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The boarding house was silent but for the heavy sound of your breathing and the deliberate click of Stefan’s shoes on the floorboards. His eyes pinned you in place—green, dark with the kind of focus that left no room for escape. He stood before you, arms folded, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, the picture of calm control, though the tension rolling off him was anything but.

“You thought you could defy me,” Stefan said, voice velvet steel, neither raised nor hurried. “You thought I wouldn’t notice.”

Your lips parted to protest, but he silenced you with a raised hand. “No excuses.” His gaze flicked over you, lingering on the way you squirmed in the chair he’d placed you in, wrists bound loosely with his tie, ankles spread and locked by his knees braced on either side. “Tonight, you learn what disobedience earns you.”

He sank to his knees in front of you, fingers ghosting up your thighs, light as a whisper until they reached the edge of your skirt. “Punishment,” he murmured, “with pleasure sharp enough to make you regret your arrogance.”

His mouth descended slowly, lips brushing your inner thigh, the scrape of his fangs a deliberate tease. You jolted when his breath warmed over your soaked panties, your hips twitching upward instinctively. Stefan smirked against the fabric. “Already desperate, and I haven’t even started.”

With deliberate patience, he dragged your panties aside and pressed the faintest kiss to your clit. The tenderness of it burned more than cruelty. He kissed again, slow, reverent, then licked a long stripe down your slit, his tongue soft, savoring. A moan broke from your throat, needy and high.

“That’s not begging,” he said, pulling back, his lips glistening with your slick. “That’s indulgence. Punishment means restraint.”

He leaned back in, mouth closing around your clit, sucking just hard enough to make your back arch. Then—he stopped. Completely. He sat back on his heels, eyes locked on yours, his hands firm on your thighs keeping you open while your hips writhed uselessly.

“Stefan—please—” you gasped.

“Not good enough.” His voice was darker now, edged with command. “Beg like you mean it.”

You whimpered, shame and need tangling, the ropes of his control tightening invisibly around you. “Please, Stefan, I’ll do anything, just—please let me come.”

His smirk softened into something dangerous, something fond. He bent back down, this time devouring you. His tongue flicked mercilessly over your clit, his mouth sucking, worshiping, punishing all at once. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your body until you screamed, your thighs clenching around his head, bound wrists straining against the tie.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, violent, shuddering, wracking you with sobs as he licked and sucked through every convulsion. He didn’t stop—didn’t give you reprieve—his hands pinning you down, tongue relentless as he pushed you into overstimulation, tears slipping hot down your cheeks.

“Too much?” he asked when you screamed his name again, voice tight with another climax building. He kissed your thigh, gentle as a lover, before plunging back between your legs like a master punishing his wayward student. “Good. You’ll learn.”

You broke again, body shaking, pleasure and punishment blurred into one as Stefan swallowed every drop of your ruin like it belonged to him. And when you sagged against the chair, trembling, spent, his lips brushed yours in a kiss so tender it contradicted the cruelty of his discipline.

Chapter 4: Witches’ Oaths

The morning after the Founders’ Gala arrived shrouded in quiet gloom, the sort that lingered in the corners of Bennet house crept through Mystic Falls itself. The air felt thick, heavy with all that had gone unsaid. In the kitchen, Isabel moved through her routines with deliberate gentleness—filling the kettle, setting out tea, letting her presence speak comfort. Across the table, Bonnie Bennett sat rigid, her hands curled tight around a mug she hadn’t touched, shoulders drawn in against the chill of memory and regret. Sunlight struggled through rain-splattered windows, casting pale ribbons that barely brightened the mood.

Isabel poured tea, her movements soft and measured. “It’s alright if you can’t talk yet. We can work in silence, if that’s easier. Sometimes the hands know what to do before the heart does.”

Bonnie glanced up, a brittle edge to her expression. “I feel like I don’t belong anywhere right now. Like I’m drifting.”

Isabel reached across the table, her hand a warm, steadying weight. “You belong right here. Would you like to go through Emily’s spellbook? Magic can help anchor us. We can do it together.”

A long silence. Bonnie’s reply, quiet but hopeful: “Yeah. I’d like that. I just… I miss Grams so much.”

They settled together on the couch, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the glass as Isabel retrieved a stack of worn books from her sideboard. The one she placed on top—Emily Bennett’s spellbook—was wrapped in a faded ribbon, its cover scuffed with age and history. Bonnie cradled it for a moment, then opened to the first page, running her fingers over the inked script. She breathed in the scent of old paper and sage, feeling something steady inside her begin to thaw.

As Isabel read aloud, the familiar cadence of spells seemed to settle Bonnie’s nerves. Together, they turned pages filled with sigils, protective circles, half-legible notes in Sheila’s looping hand. Isabel’s voice guided Bonnie gently: “Every witch leaves a mark, Bonnie. Our choices, our restraint—that’s our true legacy.”

Bonnie’s voice wavered. “But what if anger is all I have left?”

“Then you learn to hold it without letting it rule you.” Isabel turned another page, pointing out a healing incantation. “Magic is a promise. A burden and a blessing. Power untempered can shatter, but channeled with care—it can heal.”

Bonnie fell silent, her thumb tracing the edge of the page. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still at that kitchen table with Grams—her voice in my ear, correcting my mistakes.”

For a moment, Bonnie was lost in memory—a kitchen warm with sunlight, the clatter of teacups, Sheila’s laughter filling the space as Bonnie stumbled through an incantation, only to be gently guided back by her grandmother’s patient hands. The ache of loss tightened in her chest.

As they delved deeper, Bonnie discovered a nearly hidden page folded into the spine—a sketch of a peculiar metal device. “Jonathan Gilbert,” she read aloud, her tone distant and astonished. “Emily Bennett wrote about his inventions. It says here that every one of them was spelled by Bennett witches.” The margin notes detailed how the devices functioned, and more crucially, how they could be unmade.

Isabel felt the change in the room, a new current of electricity in Bonnie’s aura. “So the device Elena’s after—it’s bound by a Bennett spell?”

Bonnie’s lips parted in realization. “Only a Bennett can break it. And Elena and the Salvatores are counting on me.”

Her confession tumbled out in fits and starts—about her Grams, about guilt, about fury at the vampires who refused to leave well enough alone. “She died trying to seal that tomb,” Bonnie whispered, voice rough. “They made a mess of everything. I want to help Elena, but I also want the vampires to pay for what they did. I want to keep her safe. I’m not sure I can do both.”

Isabel’s hand closed over Bonnie’s, her jaw tight, eyes brimming with a quiet empathy. “I’ve kept secrets for the wrong reasons before. The choices you make—sometimes, there’s no right one. The question is whether you can live with it.”

Tears spilled down Bonnie’s cheeks as she admitted her plan: “If I pretend to break the spell, the device will still work. Elena will trust me, and if the vampires try anything, it’ll stop them. But… I can’t tell her. Or anyone. Not yet.”

For a beat, Isabel’s composure slipped—her hand tightened on the spellbook, knuckles pale. “That’s a heavy secret, Bonnie. It could cost more than you expect.”

“I know. But I can’t forgive them. Not yet. Please… just promise you won’t tell.”

The old oath settled between them, heavy and binding. Isabel gave a solemn nod. “I swear, by magic and by friendship. This stays between us.”

Dusk bled into the room. Bonnie gathered her things, shoulders lighter but her eyes still stormy. At the door, she paused, looking back. “Thank you—for listening. For not judging.”

Isabel offered a gentle smile. “My door is always open. If the weight gets too much, come back. Just remember—revenge never brings the peace we want. But you have choices. Always.”

Bonnie nodded, managing a wan smile before disappearing into the evening, burdened but no longer alone.

Isabel lingered, the house settling around her in the blue hush of night. She ran her hands over the spellbooks, her mind spinning back to a century past—the Salvatore brothers’ laughter echoing in firelit halls, secrets and mischief and shared dreams. Friendship and heartbreak tangled together, forever changed by choices made in fear and love alike.

Drawing herself into the present, Isabel carried the spellbooks to the garden. Kneeling among rain-dampened herbs, she pressed her palms to the earth, whispering old words as she wove protective wards into the soil—charms for safety, for hope, for the town and for the young witches she’d promised to protect. Every knot tied and rune traced was a small rebellion against despair and division.

Later, she watched moonlight spill through the window, feeling the echo of Bonnie’s anger and courage. In the solitude, Isabel reaffirmed her promise: when the time came, she would stand between darkness and those she loved—no matter how tangled the cost. The past might haunt her, but she would not let it define the future.

As midnight swept across Mystic Falls, Isabel let herself rest at last, the weight of secrets and oaths settling around her. Two witches lay awake—each on her own uncertain path, each holding tight to hope and the power of choice.

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