So I've been working on this story for a LONG time. This wasn't even meant to be a Damon/Elena story – in fact it was meant to be something I was going to put in the Writers' Society anthology. But that piece could only be 1,000 words and, well, I've written approximately 30,000 words (in fact it was going to be a one-shot but it was WAY too long, even for my one-shots). I hated cutting it down, so in the end I gave up. A little while later the idea was still in my head, and I thought it would be a good D/E story. So, here we are.
I love this story. Honestly, I really do. BUT that being said, it is unlike my other stories. It is very dark (seriously) especially this first part. I hope people like this story and don't find it horrifying. I don't think it's TOO bad, but I think the writer can't really judge how their own work will be perceived.
So with that in mind, I hope you give this story a read and hopefully won't be put off so you will continue reading the next two instalments.
Thanks in advance. Enjoy!
This is an AU story.
WARNING: This story is not like my usual stories. It is DARK and there are multiple RAPE scenes in this story. There is also multiple swearing and large amounts of sexual language and actions too. If you feel you cannot cope with this than I would advise you not to read this story. You have been warned.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Vampire Diaries or any of the characters
The smoke itches down her throat, forcing her awake. The second she opens her eyes she can feel the thick air surrounding, like a hand pressing down upon her. She pushes herself upwards, but the very effort of the action drives the remaining air out of her lungs. Instantly she goes to the door, scrambling towards it. It's too hot though; the second she touches the metal handle it burns her.
She thinks fast – because in this world, you have to. She goes to the other side of the room towards the window and pushes it open. She glances down at the ground below her. Too far, a voice in her head hisses, but before she can be swayed she climbs out the window and begins to move down the side. The house is cold and wet from the fallen snow, and it only takes a few seconds before she loses her grip and falls to the ground.
For a moment she lies flat in the cold snow. She doesn't feel it though; she's in shock. Her brown eyes rise up to the house, the smoke behind it like a sinister halo. She can't think of moving, of running; she only thinks that the house that she grew up in, her sanctuary, is going up in flames.
She stands up on shaky feet. There aren't that many valuable things in the house – but that depends on what you say is priceless. There are videos, photographs of her mother and father and brother, videos, clothes that she and mother brought together, books that her father had read to her, toys that she and her brother had fought over... All of that is now burning in her house.
She is debating about rushing back in; she takes a step forward, even though she doesn't know what she would do. But then a voice comes from behind her: "I wouldn't go back in there if I were you."
She stops. She knows who's behind her – well, not the exact person, but the thing that has done this.
She knows she's as good as dead.
He first spots her in the street – a happy accident. She's walking, her eyes unfocused. She's clearly deep in thought, barely noticing the people around her. She doesn't notice him watching her.
He doesn't know why he's drawn to her. Maybe it's because she looks lost, out of place – like him. Only no one else notices him. He blends in after years of practice. People look at him, yes, but not in fear; in admiration for his good looks and his obvious wealth. When he shoots a smile at a girl they are more likely to faint that to walk up to him. People notice this girl but not in admiration. Perhaps some boys spare her an appreciative glance. But most know her back story, the sadly spun tale of a girl who lost her family.
He doesn't know it. Not until he follows her to her house, with the GILBERT mailbox on the side that he gets it. The Gilbert killing is widely known by vampires in this area.
Maybe that's why, when she's asleep (fitfully) he watches her through the window. If he could get in there himself he would have drained her of her blood long ago. The desire for her is killing him. Usually he can control himself; if someone is bleeding in front of him his eyes won't change; he will be able to turn away.
But Elena Gilbert... The mere smell of her perfume, the sound of her heartbeat, causes his fangs to protrude. He has never felt such an urge to drink from a human since the first few years he was a vampire, and even then it was never this strong. He can barely stop himself from grabbing her and draining her when he first sees her. There is something about this girl that makes Damon desire her more than he has any human.
He knows better than to kidnap her. Besides, she spends days on end in her house, which is enough to make him suspicious. Humans who know about vampires stay close to their home, knowing that it's the one thing that they can't find a loop-hole for.
He watches from the shadows as the fire begins to spread. He has a little worry kindling inside him that she will die in the fire. He pushes it aside though. She won't die. This girl is strong, he knew it from the second he clapped eyes on her. Sure enough he watches her climb from the house. Okay, the landing was crap, but you have to give her ten out of ten for bravery and effort.
When she turns to him, her features are stiff with fear. He tilts his head, amused. Of course. She's a Gilbert; she'll know about vampires.
They stare at each other for a few moments. The crackling fire is the only noise. Even the animals in the forest nearby are silent witnesses.
Then she runs.
She begins to sprint away from him. Not back to the house though. He's not sure where she's going, but he makes sure she doesn't get far. In a flash he is in front of her. She careens to a halt, slipping and sliding but making sure that she doesn't touch him. She falls in the snow for the second time.
With deliberate slowness he bends down beside her. Her eyes are wide and her breathing has sped up, but she doesn't back away. Brave girl. "Do you know what I am?"
He doesn't expect her to speak, but she finds an answer. The spit lands on his cheek, thankfully not in his eyes. He closes them, partly in annoyance and partly in disbelief. He wipes the spit off his cheek and returns his gaze to the girl. She is still looking at him, this time with a little more courage.
It is gone the second he slaps her.
He uses a little bit of his supernatural strength, just to make sure it hurt. She falls flat on the ground, her face pressed against the cold snow. She doesn't move this time.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says. He moves his eyes over her body. She must see this because she shudders. But it's not her body he's looking at (though he must admit, it is very beautiful, especially when she is wearing too-small pyjamas). He's found the source of her vervain. It's coming from the necklace round her neck. Of course – who goes to bed with a necklace on? He fingers the chain before moving down to the pendant. The second his skin touches it his hand stings in pain. He yanks it back for a moment, breathing hard. But it's not like he wasn't expecting it. With her eyes still dead ahead, he swiftly grabs the necklace and pulls it off her neck. It is thrown far, so far that the girl will not be able to retrieve it.
As the pain on his hand ebbs he looks back at her. She is shivering, and he doesn't think it's due to the cold. A smirk appears on his face. He moves his hand so that he's touching her cheek. She flinches, as if the mere touch causes pain. His smirk widens.
Carefully he grabs her chin and turns her so that her eyes are looking at him. Bending closer he notes the colour of them. Dark brown, almost black. He wonders if she is really as good as she appears, or if her eyes leak the darkness inside of her. He doubts it; she'll be as sweet as pie, and hopefully taste even better.
"You belong to me," he says. He feels his eyes buzz from the compulsion.
"I belong to you," she repeats in a monotone voice.
Satisfied he takes her hand and pulls her upwards. She doesn't like him touching her, he can tell. She doesn't want to be with him. But now she has no choice. "Follow me," he informs her. He turns and starts walking back to the where the car is parked. Sure enough he hears her soft footsteps behind him. He smiles to himself. It's just too easy.
Famous last words.
At the last second she changes direction. Turning he watches as she sprints towards the forest, momentarily disappearing in the shadows of the trees. For a second he stands there, stupefied.
Of course. She must drink vervain too.
She can't stop. Any second wasted is a second taking her closer to her death. The branches catch her as if pulling her back to him – the vampire – but she fights them. Her feet, cold and sore from the snow and ice, slow her down and she curses for not grabbing some shoes before climbing out the window.
She slips, naturally, sliding back into the snow. She almost bursts into tears. He'll find her. He'll find her and feed on her until she's dead, just like her brother and her parents. She vowed she wouldn't let a vampire kill her, and yet surely he will succeed.
Lifting her head, she takes in her surroundings. The air in her throat catches when she sees a fallen branch just a little further away. Of course. How could she be so stupid?
She scrambles to the branch. Once in her arms she feels secure, like a warrior who has been given a sword. She stands, gazing at the branch like it is made from gold.
"Seriously?" She draws a breath of surprise as she whirls round, coming face to face with the vampire. She can't see his face in the dark – it seems even the moon is against her tonight – but she can hear the evil smile on his face. She watches his profile move closer to her. "You're going to try to kill me...with that?"
Elena stands poised, ready to stab. He watches her for a moment, and then she hears a low chuckle from his throat. "I must admit, I'm surprised. I didn't think you would wear and drink vervain." He gives a small shrug. "Still, makes it even more entertaining." He moves closer to her.
She takes a chance: without thinking she shoots forward, branch in hand. It all happens too quickly for her though; she hears a giant crack, and suddenly she's in his arms. His hands hold onto her arms, right on her elbows. They grip her so hard she can't even bend them. Eyes scanning, she sees the branch on the floor, broken in two.
Stupid, she thinks. I should have kept running.
"Now," he says, his voice as sweet as honey but nowhere near as good for her. "Are we done?"
She lifts her gaze. He's got her so close to him that she can see the colour of his eyes. They're ice cold blue, and Elena has a feeling that his soul is exactly like that too.
"Not even close," she informs him.
She doesn't expect his grin, lighting up his face. "Good," he says. "I hate being bored."
God, she's feisty. He's had her in his possession for less than five minutes and she's already made an escape attempt and tried to kill him.
He hasn't had this much fun in a while.
He takes her into his car. She fights him the entire way, her hair flying through the air as she swings her arms at him. It's almost too easy though; she only succeeds in tiring herself out. He shoves her in the car and slams the door; a second later he's in the front seat and the doors are locked, so when she tries the door it refuses to budge.
Damon starts the car. "I can catch you, y'know," he informs her. She doesn't reply, just keeps attempting the open the door. "Put your seatbelt on." When she doesn't comply he feels justified when he shoves her head into the glass. She falls against it, unconscious.
He straps her in, touching her now that she can't fight him. Her skin is a little darker than average, warm and smooth. Finger on her temple, he feels the blood moving through her veins. He desperately wants a drink; wants to plunge his teeth into her skin, feel the sweet relief of blood slipping down his throat. But he knows that doing that now would be suicide; she has vervain in her system. Best wait until he's certain it's out of her.
It doesn't take him long to drive back to his home. It's a large, red-bricked house. Really it should be owned by a family, but Damon bought it for himself. Plenty of room for him and his...guests. He slips out the car and carries the girl out with him. A bruise is already forming on the side of her head, but she still groans. He stills, standing outside, waiting to see if she'll wake up. A thousand emotions flutter across her face before she settles again. He watches her for an extra moment before moving into the house.
The second he steps through the door a woman – girl, really – comes through to greet him. "You're back Mr Salvatore," she says. Her face has a smile on it, her eyes shining. "It's good to see you."
He doesn't enter into the conversation. She's compelled; she doesn't need conversation. She's here to serve him and only him. "Did you get the guest bedroom ready?" he asks her, making his way to the stairs.
The girl nods. "It's all ready Mr Salvatore," she answers.
"Good. Bring some water up to the bedroom, please." He hears her reply but doesn't focus on it. He has two girls to serve him, tidying the house and providing blood when he needs it. Not that he'll need them for a little while. He's got this girl to play with.
A dull ache resonates from her head. Every time she tries to move her head, it throbs. She feels strange, like she's on an airplane and her stomach's not quite well. She shifts in her sleep and the second she moves her feet they scream in pain. It wakes her properly, and she opens her eyes, trying and failing to sit up again.
The room is spacious: there is a desk and a row of shelves on the wall. On the other side there is a window. The curtains are open and Elena can see that its night. The moon peeks out from behind a cloud, as if shy. The bed is large enough for another person; it's an old-fashioned bed, with a dark wood head and bottom.
Her feet are at the bottom of the bed. They have no choice: a chain is wound round one of the prongs at the end of the bed and attaches itself to both her feet. Bemused and feeling fear descend, she tries to move them, but every time she brings one foot further up the bed it pulls the other further down.
Panic fills her body. She puts her hands to the chain. The metal is cold and stiff; no matter how hard she tugs she can't pull it apart. After a few minutes of pulling does it dawn on her that she is not alone.
She turns her head and quite simply, there he is; her captor. He's leaning against the doorframe of where she assumes is the bathroom, watching her. His expression doesn't seem fearsome though. If anything it's indifferent.
She waits for him to say something. Instead he moves towards her. She moves to the other side of the bed, honestly terrified now. It's bad; she can't escape him, not right this second. That's all he needs to hurt her. But he doesn't move to her face, to her neck, but to the bottom of the bed. Instead he sits at the bottom and brings her feet to him. She wonders if that's where he'll start, drinking her body from her foot first and then moving up to her arm and then her neck.
Instead he puts them in his lap and puts a medical kit on the bed. She hadn't seen it in his hand (she had been too focused on his mouth). She watches as he takes out a bandage and begins to wrap it round one foot, then the other. She doesn't like to think that he is being tender, but he doesn't hurt her. She didn't notice how bad her feet were: there are cuts all over them and they are practically blue. He rubs something into a particularly bad cut. It stings, but she won't let him know that.
"You were stupid to run," he says abruptly. His eyes are still on his task; he doesn't look at her.
She is feeling a little braver. He's looking after her, so he can't be all bad. She expected him to have tortured her by now: teasing her, taunting her. So she says, "What choice did I have?"
He raises his gaze, and she notes how the playful lit has gone. He's cold eyes are serious. "You could have come willingly."
She snorts. She pauses for a few moments before saying, "I know what you are."
The corner of his mouth lifts up. She immediately looks to his eyes, and sure enough they are teasing again. But it isn't the fun games that she and her brother used to play; it's dark, and inwardly she shudders. "I know."
"So I know what you want with me." She sits straighter, trying to seem strong. She keeps her head lifted and keeps contact with his eyes, even though it feels as if each second she looks at him he is burning her, melting her from inside out. "I have vervain in my system-"
"Don't insult my intelligence," he says. He doesn't snap, but there is muted anger in his tone. "I knew you had vervain as soon as you tried to run after I compelled you."
She narrows her gaze. "Then I guess you know that if you try to drink from me you'll be weakened by my blood. Why keep me?"
He finishes bandaging her feet. Placing them aside he disappears and reappears again, right in front of her. She recoils, but he doesn't harm in; in fact he's holding a glass of water. He hands it to her and she takes it, unsure what else to do. She isn't particularly thirsty – or rather, she wasn't until she saw it. Suddenly all she can think about is taking a drink. But it looks foggy and she doesn't trust it – him. As she eyes this she can feel his gaze on her. "If you don't drink," he says, "I will force it down your throat." His voice is soft and seductive, but in a way that makes his words all the more terrifying.
She raises her face. "What's in it?"
"Painkillers," he answers tightly. "For your feet." He waits, watching her. She squirms under his gaze, hating him and vampires in general. She can't resist though. Her feet aren't very painful and she's sure that as long as she doesn't walk on them (as if I could!) they should be fine. But her head is killing her. With resignation she takes a sip and begins to drink, gulping it greedily. Even though it doesn't taste very nice it makes her feel better instantly.
As soon as she's done he's there, taking the glass from her and placing it on the bedside table. "Time for bed," he announces, like he's her father or something. Just thinking about her father makes her heart clench and her hate increase tenfold. He goes to the wardrobe and pulls out some blankets. He pulls them over her, confusing her even more. Why does he care? Why is he acting this way?
She notices then, as he lifts the sheets over her, that she isn't in her pyjamas. She's wearing a grey sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, the fleece kind. They comforting and warm on her skin, but how did they get on her?
Or rather who put them on her?
He switches the light off before she can ask – or even think about asking. The world is brought into darkness and she can now only see his figure again. She pulls the sheets closer to her. Little good it does; he bends down, and for one crazy moment she thinks he's going to kiss her. But instead he puts his mouth to her ear.
"You're here because I'm bored; you're here because I'd already burnt down your house and I thought I might as well see what I started through; and you're here because the vervain will be out of your system by tomorrow evening." He pauses; she can hear her speeding heartbeat. "Maybe by lunch." He chuckles at the joke and heads out the room.
"Who are you?" Elena calls. She doesn't know why she wants to know; maybe it's because she wants to know who to curse during the night.
He doesn't pause. "Damon," he answers before the door is closed, trapping her in the room.
She fights sleep for as long as she can, but her body is exhausted and she is now pretty sure that he – Damon now – gave her sedatives. She sleeps dreamlessly for once, and when she wakes up the sun is pouring in the room like a painting. She jolts up when she realises that he has been watching her.
He's standing by the window. When she wakes up he smiles, but it's the smile of a shark. "Sleep well?" he asks.
She bites back a snarl and sits up, giving the chains another jerk. Her feet are aching, but not too badly. She will probably be able to walk on them without it hurting so much. Damon moves forward and unlocks the chain around her feet. She pulls her legs up to her body instantly, like a caged animal: nervous and protective.
Damon reacts as if he hasn't seen. "You can use the bathroom," he says, going to the chest of drawers. Resting his arm against it, he smiles again, but Elena notes how his eyes don't light up. "I'll wait."
Elena is hesitant, but the second he's suggested it she's desperate to go to the bathroom. She glances at him, and once again she finds him staring at her. She hates it, the way he gazes at her, as if he's trying to get under his skin. And yes, he is.
She hides in the bathroom. Closing the door she hurriedly uses the toilet. Once done she stares at her reflection in the mirror, not at all anxious to give up her freedom just yet. She has little doubt that he will chain her up again, and so she needs to think of an escape plan. She puts both taps on and ducks down to the cabinet. She is surprised that the bathroom is filled with items such as a toothbrush and shampoo – normal things.
Things like a shaver.
She doesn't know how long she stares at it. Slowly she picks it up, running her finger against the blade. It doesn't hurt but if she pushed hard enough...
It's not for Damon. That's the crazy thing. It's for her. Just in case.
When she stands, she wishes she'd already used it.
She catches Damon's reflection in the mirror. A gasp escapes her and she whirls round, blade still in hand. She's forgotten how truly terrified she is of him when he looks at her like that: his eyes are shroud in angry fire; her face is like a thundercloud waiting to break. She waits for the blow to come.
Instead she feels his hand cover her wrist and lift it. Again her imagination wanders, thinking that he's going to bite her. He tries to take the shaver out her hand, but Elena tightens her grip on it. He sends her a heated look before beginning to peel her hand open, one finger at a time.
When the shaver is out of her hand he carefully puts it on the sink. Grip still on her wrist, his sudden yank takes her by surprise. "What are you?" he asks her through gritted teeth. "Stupid?"
"Fuck you," Elena snarls.
As a response he throws her on the bed. Despite the softness it hurts, and she bites back a groan. He must use his supernatural speed because her legs are chained back together. This time though she is on her stomach, and so she can't turn over.
"I'll be back," she hears Damon promise, a taunt. She can hear – feel – the fury in his tone, and it sends a shiver down her spine. She hears the door open a close, once again leaving her alone with nothing in her stomach but fear.
He's going to kill someone, and for once it's not planned. He's angry though, and the way he's driving he's sure he'll hit someone. He needs to get out the house though, needs to keep up the pretence of being normal – and after the fire at the Gilbert house, that essential.
Once parked, he rests in the car for a moment. For a few seconds he simply stares down at the steering wheel. With a sudden movement he punches it so hard the horn gives a beep and people glance over.
He leans against the seat, closing his eyes. He forces himself to take deep, calming breaths. He can't explain why he's so furious; why he wants to find a brick wall and punch it, because punching something soft like a pillow just wouldn't give him satisfaction.
She was going to kill herself.
It's stupid, it's confused, it makes no sense – but he thought she was tougher than that. Finding out that she isn't, well... That just disappoints him.
Throughout the day Elena waits for him to make good on his threat. It's all she can do; she can't even sit up because she's forced to lie on her front. A maid brings her food though, which she manages to have a few weak bites of. At first she tries to get help from the girl, but after her responses (and a bite mark on her neck) it becomes apparent that the girl is compelled. She'll be no help.
Elena waits. Dinner comes and goes and she's even allowed to use the bathroom (supervised of course) and still Damon doesn't return. Night falls and he's still not back. Elena begins to feel a little safer. Maybe he won't be back tonight. Maybe he won't drink her blood yet. Maybe – by miracle of miracles – the vervain will still be in her system.
She begins drifting off, the tension in her body causing her exhaustion, when she hears the door open and close. Immediately she is alert. She forces herself to breathe normally, so Damon will think she is asleep and perhaps leave her alone.
Instead she feels him touch her chains. A loud cling echoes through the room; he's broken them away from her feet. When she doesn't move, she hears his voice – which doesn't even attempt to be charming – command, "Get up."
She doesn't have time to weigh the pros and cons before she is roughly jerked upwards. Her body, already stiff from being in that position for so long, shoots with pain, but Elena will be damned if she lets him know how much it hurts.
He lifts her face to his. He's so close to her, she can feel his breath on her skin. Her legs want to buckle but his grip keeps her straight. He looks into her face, his eyes bearing down on hers. "You can't leave the inside of this house without my permission."
Unwilling Elena repeats the sentence, and dread fills her stomach that she wishes she hadn't eaten the little she had. It vervain is out of her body. He can do anything to her.
He stares at her for a moment longer before releasing her. He goes to the window and flings it open. The cold air comes through, but Elena is eager to feel it. She hasn't been outside in over twenty four hours. She's done that before, but the thing is, it was her choice.
He turns back to her. "Stick your hand out the window," he says. "If you can, I'll let you go."
She can't. Elena already knows the compulsion has worked its magic, and that she won't be able to. She stands there, begging her frozen mind to communicate some plan, some way to get out of this.
She waits too long. The window is slammed down and Damon steps in front of it, bringing the room into darkness. But she can still see the grin on his voice and the light in his eyes. His voice, it's eager; "It seems the vervain has gone."
Elena begins to back away from him. "You don't know that," she says, but her heart is hammering and she knows that it's a dead giveaway. "There could still be-"
"Nice try." He steps closer to her. His muscles are tight, and she is reminded of a panther ready to pounce. "But I think you protest too much."
He comes at her. She moves back, but it's not fast enough. She feels his teeth sink into her. The pain spreads through her neck, on her right side. She doesn't mean to, but she screams.
It doesn't stop him.
Oh Lord, how sweet her blood is. At the first taste Damon is caught, and for a minute he is blissfully lost in it. It's like no blood he has tasted before, and he has lived for over a hundred years. It's strange, but he doesn't mull it over for too long.
What is even stranger though is that the taste – his need for the blood, this blood – dies almost instantly. It goes after a minute or so.
Another desire grows. Perhaps it was always there, hiding, and only now is it hitting him full force.
So he drains her, just enough so that she's nearly unconscious – enough so she can't fight him – and then he puts her down on the bed, tears off her clothes, pulls her legs apart, and pushes his dick into her.
She cries out. He doesn't know if it's because she can feel him or if she's too far gone to know what's happening. He doesn't think about it too much. He moves inside her, faster and faster, his body lost in a dance of desire before he is finally released. He gives a gasp when he's done and she – eyes closed – moans.
He takes himself out of her and falls down on the bed. His heart is speeding away like a train. He can't catch his breath. He doesn't know whether it's because the sex was so good or because she didn't want him, and that made him want her all the more.
Elena wakes up in pain again. It's the sunlight that has woken her, and when she opens her eyes she moves her hand to block it from her eyes. She's sore. It hurts everywhere, especially near her neck. Her hand goes to the sore area and what she feels disturbs her. Looking down she sees it: the dry blood, the teeth marks that have punctured her skin.
Then she remembers: him coming towards her, biting her, screaming and fighting until she felt too weak to even keep her eyes open. And then, a dream she thinks, vague flashes of being on the bed, her clothes pulled off her body, and then pain...
Tears fill her eyes as it comes back to her. Her hand goes to her mouth and she wants to cry out, but she doesn't.
She's right not to, because on the bed next to her is her captor; her rapist.
His head is turned towards her, but his eyes are closed and his breathing is even. He appears to be in blissful sleep, and Elena isn't going to be the one to bring him out of it. Carefully and very, very slowly – even though everything in her body is screaming at her to run – she gets off the bed. She presses her lips together to stop herself from moaning. The area between her legs is sore and painful, and even taking a step sends shoots of pain down there.
She doesn't have a plan. All she knows is that she needs to get out. She knows he's compelled her to stay inside the house, but she'll find a way out. There must be. She can't stay here.
By the time she gets the door she has nearly collapsed from pain and fear. Holding her breath she takes the door handle and turns it, inching the door forward little by little.
Slam! The door is pushed closed and Elena falls back a little from surprise. It causes more pain and she cries out this time, though that could be the shock as well. She nearly hits the floor but hands catch her. His hands.
"I don't think you have any reason to be leaving this bedroom," his soft voice murmurs, too close to her ear. "Not quite yet."
He turns her around so she's facing the bedroom again. Elena fights though, and somehow she manages to get out of his grasp. She whirls round to look at him. His bottom half is naked but he's still wearing his shirt, and some leftover pride strikes her. He couldn't be bothered to take it off? But her disloyal eyes fall below the shirt, and her heart skips a beat when she realises it's hard.
Oh God no.
"Stay away from me!" she cries. She tries to keep looking at him, but her eyes dart back and forth, searching for a weapon. The shaver – can she make it-?
In a flash he's in front of her. She hasn't moved to the bed – she doesn't think she can look at it without the memories rushing back to her. Instead she's against the desk. He grabs her – no, don't touch me with those hands! – and turns her round. Facing away, she cannot see his expression, whether it is indifferent or eager and he places his hand between her legs and begins to make room –
"No, please, stop." She is sobbing, trying to fight him. But it's not enough, he's too strong. He pushes her against the desk so hard that it's digging into her stomach. He spreads her legs wide enough and with a well-aimed shove –
She feels it this time; she's too awake. She feels the blunt force of his dick as he pushes himself inside her. It hurts, God it hurts and she grips the desk even tighter when her legs feel too weak to keep her up. He moves, he is moving inside her and it doesn't feel right. He's in her body – he's part of her body, but she can't control it and she can't stop it. He's controlling her body. It's not hers anymore.
His lips move to her ear, and once again that soft voice is in her ear. "You're mine now," he whispers. With each word he jerks, shoving himself further into her. "You do as I say." A few moments, and then a sharp nip on her ear. "Answer me," he commands.
Words escape her. The will to fight leaves her, is brought down like the Berlin wall as he moves further into her. She doesn't know how, but she hears herself say, "I'm yours now. I do as you say."
She feels his lips on her neck. She flinches but this time they are soft. "Good girl," he murmurs. He reaches his hand to her breast and strokes it, up and down. "Good girl."
She doesn't know how long this goes on. Time seems to have no existence anymore. She picks a spot on the wall and keeps her eyes on it as he moves in her. His breathing becomes faster, more laboured, and she can sense that he's finishing.
There's a knock on the door and Elena hears a voice which seems somewhere at the other end of a tunnel. "Am I interrupting?"
"No Sarah," Damon answers. He can barely get his words out. "Run Elena a bath please." There is a note of satisfaction in his voice when he adds, "She'll be needing one."
Fresh tears come down, this time from humiliation. The girl – Sarah – has come in, has watched as Damon – cunt – has...forced himself upon her and he doesn't even have the decency to be ashamed. He just lets her stride in and start the bath while she is being defiled.
Once Sarah has left Elena hears Damon let out a final groan and she feels it then, the release inside her. The thought of it inside her, a part of him deep in her that she can't get out, makes her feel incredibly weak. He moves away and without him holding her up she falls to the floor, too sick and too stunned to stop herself.
She doesn't look at Damon as he dresses. She can hear him moving and feel the weight of his gaze on her as he changes. Then footsteps and he's coming back towards her. Elena can't move from fear, her heart hammering – please no, not again, please God no – and she even thinks she'll faint when he stops. She closes her eyes.
A kiss is placed on the temple of her head. It's gentle, but far from being sweet, it feels like a brand mark; he's reminding her that he owns her. She belongs to him.
"Go take a bath," she hears him say. He runs his hand down her hair. "I'll clear up in here."
He watches as she goes into the bathroom and locks the door. Surely she must know he can break through it if he wanted to? That at any moment he could enter? That no matter where she is, he can find her. He always will.
He's amazed at how good the sex is. He's never felt this type of need for someone, at least not sexually. He loves how she tries to fight him. It amuses him, that she thinks he'll stop if she asks. He adores it, the struggle. What's even better is when he forces her into domination.
He straightens up the bedroom and gives instructions to Sarah. He has to leave soon, for a meeting with some local vampires. How the hell he's going to get through the next twelve hours he doesn't know.
As soon as she's in the bathroom, she goes for the shaver. She isn't surprised to find that it has gone, but only when she feels despair sinking in she realises how much she depended on it. She sinks down to the floor and let's tears fall, finally giving in to terror and sadness.
She goes in the bath in the end. She doesn't dare refuse him. After seeing what he can do – what he's capable of – she will do what he says, and he told her to take a bath. It feels good though, the warm water against the soreness between her legs.
She scrubs hard down there. It aches but she wants to be clean of him. There is blood there, between her legs, and it stings when she washes herself, but she doesn't know any other way. She won't have him down there. The very thought of him being there, inside her, where she can't reach, is killing her.
She does throw up in the end. Her stomach heaves and when she finally collapses beside the toilet she is sweating. Her entire body is shutting down. Or maybe that's not the right word. Maybe her body doesn't belong to her anymore. It's Damon's property now.
When she finally comes out of the bathroom (she's hidden in there for three hours) Sarah is waiting for her. The little maid beams at her, and at that moment Elena hates her, curses her for being so pathetically stupid, even though it's not her fault. "I have breakfast for you," she says, gesturing to the tray placed on the bedside table. "And Damon left you this. He said you would have wanted something to wear."
She leaves Elena in the room. She looks to the bed. Placed on it is a nightgown. It's nearly white with only the barest hint of pink, shimmering in the sunlight.
Of course. He wants his property to look nice.
As much as she doesn't want to wear it, she slips it over her body. She has nothing else. Truth is, she'd rather walk around wearing something he's given her than walk around naked.
He comes back, once again late at night. She was expecting him, but even so... She grips the sheets tightly with her hands and buries her face into the pillow, so maybe he will think that she's sleeping and will leave her.
She hears rustling; suddenly he's on the bed, on top of her. She stifles a gasp of surprise which makes him laugh, though to be honest she's not really surprised. She's scared.
Finally she moves her face upwards. Even through the darkness she can see his eyes, the cool ice. There's no warmth in them. Of course there isn't. He's a vampire.
He holds his hand out. With some hesitation she gives him her arm. Perhaps she wouldn't have been so willing to have him drain her blood if she hadn't know what else he could do – something much worse.
He takes it, and she feels the teeth go into her wrist. It's more painful this time. She gasps and out of habit tries to pull away. He increases his hold and after a few moments of struggle Elena turns away, giving in.
She's learning lately that he always wins.
It must only be half a minute when he pulls away. Elena – despite everything – doesn't understand. Surely he wants to drain her? Surely this was the whole point of her being here?
Why does it not feel that way?
"Sweet," he says. He takes her hand, moving it behind his head. Her fingers run through his hair, and for one moment – maybe it's her mind needing an escape – she is taken by how soft it is. Smooth, clean and short. Once upon a time she liked guys with hair like this. Before they became rapists. "But that's not what I want."
She fights. Her legs were tucked underneath her body, but he's determined. With both hands and superior strength he pulls them forward, tucks them under his arms and moves towards her. She cries out. Now she can't remember what she said exactly, but she remembers that she begged. She remembers that he ignores her. She remembers, all too vividly, the feeling of him entering her. She knows why he wanted her to wear the nightgown now – all he has to do is lift it up. Once again pain reigns. He's raped her too often; she's sore now. She needs a break, and the hope that she's getting one is fading. He seems to enjoy raping her more than he likes feeding from her.
She cries then. She doesn't care that he sees. It doesn't stop him again. She feels him inside her, slowly taking her body from her and moulding it into something of his own creation.
It becomes routine. She loses how many nights he comes into her room – they all blur together as one long, excruciating memory, one she wishes she could forget. Every night he enters her bedroom (not her bedroom; it's his room) and forces himself inside her without excuse or apology.
The first few nights – maybe it's a week; hell, maybe it's two – she cries every time he rapes her. He must get tired of it pretty quickly, because now he flips her onto her stomach instead. She prefers it that way really. She doesn't have to worry about him seeing her expression. Then again, she feels his hands move through her hair often, and sometimes he reaches in front and nips her breast with his fingers to cause more movement from her hips.
One thing that confuses her: he's stopped feeding off her. He only fed from her the first nights. After that when she offers him her arm he simply moves it so it's on his neck, focussing on another task altogether.
Now he finishes inside her (she can feel the hot liquid inside her, and it churns her stomach) and rolls to the other side. He falls asleep pretty quickly. Elena's always grateful for that. Sometimes he's still awake, and when he is he plays with her body, touching her hair and stroking her breasts. Cautiously she gets up from the bed. She's right to be wary; at first any small movement she made was liable to wake him up, and then he would bring her towards him and...well, you know the rest.
She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. A second later she is by the toilet seat, dry heaving into it. The first few nights she couldn't stop herself from throwing up. Now it seems Damon has finally gained control of her body, because she's not being sick anymore.
When she comes out the bathroom he is awake. She can tell by the shape of his body. His head is up and, through the light of the window, she sees him reach out a hand.
"Come here," he says simply, and Elena's own traitorous hand slips into his.
It's Beth that tells him Elena's not eating. Damon's in his bedroom when she informs him of this. It's the third day in a row now, and Damon knows he's got to do something. He dismisses Beth and goes, stopping to glance in the mirror. He's smoothes his hair down a little, and on second thought rustles it. For some reason he's nervous.
He doesn't bother knocking when he enters her room, but he doesn't speed in either. He walks through the door and then casually leans against the drawers. When he comes in Elena glances up, sees him, and tucks her legs underneath her body.
In the daylight he sees her properly: she's pale, and way too skinny. She was when Damon first saw her, but now her collarbone is very visible. There are dark circles underneath her eyes. And the second wave of guilt hits him. The first was one of the first few times he had sex with her, glancing down and seeing her crying. For some reason it struck a chord in him. From now on he flips her on her stomach when he has sex with her, because he doesn't have to look at her face.
"Any requests for your next meal?" He puts a smile on his face, despite the fact he doesn't feel it. "Steak and chips? A hot dog? Ice cream?"
"No thanks," Elena says faintly. He's not sure what she was answering no to – all three?
"Cause, y'know, you're not eating." He stands straight, but Elena doesn't say anything. She's lying on the bed. Despite the fact she doesn't do anything during the day except have a bath, she looks exhausted. Damon wonders how much sleep she's getting. How can he not know this?
With a weighted sigh he moves to the bed. She tenses and he ignores it. He sits on the side and moves his hand to her head, stroking the top of it. To his surprise she doesn't cry. Good. Maybe she's getting used to him now.
"Elena," he says (the first time he says her name; it sends a tingle through his body), "you need to eat."
She seems to mould herself in a ball. "No," she says. There is a sliver more strength in her voice this time.
"You'll die." Elena's voice maybe stronger, but Damon can feel his patience running low. He won't allow her to die. He refuses. He gotten too used to her – to having sex every day. It's an addiction by now. No one can replace her, he's beginning to realise that.
She faces him, and for the first time in a long while he sees the power in her eyes, the girl she once was. "No," she replies. Resolute, she turns away from him.
He feels it snap then. In speed even he's impressed with, he grabs her hair as he bites into his wrist. Before Elena can even acknowledge what's happening his cut wrist is against her mouth and the blood is flooding down her throat. Eyes widen; she grips his arm but is unable to move it. He waits until he's sure she's swallowed some before taking his wrist away. She crawls further up the bed, coughing and wiping her mouth.
He pauses, waiting for her to get her breath back, before going for her again. She fights him, but he only takes her chin so she's looking at him. "I've just given you some of my blood," he informs her. "Do you know what that means?"
Her lip trembles. "Yes."
He releases her, satisfied. Standing he straightens himself, pulling his shirt straight. He's back: his cool, detached self again. Glancing back at her he says, "You should take better care of your body."
He's leaving when he hears her answer back. "Don't you mean your body?" she snaps.
He stills by the doorway. When he turns back at her, his face is expressionless. "Then I command you to take care of it."
He doesn't really think about it: he sends Beth and Sarah out the kitchen and stares at the stove. He hasn't cooked for decades. Okay, maybe that's exaggerating. Even he sometimes fancies messing about in the kitchen. But he's always cooked for himself. Not for anyone else. For some reason this makes him nervous, and hundred year old recipes that he's perfected over the years suddenly don't seem to be good enough. What's with him today? He's second guessing himself, something he hasn't done in nearly a century. Since when did he care what other people thought?
You mean since when do you care about what she thinks?
He pushes that to the back of his head. He's just having an off day. That's all.
It takes him a while, but eventually he's pleased with the final product. He's made pasta, his own meat and tomato sauce with basil sprinkled over the top. It smells heavenly, and even he – the drinker of blood – gives it a taste. He closes his eyes and he's back in Italy, when he was little, watching his grandfather make this very pasta. Everything was brighter then: things were more certain; he knew then that he was going to live and then die, that some things didn't change.
Now the days are the same colour, a bland grey, blending into one after another...
Until Elena came along, that is.
Sarah takes it up to her and Damon waits in the kitchen, flipping through a book he might fancy reading. Half an hour goes by and Sarah brings the plate back down again. He makes himself act casual as he glances upwards. His heart defies him when it gives a leap of joy to see the plate practically clean.
He knows she probably ate because she didn't want to become a vampire. Yet a small part of him kindles awake after a long sleep (later he defines this as hope) thinking that maybe she ate it all because she actually liked it.
Another night of torture: Elena turns away as he enters. She hears him changing and notes how he takes his time. It's as if he wants to make it longer for her, play with his toy a little more. She doesn't even have death as an escape option now.
All too quickly he's on the bed. He touches her body, running his hands over her skin. This time he lifts the nightgown completely off her body. Sometimes he does this. Sometimes he likes to look at her body for a while before he rapes her. She thinks he likes to look at his prize, his property, stroke and touch and play with it a little before he actually does what he came to do. She presses her face against the pillow. She can't watch him look at her. When he does this his eyes are shining with greed, like a spoilt child. It makes her feel sick.
He's predictable now. When he skims his fingers down her leg she knows what he wants her to do. Inwardly she gives a humourless laugh. He's taken his time, hasn't he? Carefully trained his little whore to know his tells. She does as he bids her, separating her legs as if curtains are parting, paper is being unwrapped to reveal the present underneath it. She no longer fights him. She's learnt that it's pointless, only prolonging her pain.
He falls asleep quickly afterwards, but Elena can't. She lies as straight as a board under the sheets, her hands turned into fists. She feels dirty. She can no longer look at her body any more without feeling sick. After all, this is what made him want her.
Queasiness pools in the pit of her stomach as the sun begins to rise. It's become routine for Damon to have her in the morning now too. Apparently raping her at night isn't enough for him. Sure enough she feels him stir beside him. Sleepily he fingers her hair before flipping her on her stomach like a pancake. This morning he is harsher than usually: he enters her harder so she cries out. She tries not to yell anymore, sometimes biting her lip so hard it bleeds a little. She gets the feeling that he enjoys making her scream. He goes faster, pushing further into her. His hands are clutching her hips, using that to help him move. She stretches her hands out, grabbing the headboard. It hurts again. The area between her legs is constantly sore now, though it seems to becoming less painful. Even so, it's been a while since he's been this rough.
When he's done he falls to the other side of the bed. She waits for a moment or two before she slowly pulls up legs up, curling in a ball. She's probably bleeding again. Surely this can't be how sex is meant to be? Surely it isn't this painful, this dreaded? People looked forward to this. Most people anyway.
She doesn't realise she's crying again until Damon wipes a tear from her eye. She flinches from his touch (she hates it when he touches her with his hands, hands that have pinned her to the bed when she's been fighting, slipped between her legs to separate them, grabbed her hair to keep her head still so he can put his blood down her throat).
"I thought we were done with this," he says quietly, as if she's disappointed him. It takes her a second to realise he's talking about her crying.
Then to her surprise he sits up and takes her in his arms, pulling her onto his lap. She stiffens. This is supposed to be kind, but he turns her so she's facing the same way he is, once again taking choice from her.
Chin on top of her head, arms round her chest, he says, "It won't always be like this. One day you'll enjoy it."
She snorts, not meaning to, but the thought of her ever enjoying that is idiotic.
He isn't mad though. He gives a little chuckle and lifts his hand, stroking her face. "You're so young Elena." A shiver springs down her spine when he says her name. She doesn't like it; it's another thing that he's taken from her. "You've barely lived."
"How old are you?" The question takes them both by surprise. Before Elena hasn't cared about his life, has no interest in asking. But her mouth seemed to take a life of its own.
He doesn't get annoyed, though she thinks he is when he doesn't answer. Finally he says, "Old enough." She knows not to ask anymore.
Suddenly he kisses the side of his head and he's getting up, getting dressed. This time at the doorway he pauses. Hand on the frame, he half turns. "You don't have to stay in this room," he informs her. "If I wanted you to be in here I would have compelled you to stay here. You can go to other parts of the house."
Then, as if he's embarrassed, he leaves quickly. This time the door is left open.
She has spent a long time in this room. She doesn't know exactly how long Damon has kept her prisoner, but it has been at the very least two weeks, maybe three. Time seems to cease in this house, as well as temperature. It's always boiling. Good thing she supposes, because the only item of clothing she has is the nightgown.
With a deep breath she leaves the room, stepping out for the first time. She's half expecting Damon to jump out at her, but the hallways are empty and slowly she starts down the corridor.
The floors are made of dark wood, and the walls are painted dark red (she half-wonders whether it's with the blood of his victims). She studies some pictures, but they're pretty dull: old maps, written in a language that she doesn't understand. She places her hand against the glass, wondering whether these are maps that Damon once drew himself. She tries to image him thousands of years ago, wearing armour and bending over a map, pointing out the area that the enemy will come from.
She doesn't look in any of the rooms (not yet) until she meets a set of double doors. They're painted white with gold handles, and there is something about this door that makes her still. A sense of foreboding perhaps, and yet at the same time a surprise too.
It takes her only a minute to open them. It takes her another minute to actually move.
When she steps into the room, she has to blink a thousand times to make sure this isn't her imagination. It's a library. But not just any library: it's an enormous cavern filled with books, shelf upon shelf of books: big thick ones with tattered covers and faded golden lettering; tiny ones that look as if you could read in an hour; ones with glossy covers; she even spots teenage books, such as an old version of The Twins at St Clare.
For the first time since she arrived here, she smiles. It's perhaps the prettiest smile that anyone would have seen: it's the smile of someone given a gift, a smile on the face of someone who thought they would never smile again; who perhaps even believed they had forgotten how to. She can't help but give a little laugh. It bubbles out of her and bursts in the air. She rushes between the shelves, fingering books that she finds interesting or books that she knows (all the Phillippa Gregory novels surprisingly, Charles Dickens – of course – and Stolen by Lucy Christopher). There are some in different languages, and some big fat historical books that, she was sure, would give anyone who used them an A in their history paper.
She lifts her head, for the shelves seem to go on forever. The ceiling is made of glass, a circular dome that looked as if it would be better placed in a palace. For a moment Elena is once again hit with despair, for she doesn't know where she is. She was unconscious when he brought her here; she doesn't even know what the building looks like from the outside. But she doesn't allow herself to think about that for very long. She spots another book, one that she has wanted to read for a long time, and it brings a smile to her face.
The library is so big it takes her about two hours before she has explored all of it, and only in brief. When she arrives to the furthest end of the library she sees another door, this one of a dark brown colour. She opens it eagerly, thinking that perhaps it leads to another library.
Instead it's another surprise. A large television screen covers one side of the wall. There is also a cosy leather sofa is just a few feet in front of it, and a stone fireplace at the side. The rest of the room is covered in shelves, but not of books this time. There are rows and rows of DVDs, of both old films and ones that are still in cinema. It makes Elena pause when she thinks this. Has she been in this house so long that the films in the cinema were now out on DVD?
She picks out The Vow, because it's one that she wanted to see – before, when she believed in love. She doesn't know why she picks it now. Maybe it reminds her of the girl she used to be.
She doesn't know how long she sits in that room. At some point Sarah comes in with a drink of coke (she hasn't had that in so long that she savours every drop) and a bowl of popcorn. Content, she sits there and waits film after film, letting the drama and romance wash over her. It's been so long since she's been able to lose herself.
She doesn't know how long he's been in the room – she's watching The Vow again, simply because she can't get it out of her head. She can't explain it, but suddenly she feels him there, his presence in the room. All the breath leaves her body and she consciously folds her legs together, eyes on the television.
Attempting to be discreet (and failing) he sits next to her. Both of them keep their eyes on the screen. The girl is saying that she's sick of disappointing him. He's leaving her. To her surprise, she feels her heart break a little at that. She didn't think she had any feeling left.
Cautiously he places a hand round Elena's shoulders. Then, very gently, pulls her closer to him. Two conflicting emotions hit her: the desperate desire to pull away from him, while at the same time there is a quiet pleasure running through her blood, a need equally desperate just to be held. Even if it is by a vampire.
They continue watching the film, as the two main characters go through the motions of moving on but don't really mean it. At some point Elena even forgets who she's with, she gets lost in the film again. By the time it ends there is peacefulness deep inside her, like warm ocean waves lapping across her body. A happy ending – what's wrong with that?
As the credits roll Damon flicks the television off and stands. With a sudden jolt Elena realises that it's dark, and somehow the day has passed easily and quickly. He turns, holding his hand out to her. "Come," he says quietly.
In that instant Elena's heart sinks. She knows what he means.
Once in the bedroom he pushes her down on the bed. She thinks he'll do it then, but instead he goes to his own wrist and rips into it. A second later he's forced it to her lips. He does this daily now, to make sure that she eats. As long as he does this, she will. The last thing she wants is to become a vampire.
He hikes the nightgown up and slowly slips inside her.
"You're never going to stop, are you?" The words just seem to slip out her mouth.
He doesn't pause. "No."
Sorry if the ending seems abrupt. As mentioned previously I first wrote this as a one-shot, so in the original document this story was all on one file. I split it into three, trying to keep the word count more or less the same on each of them.
PLEASE REVIEW. I would like to know what people think of this story – if they think I am being too dark.
THANKS FOR READING!