. Once cared what he thought. The memory annoyed her more than the reprimand.

“I don’t prove,” she said coolly. “I execute.”

She walked past him before he could soften it further.

⸻

Across town, Klaus read the report twice.

“She eliminated the Vienna pipeline herself,” he murmured.

Elijah closed the tablet. “Interpol will not appreciate the theatrics.”

“They appreciate results,” Klaus replied.

“Not when the results complicate surveillance.”

A pause.

“Elaborate,” Klaus said.

“Elaborate?” Elijah echoed. “Esther checked in again this morning. Our father is consolidating. If Interpol starts tightening its leash on her, we lose flexibility.”

Klaus leaned back, lighting a cigarette.

“And the siblings?”

“Rebekah is restless. Kol refuses to answer encrypted calls unless it amuses him. If we’re returning home to face Mikeal, we cannot do so divided.”

Klaus exhaled smoke slowly.

“We will go home,” he said. “But not before everything is positioned.”

“And Bonnie?” Elijah asked.

Klaus’s expression didn’t change.

“She’s not ours to position.”

But his eyes lingered on the report.

⸻

Bonnie didn’t call ahead.

She walked into the gallery like she belonged there.

“Mr. Mikaelson?” she asked the attendant.

“In the back.”

She expected Klaus.

She found Elijah.

Sleeves rolled. Jacket gone. Cigarette between his fingers. The polished edge softened.

“You look like you’ve had a day,” he observed.

“So have you.”

He offered the cigarette without flourish.

She considered it.

Declined.

“They’ll review the body cams,” he said. “They won’t like that you moved first.”

“They never do.”

He studied her — not judgmental, not indulgent. Just present.

“You don’t hesitate,” he said.

“Should I?”

“No,” he answered evenly. “But you should consider who watches when you don’t.”

The door at the front of the gallery opened.

Klaus entered without announcement.

His gaze found her immediately. Then Elijah. Then the distance between them.

“Well,” he drawled softly, “this is cozy.”

Elijah didn’t rise to it. “She’s aware of the Vienna outcome.”

Klaus’s attention shifted back to Bonnie.

“You dismantled a ring,” he said.

“I did.”

“You didn’t call for support.”

“I didn’t need it.”

She held his gaze. “You disapprove?”

Klaus stepped closer.

Not touching. Just enough.

“I don’t like other men aiming guns at what’s in my orbit,” he said evenly.

“I’m not in your orbit.”

“No,” he agreed. “You move like you don’t expect anyone to be waiting for you to come back.”

Silence pressed in.

“Waiting gets people killed,” she said.

“And dying solves nothing.”

Elijah crushed out his cigarette. “I’ll let you continue.”

The door shut behind him.

Klaus studied her — the faint tension in her shoulders, the adrenaline still humming under her skin.

“You walked in alone,” he said quietly.

“I handled it.”

“I know.”

That lingered.

“You calculate success,” he continued. “Not return.”

Her jaw tightened. “Is that criticism?”

“It’s observation.”

A beat.

“You don’t expect to be missed.”

The words landed without force, and somehow hit harder.

She looked away first.

“I don’t structure my life around hypotheticals.”

His hand braced against the desk beside her. Not touching. Close.

“You are not expendable.”

No theatrics. No softness.

Just fact.

She met his eyes again.

“For someone who claims not to be territorial,” she murmured, “you sound territorial.”

A faint dimple surfaced.

“I don’t claim territory.”

His gaze moved over her once. Deliberate.

“I protect what’s valuable.”

The air shifted.

Too close.

Too aware.

She stepped back.

“Esther’s moving,” she said, steady again. “Interpol’s chatter picked up. If she’s checking in, Mikeal isn’t far behind.”

Klaus’s expression hardened.

“And when he surfaces?” she asked.

“We go home,” he replied.

A flicker passed between them — not fear. Recognition.

“Then you’d better make sure your siblings are ready,” she said.

“Rebekah will be,” he answered. “Kol will pretend not to be.”

“And you?”

A faint smile.

“I’m always ready.”

She moved toward the exit.

“Try coming back in one piece,” he said.

She paused.

“Try not to worry.”

The door closed behind her.

Klaus stood still a moment longer.