Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Kol paid attention to his sister. It was almost certainly the thing he did most often.

He had made a habit of it—watching her, listening to her, reading every subtle flicker of movement like scripture. Miriam did not speak loudly, did not move carelessly, did not grant her attention to just anyone. To most, she was an impossible riddle. To Kol, she was a language he had spent a lifetime learning.

So, when her gaze strayed—when it landed on him—Kol noticed.

Lucien. The fool. The human with the posture of a stray dog that had been fed once and never forgot it. Kol would have laughed if it hadn’t curdled something black inside his ribs.

He’d seen it happen.

The small accident that should have been nothing at all. Lucien dropping a handful of silver pieces—trinkets, cups, something useless—that were due to be polished. They clattered across the marble floor, rolling to the tips of Miriam’s shoes. The boy had looked startled, fumbling after them like a child who’d never held anything worth keeping.

And Miriam, his sister—his sister—had bent to help him.

Kol had watched her hands move. He knew those hands—he had loved those hands—he had seen them trace runes into soil, tuck Rebekah’s hair behind her ear, run across Kol’s cheek.

They were not meant for this.

They were not meant for some mortal’s clumsy little disaster. Yet there she was, kneeling beside the fool, gathering each piece as though it were her job.

He had felt it then—that violent, irrational pull that lived somewhere behind his ribs. A pulse that whispered mine, mine, mine with every heartbeat. Watching her fingers brush Lucien’s, feeling that spark of human gratitude pass between them—it made his jaw ache.

He could almost taste the boy’s blood already.

Miriam had smiled. Not a bright smile, not even a kind one. Just a small thing—quiet, patient, unbearably gentle. She said nothing, only pressed the final trinket into Lucien’s palm and helped him rise.

Kol could not remember the last time she had touched anyone who wasn’t family—and certainly it had not been a man.

It took everything in him not to move. His fingers flexed against his thigh, nails biting into skin hard enough to draw little crescents of red that healed as quickly as they formed. His fangs ached against his tongue, begging to sink into something, someone. To tear out the boy’s throat would have been so easy. A single lunge across the room, a flash of teeth, a short, wet noise—and the problem would be solved. Miriam would flinch, perhaps scold him, but she would be safe again. Herself again.

He told himself that. Over and over. That she would forgive him. That she always did. She forgave him when no one else would, when even he couldn’t bear to look at what he had done. Miriam always forgave him. She was his sister. She loved him.

And yet—

Some irrational, quiet part of him whispered what if?

What if she wouldn’t this time? What if she looked at him, not with exasperation or pity or that small spark of warmth that made eternity bearable, but with horror? What if she turned away?

The thought stopped him as surely as a dagger through the ribs.

The rest of him shouted over it, cruel and certain. She would. She always does. You’re her brother, her favorite, her shadow. She would forgive you anything.

But the whisper lingered.

What if she wouldn’t?

The question hollowed him. Left him standing there, motionless, as though his rage had turned to stone. He felt strange—adrift, unanchored. This was new ground. He had never once doubted her love, never once considered that there might be a line he could cross that she would not follow him over. The idea terrified him in a way no weapon ever could.

Kol stood very still. He could feel the pulse of the boy’s blood across the room, could hear the small rush of it through his veins, so near, so fragile. And still, he did not move. He swallowed the sound of his own hunger, the taste of jealousy, and the unbearable question that would not let him rest.

He stayed still.

He watched as Lucien stammered his thanks, eyes downcast, foolish and trembling. He didn’t even look at her properly. Didn’t see her. Didn’t deserve to. And still, Miriam lingered. Just for a breath. Just for a heartbeat too long. Her gaze held him, and Kol saw it—the faint, unbearable thing behind her eyes. Interest. Regard.

It was obscene.

Every millisecond of it scraped against Kol’s bones. The way she didn’t rush to leave, the way her body seemed caught in the orbit of that dull, graceless boy. She drifted away only slowly, as though some invisible thread still pulled her toward him.

Kol recognized that movement. He had made it himself, once or twice—when fascination had its teeth in him and he could not quite pull free.

He hated her for it. He hated him more.

The fury burned through him, quick and bright and humiliating. It was childish, possessive, mean in the way that love always became when it was denied a place to rest. He wanted to laugh, to mock her, to drag her away and tell her what a fool she was being. But underneath the sneer sat something raw and tender, something that whispered of fear.

Miriam did not fall for anyone. Miriam never looked.

And yet here she was.

Kol’s throat tightened.

He is jealous in the way a fever is jealous. It starts in his throat and spreads, a heat that eats neat edges and leaves everything ragged.

He wants her.

Not in the small, careless way boys want girls under lantern light. He wants every bit of her—he wants everything that is hers clutched in his fist so that he may never need to let it go.

He wants her sighs, wants her laughter, wants her sobs, wants her trembling limbs. He wants her smiles to be for him alone. He wants every private inch of her, not parceled out in careless offerings to the world, but kept warm and raw and hoarded like treasure in a dark room.

He wants the boy dead too.

The want arrives like hunger, simple and urgent—a raw ache that tastes like metal behind his teeth. He imagines the room after, imagines the silence that follows a thing taken away, how it would settle like snow on bare branches.

He imagines taking her then, in the ruin he’s made of the boy—Lucien’s blood gone cold and tacky beneath them, clinging to her skin.

He sees it in fragments: her pale throat catching the light, her dress dark with the stain, the world around them quiet except for the sound of his breath and the small, reverent movements that follow violence.

Watching her move away from the boy is like watching the slow, cruel making of a new law. She does not hurry—it is below his sister to ever appear anything so simple as dazzled by a man.

She simply lingers, as if her orbit has shifted a fraction and gravity now leans toward this graceless thing.

Kol recognizes the motion—he has made that rotation himself, helpless and dizzy in her own pull.

He hates the boy.

He hates him with a neat, classical loathing that keeps company with the worst names in his life. Mikael still sits above hate like a lightning-struck tree, immovable and black.

But this.

This is petty and fine and furious. This is the kind of hatred that makes the bones ache. Miriam had never once displayed the ridiculousness of an infatuation. She had not been given to being easily strung along by such charms.

And yet here she is caught, small and soft, in the half-light of kindness—practically throwing herself at him.

Then a slow, terrible idea comes to him and settles like a hand on his shoulder—Kol could make a gift of the boy to his sister.

He turns the thought over and begins to polish it until it shines with reason.

It would be a kindness, really—a lesson dripping in blood.

If Miriam had this—if she could sample the boy—perhaps it would burn itself out of her. Perhaps, once she tasted the thinness of him, she would see that men like Lucien were beneath her, that her interest had been nothing but curiosity dressed up as kindness.

She would taste him, see how hollow men like that are inside, and she would understand. She would come back to herself. She would turn her gaze back to Kol—back to where it belonged.

He could make a gift of the boy for both of them.

It would be an act of devotion, really—one final indulgence for her, one lesson offered in blood.

He could picture it perfectly: Miriam leaning close, her pale nude form revealed to his roaming eyes, the tremor in her shoulders when she realized how shallow the experience was, how little the boy had to give.

Kol would be there beside her, of course. He would not let her face disappointment alone. He would share the moment, steady her, guide her through it.

He thinks of the sound she might make—half surprise, half relief—and the sight of her lashes trembling as she learned the difference between curiosity and hunger. He would see the understanding dawn, see her turn toward him again, finally remembering who had always been waiting.

At the end, when she was through with Lucien and all his mortal smallness, perhaps she would laugh—soft and disbelieving—and look to Kol as if to say, you were right, of course you were right.

And maybe then she’d let him finish the lesson with her.

Kol on the boy’s left, Miriam on his right, their mouths meeting in the same pulse of blood.

A shared kill. A shared secret.

The boy caught between them as though he was nothing more than a shared kiss between them.

…

That night, Kol goes to Lucien’s room.

Beyond the heavy walls of the castle, the wind crawls through the stones and hums against the narrow slits of the windows. The air is cold, carrying the faint sweetness of tallow and old wood smoke. Somewhere in the lower hall, a torch hisses, half-burned. The sound of it fills the corridor.

Kol moves through it easily, a shadow with intent. His feet make nearly no sound upon the stone. The light of a single candle trembles in his hand, gold and thin.

He had discovered the trick he plans to use weeks ago—how a mortal’s gaze could be caught and pinned, how their will could be bent until they stood there like statues waiting for instruction.

He had not shared the discovery with his siblings. Not yet. It was too new, too sweet to part with—and surely they would find a way to moralize and ruin it.

Kol had, of course, not kept it from Miriam.

He’d run to her side immediately upon making his discovery. That was always his first instinct: to show her, to impress her, to see that small light of pride in her eyes. But she had not been able to do it. Her eyes had softened, her jaw had set, but nothing had happened.

Kol had wondered if it was because she was weaker than the rest of them—she was always too gentle, too soft-spoken, too much like the girl she had been. He hadn’t said it aloud, but the thought stuck like a splinter.

Now he stands in Lucien’s doorway and thinks about that softness. He thinks about what she saw in this mortal face and feels his stomach twist.

Lucien is not handsome—not compared to their brothers, and certainly not compared to Kol. There is nothing about him that should hold her attention. He is ordinary—plain where they are carved from marble. Kol cannot see what Miriam saw when she bent to help him pick up that spilled silver.

He cannot imagine what she may have found that was worth keeping there.

Kol raps softly against the wood—three measured knocks.

He waits, head tilted, listening to the shuffle of movement within. The door opens a moment later, a crack first, then wider. Lucien stands there barefoot, half-dressed, his hair mussed from sleep and his face open in that mortal way Kol finds so offensive.

“Lord Kol?” he asks, uncertain. His voice is rough with dreams.

Kol’s smile sharpens. “Look at me,” he says.

Lucien does.

The compulsion slides from Kol’s gaze into him like a hot wire under the skin. The boy stills, pupils widening, the last of his thoughts catching mid-turn.

“Good,” Kol murmurs. He steps forward until their breaths touch, the candlelight trembling between them. His voice falls to a low, velvet murmur, the rhythm of command dressed as intimacy.

“Now listen. You will stand still until I say otherwise. You will be silent unless I ask you to speak. You will not raise a hand or voice against me, or against any of my kin. You will not resist anything that I or my family might do to you.”

Lucien blinks once, slow, his expression empty and obedient.

Kol watches him for a beat, then adds, softer, “Whatever happens next, you will not lift a hand, nor raise your voice. Do you understand?”

Lucien’s lips part just enough for the words to escape. “I understand.”

Kol leans closer, lowering his voice until it brushes the boy’s cheek. “And you will tell me the truth. To every question I ask. No hesitation, no deceit. You will answer as though your soul depended on it.”

Lucien swallows. “Yes.”

Kol studies him a moment longer, candlelight painting his face in shades of gold and bone. Then he pushes past him into the room. The door stays open, the night air curling in around their ankles.

Lucien’s chamber is small, built of rough stone and low ceilings. A narrow bed sits in one corner, the coverlet half-pulled back. There is a small table next to it.

Kol sets the candle down and turns to face him.

“Close the door,” he says.

Lucien immediately obeys. The wood groans against the frame, shutting out the corridor and the small, ordinary sounds of the castle—footsteps far away, wind through the slits of stone.

He bars the door without being told—good boy, Kol thinks, perhaps that is what Miriam sees in him—and the world narrows to the size of the room.

“Now,” Kol murmurs, “come closer.”

Lucien steps forward, barefoot on the rushes. His shirt hangs open and the light from the candle flickers across the hollow there, warm against skin that looks far too alive—it paints the boy in soft gold, catching on his throat, his wrists, the curve of his mouth.

Kol watches the mortal’s eyes, watches how they flicker between confusion and obedience, the faint struggle that makes his stillness all the more delicious.

He doesn’t move at first. Kol lets the silence fill the space between them until it hums like a taut string.

Then he steps into it. One pace. Two.

He moves into Lucien’s space like a tide swallowing the shore, until there is nowhere left for the mortal to stand that isn’t inside Kol’s shadow. The air changes—thicker, hotter, threaded with something animal.

Lucien smells of tallow and sweat and sleep, of the soft salt of skin. Kol finds the scent irritatingly human. He can hear the pulse in the boy’s throat, steady but quickening. He likes that sound—the fragile rhythm of fear trying to disguise itself as composure.

Kol tilts his head, studying him. “Better,” he says softly. “Now we can speak properly.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says finally. The words are light, conversational, but the space between them is sharp. “You’ve been spending time with my sister. You’ve spoken with her—laughed, even.”

Lucien’s brow creases, his voice quiet and uncertain. “Lady Miriam has been kind to me.”

“Kind,” Kol repeats, tasting the word. “Is that what you call it? Kindness?”

Lucien nods once. “She speaks gently. She does not treat me as… lesser.”

Kol smiles faintly. “She should.”

“She has a good heart,” Lucien offers, the compulsion forcing honesty even as his tone trembles. “You are fortunate in her.”

Kol laughs softly, a bright, thin sound that cuts through the quiet. “Fortunate. That is not the word I would use.” He studies the mortal’s face, the steady pulse in his neck. “Do you love her?”

Lucien’s breath catches. “No,” he says at last. “I love Lady Aurora.”

Kol tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Aurora,” he murmurs. “How quaint.”

He takes another step closer, until the candlelight flickers between them, bending the room into something smaller, more secret.

He lets the name linger in his mouth like something bitter. The candle flame wavers between them, the air bending with the heat of it. Kol studies the mortal’s face—the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the pulse beneath his jaw, the way his hands twitch faintly though the rest of him remains obedient.

“She’s fucking my brother, you know.”

The words drop like a stone into water, rippling outward.

Lucien’s breath stumbles. His eyes flicker—rage trying to surface through the compulsion’s glass. “You lie,” he says, though his voice is hollow.

Kol smiles, slow and foxlike. “Do I? You should hear her. She cries out his name as if the sound itself might save her. Niklaus,” he says softly, savoring it. “Niklaus, Niklaus, Niklaus.” He leans forward as he repeats it, his tone almost affectionate, as though sharing a joke between friends. “Your lady makes a chorus of it.”

Lucien’s nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. He cannot move, but the fight is visible in his eyes—fire trapped behind glass. Kol steps closer, close enough that the boy’s breath warms his throat.

“I tell you this,” Kol says lightly, “because I think you ought to know. I believe in honesty between men. Especially before one of them becomes a gift.”

Lucien’s brows knit. “A gift?”

Kol circles him slowly. “For my sister,” he says. “She’s developed a peculiar fondness for your face. Perhaps your pretty manners. Perhaps your tragic eyes.” He sighs dramatically. “I cannot imagine why. But then, she has always had strange tastes.”

Lucien’s voice trembles. “Lady Miriam would not—”

Kol is on him in an instant.

His hand catches the boy’s jaw, forcing it upward. “Do not say her name,” he whispers. The words aren’t shouted, but they carry the weight of a threat old as blood. “You have not earned her name.”

Lucien’s gaze wavers, wide and fearful, the pupils swallowed by dark.

Kol tightens his grip, just enough to make the bone groan. He watches the pain bloom there, controlled, delicate. He could shatter the jaw if he wished. He does not wish to. Not yet.

“Tell me,” Kol murmurs. “Do you think her too good for me?”

Lucien swallows hard. “I think she is better than this.”

Kol’s mouth curves into something between a smile and a wound. “Better than this,” he echoes and what he hears is better than you. “You think she needs saving from her own blood.” He tilts his head, studying him. “You think she is kind, that she looks at you because she pities you. But I know my sister better than anyone alive.”

He leans in closer until his breath brushes Lucien’s ear. “She does not pity what she does not want.”

Lucien’s breath catches again, but he says nothing. His pulse beats fast beneath his skin.

Kol’s voice drops lower, soft and coaxing now. “Do you wish she wanted you?”

The mortal’s throat works. “I do not know.”

Kol laughs quietly, delighted. “Liar.”

He keeps his hold on the boy’s face as he tilts his own just slightly, studying the shape of him, the slack line of his mouth, the fear and defiance tangled in the eyes. The candlelight catches in Lucien’s lashes, and for an instant Kol can almost see what Miriam might have seen.

Almost.

He kisses him.

The kiss is not gentle, not exploratory, it is deliberate, fevered. Kol isn’t searching for pleasure—he’s chasing prophecy. The taste floods his mouth—iron and warmth and something disgustingly human—and for a heartbeat he swears it isn’t Lucien’s lips beneath his, but hers.

He can almost feel it—the echo of Miriam’s breath against his own, the future pressed between them like a mirror.

He imagines her standing here in his place, her mouth finding this same spot, her hands trembling the way his do now. The thought burns through him. The fantasy is wrong and holy and inevitable all at once.

He deepens the kiss, just once, testing the shape of it, the weight of it, what she will taste when she accepts his gift. When she understands.

Then he breaks it.

He draws back sharply, breath unsteady, eyes still fixed on Lucien’s mouth as though it holds a secret. His hand remains cupped under the mortal’s chin, thumb brushing the blood-warm skin there.

Kol exhales. The sound is almost a laugh. “Yes,” he says quietly. “You’ll do.”

Lucien doesn’t respond. He only stands there, breathing shallowly through the compulsion, blank-eyed and trembling faintly. His silence feels like permission.

Kol steps back, expression brightening in a flash of mischief that feels like madness. “Don’t look so solemn, little knight,” he says. “This isn’t punishment. It’s a gift.”

Lucien says nothing. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, waiting for the next command.

Kol studies him for a long moment—the faint pulse at his throat, the smudge of color left on his lips—and feels something tighten low in his chest. Desire, anger, prophecy; all of it the same thing now.

“Yes,” Kol murmurs again, voice gone soft and distant. “She’ll see soon enough.”

Kol wipes his thumb along his own mouth, feeling the phantom shape of the kiss linger there. The taste of it sits on his tongue—salt, iron, the faintest trace of Miriam’s imagined breath. It hums through him like the ache of a bruise he cannot stop pressing.

He takes Lucien by the wrist. “Come,” he says, the command sliding easily into compulsion.

Lucien follows without sound.

…

Kol’s chamber is lit only by the flames from the fireplace. It throws long red streaks across the walls, the tapestries, and all the other fineries that Kol was finding himself grow used to already.

He gestures Lucien forward. “Stand there,” he says.

 The mortal stops by the firelight, bare chest catching the glow. Kol circles him slowly, head tilted.

He wishes he had a collar. A proper one—something jeweled and thin, the kind that would bite when a man moved his neck. It would look exquisite around the boy’s throat. He imagines it—how Miriam’s eyes would widen at the sight of it, how she would understand the gesture at once: See, sister, he’s already yours.

But he hasn’t one—Kol supposes the compulsion will serve as well as iron.

“Listen,” he says. “You will be still while I work. You will not flinch, you will not resist. You will let me make you beautiful, and when you see my sister, you will think only of pleasing her. Every word she speaks will sound to you like truth. Every touch will feel like grace. You will want everything she gives you—her voice, her hands, her hunger—and you will thank her for it. Do you understand?”

Lucien’s pupils widen, swallowing the light. “I understand.”

Kol’s smile sharpens. “What do you understand, Lucien?”

“I will want everything she gives me,” Lucien says, his voice soft and his body pliant.

Kol studies him a moment longer, the silence deepening between them until it feels like a held breath. Then, softly, “Strip.”

Lucien obeys.

He moves slowly, mechanical under the compulsion, fingers loosening the laces at his throat. The fabric slides away from his shoulders, folds into itself as it falls. His skin catches the firelight—warm, pale, touched here and there with the faint, sun-browned color of someone who has known labor.

Kol watches as the tunic drops to the rushes. He doesn’t rush him. He lets his gaze move over every revealed inch, eyes half-lidded, thoughtful.

The mortal’s frame is slender, built for motion rather than strength. There is muscle there, yes, but it is the kind shaped by necessity, not vanity. His shoulders slope neatly, his collarbones sharp as the edge of a coin. The light picks out the fine lines of him—the places where shadow gathers, where skin meets bone.

Kol tilts his head, almost curious. “Pretty,” he murmurs. “Not as pretty as me, of course.” A small smile touches his mouth. “But pretty enough.”

He circles him once, studying the play of light across his skin, the way the glow turns sweat into a shimmer, the small tremors that move through his hands as the chill finds him. There’s a quiet allure in the imperfection—the roughness at his knuckles, the faint marks of labor. Mortal beauty. Fleeting. Honest.

Kol feels it in the air between them, the thin line where curiosity blurs into hunger. He reaches out and brushes a speck of dust from Lucien’s shoulder, the touch light, deliberate.

“You will do,” he says softly. “Now—let’s make you beautiful.”

Kol moves to the chest at the foot of his bed and opens it. Fine linen, stolen velvet, gold thread. He selects a long shirt—so thin and fine that it is almost transparent—one of the noble undergarments given to him when he’d pretended to be a lord’s son. The fabric is soft as breath. It gleams faintly when it catches the fire.

He slips it over Lucien’s head himself, his fingers deft, almost tender. “Hold still,” he says when the mortal sways. He fastens the ties at the throat, adjusts the fall of the sleeves.

“Better,” he murmurs.

He combs Lucien’s hair back with his fingers, surprised by its weight. It’s long—long enough to catch between his knuckles, to slide like silk through his palms. The strands are dark and clean, the color of wet tree bark.

Kol moves slowly, methodically, his breath a steady rhythm that keeps time with the soft pull of his hands. He parts the hair, twists, and begins to braid it the way Miriam likes when Kol’s own hair is long enough—tight near the crown, then looser as it falls, a shape meant to draw the eye to the throat.

He weaves small jewels—a collection of stolen baubles from his new identity as a nobleman—into it as he goes—emeralds and sapphires, silver and gold—each one meant to catch on candlelight like sparks.

Kol leans closer, his mouth near the mortal’s ear as he works.

“You’ll shine for her,” he says softly. “When she looks at you, she’ll see the gift you are.”

Lucien’s lips move faintly. “I will shine for her.”

Kol smiles. It isn’t pleasant.

“She’ll touch your hair first,” he murmurs. “She always does. She’ll run her fingers along the braid, maybe loosen it just to feel the strands. And you’ll let her. You’ll think of nothing but pleasing her.”

Lucien’s eyes are heavy, unfocused. His chest rises once, sharply, then steadies. “I will think of nothing else.”

Kol smiles, the sound in his throat closer to a hum than laughter. “Good. And when her hand slides lower—when she traces the line of your jaw, when she looks at you like you’re worth the ruin—you’ll want it. You’ll ache for it.”

“I will ache for it,” Lucien repeats softly.

Kol ties the end of the braid with a thin green ribbon, his fingers lingering at the nape of the mortal’s neck. The skin there is warm, smooth, pulsing faintly beneath his thumb.

He imagines Miriam’s hand in the same place and a shudder runs through him.

When he’s finished, he steps back to look at his work. Lucien gleams faintly in the half-light, pale throat rising from fine linen, the fire setting jewels alive in his dark tresses.

He turns to the table, where a small chest lies open. Inside, the trinkets of his stolen station glint softly in the fire’s glow: chains, pendants, strands of garnet and gold. He lifts one, holds it to the light, and smiles.

“Stand very still,” he says.

Lucien obeys like a well-trained hound.

Kol begins with a single chain, thin and bright. He drapes it low across the mortal’s throat, the metal whispering against skin. Then another, heavier, studded with small green stones. He layers them slowly, each one placed with deliberate care, each one closer to how he envisions her hands undoing them later.

Kol’s breath hitches, and he laughs quietly at himself.

“If I cannot have a collar,” he says, his voice low and amused, “I suppose I can make one.”

He adds a third necklace—pearls—and lets his fingers trace the curve of Lucien’s neck as he adjusts the clasp. The skin is hot, smooth under his touch, and he feels the mortal’s breath catch though he makes no sound.

Kol steps closer, so near that the fine strands of his own hair brush Lucien’s shoulder. “Better,” he murmurs. “Now you look owned.”

The words hang between them, sweet and cruel. The fire paints both their faces red.

He slides a thumb beneath the lowest chain, feeling it press into the hollow of Lucien’s throat. “She’ll see you like this,” he says softly. “She’ll see the light catch on you and think you were made for her hands.”

Lucien’s eyes are unfocused, his mouth parted just slightly.

Kol smiles, not kindly. “You’ll want her touch when she comes near. You’ll lean into it without needing to be asked.”

“I will lean into it,” Lucien repeats faintly.

Kol hums, pleased. He adds one final piece—a length of fine silver with a single emerald drop that falls just above the heart. He straightens it carefully, admiring how it draws the eye downward, how the layered chains mimic the suggestion of a leash.

When he steps back, Lucien gleams faintly in the half-light, his throat pale above the shimmer of metal, the jewels throwing little green fires across his skin.

Kol’s smile softens into something dangerous. “Good,” he says. “You’ll do beautifully.”

“If she lays her hand here,” he says, voice low and sharp, “you’ll bare your throat like you’re begging. You’ll want her to touch you, and she’ll see it. She’ll think it is her that you tremble for.”

Kol tilts his head, the smile on his mouth all wrong. “But we’ll know better, won’t we? You’ll be trembling because I made you this way.”

Lucien’s breath shudders, the sound small but clear. “I will tremble because you made me.”

Kol’s grin widens, bright as broken glass. “Good boy.”

He lets his thumb drag once more across the pulse, watching the chain shiver with it. For a moment, he studies his handiwork with something like pride.

“She will see you and understand,” he says to himself. “She’ll see how much I’ve thought of her.”

He runs a thumb over one of the jewels in Lucien’s braid, admiring the gleam. “You’ll kneel for her. You’ll thank her for her mercy, for her kindness in noticing you. You’ll think yourself lucky.”

“I will think myself lucky.”

Kol lets out a soft laugh. “Perfect.”

He reaches for his cloak and drapes it over the boy’s shoulders, the fabric pooling like shadow around his feet. “You look almost worthy of her,” he says, his tone bright, almost giddy.

Kol’s hands linger on Lucien’s shoulders. The fire cracks behind them.

“She’ll be pleased,” he murmurs, though he isn’t sure whether he’s talking to Lucien or to himself. “It’s a gift for both of us, you see. For her to have what she desires. And for me to watch her take it.”

He steps back, head tilting. “Now,” he says quietly, “smile.”

Lucien’s mouth lifts at the corners, empty and obedient.

Kol’s grin blooms to match it. “Beautiful,” he says. “She’ll love this.”

He takes the boy by the arm and turns him toward the door. The corridor yawns dark and long beyond it.

“Come,” Kol says again, voice soft as sin. “Let’s go wake my sister.”

…

Kol knocks.

Three sharp, deliberate knocks, the sound rolling through the stone corridor like a challenge. He does not bother to glance down the hall. The castle is large enough that he doesn’t have to worry about waking anyone save their brothers and sister, but Kol finds he doesn’t much care.

Let them listen through their walls and hear what he plans to do all night.

Behind him, Lucien waits just out of sight—still as marble, jeweled and bound in silence. The light of the nearby torch catches now and again on one of the emeralds and other baubles braided throughout his hair and across his flesh.

Each flash of green makes Kol’s jaw tighten. The boy gleams exactly as he should, and it sickens him.

The door opens.

Miriam stands framed in the golden light of her chamber, the fire behind her burning low and warm. She wears only a thin chemise, its linen nearly translucent at the edges, the neckline loose against her collarbone. Her hair falls unbound, waves brushing her shoulders. She looks soft, half-dreaming, delicate in a way none of the rest of them are anymore.

For a moment, he forgets to breathe.

The glow of the fire halos her, and his eyes catch on her—on the faint pulse in her throat, the small, unconscious curve of her mouth. His sister looks like the memory of warmth. The ache of something long gone.

“Kol?” she asks. Her voice is hushed but clear. “Is something wrong? It’s late.”

He finds his voice. “All is well.”

She tilts her head, uncertain but smiling faintly. Then she steps closer, the hem of her chemise fluttering around her calves, and lifts onto her toes to reach him. The movement is small, darling and sweet and achingly familiar.

Kol leans down at once, drawn to her as naturally as breathing, and her lips find his brow. The warmth of her kiss burns through him, and she presses a second upon his flesh.

He could live in that feeling.

Her left hand comes up to steady herself against him, fingers curving along his jaw.

She keeps her touch there, thumb tracing the faint line of his cheekbone as though to reassure herself he’s real and whole. Kol leans into her palm, eyes half-shut, and turns his mouth against it in answer.

Her skin smells faintly of lavender and the fire behind her, soft and warm against his lips.

He thinks he could spend the rest of eternity in that single gesture.

“I have a surprise for you,” he murmurs against her hand. “A gift. Something grand.”

Miriam laughs softly, bemused. “A gift? At this hour? I can’t say I’m familiar with a gift that must be given in the middle of the night.”

Her tone is teasing, her smile soft in that half-awake way that makes her seem younger than she is. It ruins him a little.

He looks at her—really looks—and the thought strikes, clean and cold. Of course, his sister does not know of gifts that must be given at night. She is untouched. He knows it must be true. No one has ever been worthy of her attention. No one has ever held her gaze for more than a passing breath. Miriam is not like the rest of them. She is not so easily tempted, not so quick to hunger. She moves through the world as though consecrated, too whole to be undone by wanting.

Or at least, she had been.

The rage curls up through him like smoke—slow, acrid, inevitable.

That the mortal outside her door had dared to presume to be worthy of that regard. That he had thought himself fit to even think of her. To yearn for her with his mortal pulse, to stand among gods and still believe he might be chosen.

That he had said, so pitifully, that he “did not know” if he wanted her.

Kol almost laughs at the memory. Did not know? How could anyone not want her?

How could anyone look at her—at the quiet gravity of her, the mercy stitched into every breath—and feel anything less than bone deep want?

The thought burns through him and he thinks—just for a moment—of telling her he’s changed his mind. Of turning away from her soft confusion and dragging Lucien back to his chamber, stripping the jewels from his hair one by one and draining him until that vacant look in his eyes turns to glass.

He imagines the sound it would make—the soft, wet hush of it—and how quiet the castle would be after.

“Kol?”

Her voice again. Calm, questioning. Her thumb still rests just below his cheekbone, her gaze steady.

He realizes he’s gone silent too long.

She raises a brow. “Are you alright, brother?”

He exhales, a long breath, and forces his expression into something like amusement. He catches her wrist, gentle, and lets his grin find its way back to his mouth. “I’m not surprised, Miri,” he says. “That you are unfamiliar with such gifts. This will be the first of its kind for you.”

Her brows lift, a small spark of curiosity. “Oh? And what kind is that?”

Kol smiles boyishly at her. “One you needn’t unwrap alone. Worry not—I intend to be with you every step of the way.”

Her laugh is quiet but real. “You’re being strange,” she says, though her tone is fond. “And I’m half asleep. Must this gift truly be given tonight?”

Kol’s grin sharpens. “It must.”

He turns slightly toward the hall, lifts his hand, and beckons.

“Come,” he calls, voice bright as a knife’s edge.

Lucien steps into view.

The firelight finds him as he moves. His long hair gleams with the jewels Kol wove into it, catching gold and silver and blue and green with every step. The fine linen clings to his frame—the layered chains at his throat flash like liquid light.

To anyone else, he might look radiant. To Kol, he looks like the prettiest sacrifice the world had ever seen.

Miriam’s smile falters. Her gaze flickers from Lucien’s strange, still expression to the fever-bright look in her brother’s eyes.

Kol’s grin widens, all delight and no mercy. “Allow me,” he says softly, “to present your gift.”

He stands back to watch her face, to watch comprehension begin its slow, dreadful work. The air between them thickens. Somewhere far below, a log cracks in the hearth.

Miriam’s gaze flicks between him and the mortal at her threshold. Her voice, when it comes, is careful, threaded through with confusion. “Kol… what is this supposed to mean?”

He frowns. That tone—cautious, puzzled—was not what he expected. She had seemed so excited before. She had wanted the boy, hadn’t she? Watching him with that strange attention, that spark she had never offered anyone else. He’d seen it. He’d felt it.

“Let us in, Miri,” he says.

Her eyes narrow, uncertain and for a moment she hesitates, glancing past him toward Lucien, who stands perfectly still, jeweled and silent as a statue. But then her gaze returns to Kol, and it softens—just slightly, just enough.

She looks at him the way she always has—like Kol is her favorite thing in the entire world—then she steps aside.

They cross the threshold together.

The chamber is quiet, save for the fire murmuring in the grate. Its light rolls across the walls, over the small writing desk and the bed piled high with furs. The air smells faintly of parchment, beeswax, and lavender—it smells like her.

Kol gestures lazily toward the bed.

“Rest on the bed,” he says, voice velvet over iron. “Ready yourself.”

Lucien obeys, moving with the calm, vacant grace of someone caught in a dream.

Miriam frowns as she closes the door behind them with a quiet thud. She lifts the iron bar and slides it into place, her eyes darting between them. “What is Lucien readying himself for?” she asks.

Kol doesn’t answer. His gaze stays fixed on her, on the curve of her throat as she speaks, the pulse just visible beneath the skin.

“Kol?” she tries again. “What is he—”

She takes a step toward Lucien, as if to reach him.

Kol moves before the thought can finish forming. His hands close over her shoulders, turning her sharply back toward him. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm—possessive in its steadiness.

“Look at me,” he says.

She blinks, startled. “Kol, I was only—”

“Not him,” he cuts in, his voice low, taut. “You don’t look at him.”

The command stops her cold. Confusion flashes in her eyes, followed by concern.

“Kol,” she says carefully, the name soft and deliberate, the way one might soothe a wild animal. “What’s going on?”

His hands move softly on her shoulders, comfortingly.

“Miriam,” he says, barely above a whisper. It sounds like a prayer, or the edge of one. “He’s not supposed to speak to you. He’s not supposed to look at you. He’s meant only for you to take. That’s all.”

Her brows pull together. “Kol—”

He steps closer, his voice thinning. “I don’t want you to say his name, Miri—it isn’t his anymore.”

Miriam blinks, startled by the quiet intensity rather than volume. She studies him for a beat, then glances past him toward Lucien—still sitting on the bed, vacant, motionless in the fire’s orange light.

Her voice softens, cautious, careful, the way one might approach a frightened child. “Kol, let’s send Lucien back—”

“No!”

“Kol, plea—”

“He doesn’t have a name anymore!”

The words crack through the room, loud enough that the fire itself seems to flinch. The fury leaves his chest trembling.

The word bursts from him before she finishes, sharp enough to sting the air. The fire jumps in the hearth. His hand twitches at his side as if he’s restraining himself from striking something.

“He doesn’t go back,” Kol says, breathing hard now. “He doesn’t have a name. He doesn’t get to leave.”

Miriam’s eyes widen. Her confusion wavers into fear, then pity, and the sight of it guts him. She takes a half step toward him anyway, her voice a whisper.

“Kol… what have you done?”

He doesn’t answer.

She reaches up with both hands, cupping his face like she used to when he was smaller—when he’d play the would you still love me game. Would you still love me if I didn’t have magic? Would you still love me if I did something bad?

Would you still love me if I killed someone?

And she’d always answer the same way: she’d take his face in both her hands, thumbs resting just beneath his eyes, and say yes.

That memory flares now, bright and unbearable. Her touch feels the same—warm, certain, forgiving before he’s even asked. It undoes him completely; his chest goes hot and unsteady. She opens her mouth to speak again—

—but he’s already closing the distance, catching her lips in a desperate, burning kiss—

Her lips are soft and unguarded, a startled sound caught somewhere between them before it dissolves into breath. She tastes of honeyed wine and smoke, of every quiet thing he has ever wanted to possess.

His hands find her waist, the small of her back, the slope of her shoulder. He pulls her closer, closer still, until there’s no space left to name between them.

Miriam yields with a faint gasp that might have been his name once, but it dies against his mouth. For a heartbeat, she’s frozen—and then she melts, the way an early morning frost does to the morning sun.

Her hands climb from his chest to his neck, to his hair, tangling there as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear.

The world narrows to the rhythm of her breath and the burn of her skin against his. The fire roars behind them, greedy, casting gold and red across the room until the air itself seems to pulse.

Kol feels the spark of what almost feels like magic crackle under his skin, tasting ozone, tasting her. He feels like lightning caged in flesh—like a god made small and furious. He feels her pulse under his mouth, her life thrumming wild and warm and his.

He loves her. He loves her and he hates himself for how much he loves her. He loves her enough that it feels like burning.

When they part, their foreheads stay pressed together, their noses brushing. Her breath trembles against his lips, the sound thin and human.

Kol’s voice is rough, frayed by something that sounds like awe. “I know,” he whispers, “that the boy caught your eye. I thought…” He swallows hard, trying to steady the words, his thumbs still tracing the line of her jaw. “I thought you might like the gift. That we could share.”

Miriam’s breath is uneven and husky, the rise and fall of her chest brushing his. Her eyes are wide, dazed, pupils blown dark.

She swallows, voice soft. “And… and that… it would make you happy?”

Kol laughs, quiet and trembling, his forehead still resting against hers. “You make me happy,” he says simply.

Her fingers tighten against his wrists. “And Luc—” she doesn’t finish the name, and he loves her for it.  “Does he want this?”

Kol nods, the motion small, their skin still touching. “Ask him,” he murmurs.

She hesitates. “Would his answer mean anything?” Her voice has that tone again—gentle but unyielding. “Did you use that on him?”

Kol’s lips curve, not quite a smile.

“I did nothing of the sort,” he lies.

Miriam draws back just enough to see his face. Her brows knit together, searching him. “Are you lying to me?”

“No,” he says smoothly, the lie sliding from his tongue like silk. “He wants what I want, Miri. He wants this. Wants you and me. He’s one of those strange men who likes to set aside his mind and shame and submit completely to his lovers. Ask him.”

Her frown deepens, but she nods—slow, uncertain.

Kol places a hand at her waist and guides her toward the bed. The movement is careful, tender, though his pulse hammers like a drum in his throat. He helps her sit at the edge beside the mortal.

Miriam reaches out, her fingers brushing Lucien’s hands, and Kol twitches.

Rage flares, sharp and sudden, the image flashing behind his eyes—how easy it would be to rip the boy open and spill him red across the sheets, to take her there in the ruin—

He swallows it down.

Miriam’s voice wavers, barely audible. “Do you want this?”

Lucien’s eyes lift to hers, clear and eager under the compulsion. “I do,” he says brightly. “I want you.”

Color rises in Miriam’s cheeks, a faint pink that makes Kol’s teeth ache. He wants to beat the boy to death for putting it there.

She draws in a breath. “May I… kiss you?”

Lucien nods, just as eager. “Please.”

She leans forward, hesitant but curious, and their lips meet—soft, tentative, almost chaste.

Kol’s throat tightens. He tells himself to let it be. To allow her this small, harmless thing. He watches the angle of her head, the nervous way her fingers rest on the bedclothes, and he thinks, it’s nothing. It’s just a kiss.

But then Miriam sighs.

A soft, breathy sound—barely there, but it breaks him. He sees her lips part just slightly, sees her hand lift as if to steady herself against Lucien’s shoulder, and the world flashes crimson.

The calm he’d built, the little fragile tower of restraint, shatters.

The fire surges behind him as if called. The air turns sharp, bright with heat. His heartbeat fills his skull.

He doesn’t remember moving—only that in the next instant his hand is at the back of Lucien’s neck, dragging him away, and he’s already kissing him, swallowing that sigh, tasting her still warm on the boy’s mouth. It’s rage and hunger in the same breath, a need to erase the boundary between them, to take back what was his before it was ever offered.

Then he turns back to her—his Miri—and claims her mouth again, needing to taste her directly, needing to erase the difference.

Miriam pulls back from Kol’s lips to breath, but the sound becomes something else—a gasping moan that folds the air between them.

Lucien, still glassy-eyed, leans forward. The movement is hesitant but hungry, the way a moth drifts toward flame.

Their mouths find each other again, slower this time, deeper.

Kol freezes. The sight of it is unbearable—the gentle tilt of her chin, the way her fingers curl against the boy’s sleeve. Every sound, every shift of breath, drags through him like a blade.

He should rip the boy’s throat out—

Kol lunges forward, catching them both in the same breath.

The collision is clumsy, bright, alive. Heat and breath and skin, all of it in motion—his mouth finding hers, then the boy’s, then hers again, until the world becomes nothing but the wet pulse of air between them.

Miriam’s hands climb to their shoulders, fingers digging in for balance. Lucien’s palms slide up, trembling, tracing the sides of their necks as if to hold onto the sound of breathing. Kol’s own hands are everywhere—tangled in Miriam’s hair, caught in the braid he tied into Lucien’s, pulling until strands come loose and scatter their glimmering multi-colored tones across the stone, across Kol’s gaze, across Miriam’s skin.

Her hair brushes his cheek, the jewels in the boy’s braid knock softly against his knuckles. The scent of smoke and skin fills the room. The air tastes of salt and want and the sharp edge of a name half-spoken.

They break apart for an instant—breathing hard, lips red, eyes unfocused—and then the movement begins again, instinctual, messy. Miriam turns toward him, Kol toward her, Lucien toward them both, the three of them spinning together in the light like moths that have forgotten how to fear the flame.

Kol can’t tell whose groan he’s swallowing anymore, whose hand clutches his sleeve, whose heartbeat hammers against his mouth. Everything is heat and pulse and the dizzying ache of her so close.

And Kol thinks—wildly, fiercely, helplessly—that he’d let the whole castle burn if it meant staying right here, caught in this breath forever.

Kol's hands find the hem of Miriam's chemise, the fabric whispering against her skin as he draws it upward. She lifts her arms without protest, her body arching slightly, and the linen slips away like a shed skin.

He pauses then, breath caught in his throat. Her form unfolds before him—pale and flawless, curves soft as fresh snow, nipples hardening in the cool air. Kol's gaze traces the gentle swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the faint shadow between her thighs.

She is a masterpiece, untouched and eternal, and the sight of her bare sends a sharp twist through his gut.

Lucien waits, still and obedient, his eyes fixed on nothing.

Kol nods once, sharp, and the boy leans forward. His mouth closes over one of Miriam's nipples, tongue circling slow and deliberate. She gasps, a small sound that echoes through Kol like thunder.

Kol claims her mouth then, the kiss fierce and unyielding.

The impact of it is like striking flint—heat blooming instantly, sharp and bright. His hands frame her face, his thumbs brushing the hollow of her cheeks.

He drinks her in, deepening the kiss until thought itself disintegrates. Every inhale feels like fire and every exhale, like surrender. Her lips part beneath his, and the world tilts—her breath catching, his pulse roaring, the fire’s light flashing behind his closed eyes.

Miriam clutches at his shoulders, fingers knotting in the fabric, holding him as though he’s the only steady thing left. Her soft, startled moan reverberates through his chest, vibrating between their ribs until he can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose.

He breaks away just long enough to shift them higher on the bed, pulling her with him amid the furs.

Lucien follows on hands and knees, crawling like a hound scenting its master. Kol's lips curve at the sight—such a good dog, he thinks, loyal and broken. For a fleeting second, he imagines commanding the boy to bark, to whine and beg on all fours, to hump at the air like a rutting animal.

But that would shatter the fragile web he's spun, reveal the compulsion for the lie it is. Miriam must believe this is entirely willing, that Lucien craves this submission as much as Kol craves her.

Kol settles behind her now, her back flush against his chest, the heat of her skin searing through his shirt. His arousal presses painfully against her, an insistent ache that makes his fangs throb in time with his pulse.

She shifts slightly, and he bites back a groan.

His hands slide down her thighs, parting them wide. Miriam's breath hitches, her body trembling in his hold. Lucien's gaze drops to the dark curls between her legs, and he inches forward, drawn like a moth.

"Stop," Kol murmurs, voice low and commanding.

The boy freezes, lips parted, waiting.

Kol tilts his head, pressing his mouth to the curve of Miriam's neck. His kisses trail slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to draw a shiver. One hand snakes lower, fingers finding the sensitive pearl at her center. He circles it gently at first, then firmer, feeling her slickness gather under his touch.

"Have you ever felt this before, Miri?" he whispers against her skin. "Ever touched your flower like this, in the quiet hours?"

She shakes her head, a small, breathless motion. "No," she admits, voice frayed. He knew it already—his sister, repressed and pure as dawn, had never chased this fire alone.

Kol smiles against her throat, his fingers working her with steady rhythm. She arches into him, moans spilling free like water over stones. He teases her pearl until her hips buck, then dips lower, sliding one finger into her warmth.

Tight, untouched—she clenches around him, and he nearly unravels.

"I want to feel you come apart first, Miri," he breathes, adding a second finger, curling them just so. "Before I let the dog have a taste."

Miriam's arm reaches back, looping around his neck, pulling him closer.

Kol scatters kisses along her pulse, nipping gently, savoring the salt of her skin. Her fingers tangle in his hair, holding on as if he might vanish.

He feels the tug of her hand, the desperate curl of her nails against his scalp, and it sends a dark thrill through him. She's clinging to him—not the boy, not the world beyond this bed—but to Kol, her brother, her shadow.

Kol eases his pace deliberately, his finger curling inside her with languid strokes, drawing out the heat that coils tighter in her core. He wants to stretch this moment, to make her beg without words, to feel every tremor as her body pleads for release.

She whimpers, a soft, broken sound that twists something fierce in his chest.

Her hips shift restlessly against him, seeking more, but he holds her steady with his thighs bracketing hers. His thumb grazes her pearl again, light as a feather, teasing the edge of ecstasy without granting it. The slickness between her thighs coats his hand, warm and inviting, and he imagines claiming it all—every drop, every gasp—as his alone.

Lucien watches from his place, but Kol ignores him.

He nips sharper at her neck, fangs scraping just enough to draw a single bead of blood, the copper tang blooming on his tongue like forbidden wine. He laps it away, groaning softly, the taste mingling with her scent—lavender and arousal, innocence edged with fire.

Miriam arches, her back bowing against his chest, pressing the curve of her ass into him. Kol's arousal throbs harder, trapped and insistent, but he denies himself too, letting the ache build like a storm on the horizon.

His kisses trail lower, across her shoulder, teeth marking faint crescents that heal almost as soon as they form.

Kol slides in a second finger, scissoring gently to stretch her.

Her moans deepen, threading through the air like silk unraveling. She turns her head, seeking his mouth, and he obliges—crushing his lips to hers in a firm kiss, tongues tangling in a rhythm that mirrors his hand's insistent motion.

He swallows her cries, tastes the desperation on her breath, and pushes her higher, circling her pearl with firmer pressure, drawing circles that tighten like a noose around her control.

The passion surges between them, raw and unrelenting, her body melting into his as if they've always been one. Kol's heart—dead yet pounding—echoes hers, a shared frenzy that blurs the line between love and madness.

He breaks the kiss to watch her face, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in silent plea, and he quickens his pace just enough to tease the precipice, holding her there, suspended in the fire.

And as her peak builds, her grip loosens, hand falling limp to the furs. Her moans rise, ragged and desperate, body taut like a drawn bow.

Kol shifts just enough to capture her lips again, swallowing her cries. His fingers never falter—thrusting deep into her flower—and his thumb continues to circle her pearl, driving her higher.

She shatters then, clenching around him in waves, her release hot and trembling. Kol kisses her through it, fierce and claiming, until her body goes slack in his arms.

He withdraws his hand slowly, fingers glistening in the firelight. Their mouths part by a breath, eyes locked. "Now," he says to Lucien, voice rough with command, "make her sing for me."

Kol's lips claim Miriam's again, deep and devouring, his tongue chasing the echo of her moans as Lucien bends to obey—as Kol expects for their puppy.

His tongue darts out, a tentative first touch against her pearl, and Miriam’s body jolts as if struck by lightning.

A cry tears from her throat—half-sob, half-wail—wild and raw, her hands clawing at the furs.

She writhes, her moans spilling into his mouth. Her lips tremble against his, her sobs breaking into gasps, each one sharper than the last. Kol feels her pulse hammering through her kiss, feels the way her body shudders under Lucien’s relentless tongue.

It’s too much, too bright—Kol can tell, he knows his sister better than anyone else in the world—and her hips buck instinctively, chasing the wet heat of the boy’s mouth. She’s unraveling, a tapestry pulled apart thread by thread, and Kol drinks in every fractured sound, every quiver, as if he could consume her ecstasy whole.

He pulls back suddenly, lips parting from hers with a wet sound.

Miriam makes a needy whine, a desperate keening that slices through him. Her hand reaches for him, fingers grazing his jaw, his name a broken plea on her lips. “Kol—”

Her hips tilt, pressing harder into Lucien’s mouth, the boy’s tongue lapping eagerly, his jeweled braid swaying with each movement.

Her eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, but they lock on Kol, begging him to stay.

He hushes her, voice low and rough. “Hush, Miri. I want to fuck the gift I made for you.” The words are crude, deliberate, meant to shock her back to him.

Her breath catches, a flush blooming across her chest, but she doesn’t look away—if anything her eyes sharpen.

Kol leans forward, his hand snaking into Lucien’s braid, fingers curling tight around the jeweled strands. He yanks the boy up sharply, pulling him from Miriam’s slick heat.

Lucien gasps, lips glistening, eyes vacant under the compulsion’s weight.

Kol crashes his mouth against Lucien’s, tasting the sharp musk of Miriam on his tongue, her essence a heady wine that makes his fangs ache. The kiss is bruising, possessive, a claim staked in the boy’s breath.

When he pulls back, Kol’s teeth find Lucien’s neck.

He bites deep, fangs piercing the fragile skin, and blood floods his mouth—hot, coppery, alive. He drinks heavily, savoring the rush, the boy’s pulse fluttering against his lips. Lucien makes a small, hiccupping sound, a tremor of pain or submission, but Kol keeps his grip on the boy’s hair tight, letting the blood pool in his mouth, thick and warm.

He releases the boy with a wet pop, Lucien’s head lolling briefly before he crawls back between Miriam’s thighs, resuming his work with a supernatural hunger, his tongue delving into her folds once more.

Kol turns to Miriam, blood still coating his lips, a dark promise in his eyes.

He leans in, and she hesitates—just a heartbeat, her gaze flickering to the crimson smear on his mouth. Then she yields, pulling him into a kiss that’s all heat and ruin.

The taste is a revelation—her own sharp sweetness, Lucien’s blood, the iron tang of Kol’s hunger.

She groans, the sound vibrating through him, her body shaking as if the mixture might undo her entirely. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, anchoring herself against the storm of sensation.

Kol pulls back from the kiss, lips still slick with Lucien’s blood, and Miriam chases him, her tongue darting out to lick the crimson smear from his mouth as they part. The gesture is hungry, unguarded, and it sends a jolt through him.

He lingers there a moment, breath ragged, watching the way her lips gleam red in the firelight, her chest heaving with shallow gasps.

He turns his gaze to Lucien—the dog is still buried between Miriam’s thighs, his tongue working with relentless devotion.

Kol’s fingers move to the laces of his breeches, tugging them loose with deliberate slowness. The fabric slides down his hips, pooling at his feet, leaving him in only his thin linen shirt, the hem brushing his thighs.

His arousal stands proud, aching in the cool air, and he feels Miriam’s stare burning into him, heavy as a touch.

“Kol,” she murmurs, the sound of her voice almost startling him, her gaze raking over him, “take the shirt off too.”

He pauses, a boyish smile curling his lips—half mischief, half adoration. He obliges without a word, fingers catching the hem of the linen. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric whispering as it falls to the furs.

His skin gleams in the flickering glow, lean muscle taut and pale, scars from their human life long healed but faintly visible where the light hits just right. Miriam’s breath catches, her eyes tracing the planes of his chest, the sharp cut of his collarbone, and Kol feels his skin grow warm.

He moves closer to Lucien, his hand finding the boy’s neck where the bite wound still weeps. He presses his palm against it, blood welling hot and thick, coating his fingers in a glossy sheen.

Lucien hisses, a sharp sound of pain muffled against Miriam’s cunt, and the vibration draws a low groan from her, her hips twitching upward.

The sound—her pleasure tangled with the boy’s suffering—makes Kol’s lips curve into something cruel and delighted.

He spits into his bloodied hand and his fingers wrap around his cock, slicking it with the makeshift lubricant, each stroke a slow, purposeful claim.

Miriam’s eyes never leave him, her gaze so intense it feels like it could unravel him thread by thread.

Lucien’s tongue laps greedily, her hips grinding into his face, but her focus is locked on Kol—her moans have quieted, as if the sight of him stroking himself has eclipsed every other sensation, as if pleasure itself is incomplete without his touch.

The thought pulls a groan from his throat, low and guttural, and his hand moves faster, the slick sound filling the air.

Kol moves closer still, the heat of Lucien’s body radiating against him.

He lifts the hem of the boy’s fine linen shirt, flipping it over his hips to expose the pale curve of his ass. The firelight catches the faint sheen of sweat there, the vulnerability of it maddening.

Kol’s breath hitches, and he drags the head of his cock along the tight ring of Lucien’s asshole, not entering, just teasing—slow, deliberate circles that make the boy tense beneath him.

Lucien’s muffled groan vibrates against Miriam, and she gasps, her fingers tightening in the furs, but still, her eyes remain on Kol, burning with something that feels like worship.

Kol drags the head of his cock along Lucien’s hole and feels the boy tense beneath him. The resistance is maddening, a challenge that stokes the fire in his veins.

“Relax,” Kol commands, voice low and threaded with compulsion, the words sinking into Lucien like a blade. “Open for me.”

Lucien’s body obeys immediately, muscles loosening under the weight of Kol’s will.

A stressed, breathy sound escapes him, muffled against Miriam’s cunt, a desperate exhale that vibrates through her.

Miriam’s hand lashes out, sudden and fierce, tangling in Lucien’s jeweled braid. The emeralds and sapphires catch the firelight, scattering flecks of green and blue across her skin as she pulls him closer, pressing his mouth harder against her pearl.

Her gaze never wavers from Kol’s, a silent vow that binds them across the boy’s trembling form. It’s as if the world has narrowed to this—their eyes, their shared hunger, the meaningless creature between them.

Kol pushes forward, slow and deliberate, inch by agonizing inch.

The tight heat of Lucien’s body resists him, the blood and spit slick but barely sufficient, making every fraction of movement a searing grind. It’s a delicious burn, a friction that sets his bones vibrating, an ache that hums through his marrow like a plucked string.

His hips strain with the effort to keep his pace measured, deliberate, each slow advance a battle against the urge to thrust hard and claim.

He doesn’t want to go fast—not when Miriam’s eyes are locked on him, wide and unblinking, her parted lips trembling with every breath.

He won’t frighten her by breaking the boy beneath him. Not yet.

The tightness grips him, unyielding, and Kol’s fangs throb in time with the pulse he imagines in Miriam’s throat. Another inch, and the pressure is exquisite, a vice that makes his vision flicker, his hands tightening on Lucien’s hips to anchor himself.

He feels the boy’s heat radiate, the sweat-slick skin under his palms, and with her gaze locked on him, it’s as if he’s pushing into Miriam herself—her warmth, her pulse, her everything. The thought is a lightning strike, searing through his veins, and a groan rips from his throat, low and guttural, raw with need.

Kol fucks deeper into him, the slow drag of flesh against flesh a torment that makes his entire body sing with want, every nerve alight.

Miriam’s hand is still tangled in the boy’s jeweled braid, pressing his mouth harder against her pearl, and Kol feels the echo of her pleasure in every shudder that ripples through Lucien.

Another inch, and the resistance tightens further, a delicious agony that makes Kol’s breath hitch, his hips quivering—every increment claims more of the boy, more of the moment, more of her.

Lucien groans, a fractured sound muffled against Miriam’s cunt, his body caught between her command and Kol’s relentless advance.

 His hips twitch, a fleeting instinct to pull away, to bury himself deeper into her slick folds, but Miriam’s voice cuts through, “Be still.”

And Lucien freezes, trembling but obedient, his desire to please her overriding all else. He wants to be still, to be the vessel for Kol’s possession, to be fucked as Kol deems he deserves.

Kol pushes deeper still, the final inches a slow, deliberate claiming, until he’s seated to the hilt. The sensation is overwhelming, a tight, searing heat that makes his vision blur, his bones aching with the weight of it.

Miriam moans then, a low, throaty sound, as if Lucien’s tongue has finally rediscovered how to inflict sensation to her body. Her hips roll against Lucien’s mouth, her fingers flexing in his hair, and her eyes—still fixed on Kol—gleam with a hunger that mirrors his own.

Kol begins to move, hips rolling slow at first.

The tight heat of Lucien grips him, a searing vice that makes his breath catch. He keeps his pace measured, savoring the friction, the way each withdrawal and push pulls a muffled wet groan from Lucien’s throat.

But his restraint quickly frays like worn thread.

Kol’s movements quicken, thrusts deepening, harder, each one a pulse of possession that makes Lucien’s body shudder beneath him. The boy’s gasps are sharp, ragged, swallowed by Miriam’s cunt as he works her with desperate fervor, his moans a broken hymn of pain and compulsion.

Kol’s hands grip Lucien’s hips, bruising, guiding the rhythm, and the room fills with the wet slap of flesh, the low hum of their shared heat.

Miriam’s moans crest, her hips bucking against Lucien’s tongue, her fingers twisting tighter in his jeweled braid. Her body arches, a taut bow, and she shatters—a keening cry spilling from her lips as she finds her pleasure, her release a flood that Lucien drinks greedily, his own groans muffled but frantic.

Her eyes never leave Kol’s, the hunger in them a mirror to his own, and it’s enough to snap something inside him.

Kol’s hand snakes around Lucien’s neck, fingers digging into the still-weeping bite wound.

He yanks the boy up, his lips tearing from Miriam with a wet gasp, his body pliant but trembling as Kol continues to fuck into him, relentless now, each thrust brutal and mean. Lucien’s moans turn to whimpers, high and fractured, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe through the haze of compulsion and pain.

Kol’s fangs find his neck again, sinking deep, blood flooding his mouth in a hot, coppery rush.

He drinks—his eyes locked on Miriam’s.

She rises, drawn like a moth to the flame of their violence. Her movements are fluid, predatory, as she crawls toward them across the furs. Kol’s thrusts don’t falter, each one driving a choked groan from Lucien, the boy’s body jerking with the force of it.

Miriam reaches them, and her lips find Kol’s, a kiss that’s all blood and heat, her tongue sweeping the crimson from his mouth.

The taste—Lucien’s life, her own musk, their shared hunger—makes her tremble, a soft moan vibrating between them. They part gently, her lips brushing his with a tenderness that jars against the ferocity of Kol’s hips slamming into Lucien, the boy’s gasps now a desperate, stuttering rhythm.

Miriam leans forward, her breath warm against Lucien’s neck.

Her face shifts—dark veins flickering beneath her eyes, a predator’s mask—and she sinks her fangs into the wound Kol left, drinking deep.

The sight sends a jolt through Kol, a white-hot surge that tightens his grip, his thrusts growing erratic. He groans, the sound raw and reverent, teetering on the edge of release. Her fangs gleam in the firelight, blood smearing her lips, and it’s divine, obscene, everything he’s ever wanted for her.

Kol’s own fangs find the other side of Lucien’s neck, biting down hard, blood spurting hot and thick. Lucien’s moans choke into a gurgle, his body convulsing between them, caught in their shared everything.

Kol drinks, the taste overwhelming, and the world narrows to the pulse of blood, the heat of Lucien’s body, the weight of Miriam’s gaze.

His hips stutter as he finds his release—a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat.

In a flash of supernatural strength, Kol’s hands tighten, and he rips Lucien’s throat out. Blood sprays, a crimson arc that paints Miriam’s bare skin, splattering across her chest, her throat, her face.

She pulls back, startled, her fangs retracting as the dark veins fade, her eyes wide with shock.

 Lucien’s body goes limp, a broken thing, and Kol slips out of him, tossing the corpse to the side with a careless flick. It lands among the furs, blood pooling dark and tacky, the jeweled braid dull now, lifeless.

Kol throws himself at Miriam.

His tongue sweeps across her blood-streaked skin, lapping at the crimson that paints her jaw, her throat, her chest, her stomach. The taste is intoxicating—the last evidence that the boy ever existed, ever looked at her—sharp and coppery, mingles with the salt of her flesh, a heady elixir that makes his fangs throb and his vision blur.

Miriam moans, a low, trembling sound that reverberates through him, her body arching into his touch as if drawn by some primal force.

He crawls down her body, lips and tongue tracing a path over the blood-smeared curve of her breast, the dip of her stomach, until he reaches the dark curls between her thighs. His breath is hot against her, a promise of devotion, and he buries his face in her heat, desperate to be the last to claim her pleasure.

His tongue delves into her folds, tasting her—sweet and musky, layered with the lingering iron of Lucien’s blood still coating his mouth.

Miriam is alive beneath him, responsive in a way she wasn’t with the dog.

Her hips grind against his face, urgent, seeking, her thighs trembling around his head. Where she was silent before, now she calls his name—Kol, Kol—like a prayer, each syllable a fervent plea that sets his blood singing. Her voice is loud, unrestrained, filling the room with a raw symphony of want.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard, urging him deeper, and he obliges, his tongue circling her pearl with relentless precision, then plunging into her core, savoring every shudder, every pulse.

She’s louder now, moans spilling into wails, her body a taut string ready to snap. Kol’s hands grip her thighs, holding her open and still, his lips and tongue working her with a fervor that borders on worship. The taste of her—richer, sharper than Lucien’s blood, purer than anything he’s ever known, more everything than he has ever dared to dream—drives him to madness.

He feels her tighten, her breath hitching in jagged gasps, and he pushes harder, sucking gently on her pearl, his tongue relentless until she breaks.

Miriam falls apart faster than she did with Lucien, her release a flood that coats his tongue, her cry a high, keening sound that echoes in the stone chamber.

His blood sings with it, a triumphant roar that drowns out everything else—the boy’s death, the fire’s crackle, the weight of his own sins. She’s his, utterly, in this moment, and the knowledge is a fire in his veins, brighter than any he’s ever felt.

Kol crawls up her body, his lips glistening with her, his eyes locked on hers. She’s flushed, breathless, her chest heaving, blood still streaking her skin like war paint.

He kisses her, deep and claiming, sharing the taste of her release. Her lips yield to his, soft and hungry, and for a moment, the world is nothing but their breath, their heat, the pulse of something eternal and unbreakable.

Miriam’s eyes are glazed, her body trembling beneath Kol, her skin still streaked with blood and flushed with the afterglow of her release.

She leans into him, pressing her curves against his chest, her warmth a furnace that threatens to consume him. Her lips find his again, desperate, as if she’ll unravel without the anchor of his kiss.

“Kol,” she whispers, voice soft and fervent, “sweet Kol, darling, my favorite boy—”

Each word is a spark, igniting something raw and aching in his chest.

He groans into her mouth, the sound rough and reverent, and presses himself closer, their bodies melding until there’s nothing between them.

“I love you, Miri,” he murmurs against her lips, the confession spilling like blood from a wound.

Her breath hitches, and she pulls back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes soft and endless.

“I love you too, Kol,” she says, simple and true, “more than there are stars in the sky.”

The words are a blade, cutting through the haze of his hunger to something tender and unbearable. She kisses him once, soft and deliberate, then twice, each press of her lips a vow that binds them tighter.

Chapter Text

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Their lips crash together the third time in a kiss that’s all heat and devotion, tongues tangling in a rhythm that feels eternal. Kol’s hands roam her body, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the softness of her breasts.

He maps her like a religious pilgrim seeking salvation, each touch a claim, a prayer. Her skin is fever-hot, slick with blood and sweat, and she arches into his hands, a soft moan vibrating between them.

The sound of stomping echoes faintly, growing closer, a distant drumbeat that Kol ignores. His focus is Miriam—her breath, her warmth, the way she yields to him.

The noise is nothing, a fleeting irritation, until it sharpens into the unmistakable rhythm of boots on stone, entering their wing of the castle. Kol’s movements falter, his fingers pausing on the curve of her waist as he tries to place the sound.

Is that cursing, low and hissed, beneath the stomping?

He pulls back slightly, head tilting, but Miriam makes a sound—a pout given voice, petulant and needy—and her hands tug him back, her lips claiming his in a deep, devouring kiss.

Her whine, sharp and insistent, cuts through his distraction when she feels his attention drift.

“Kol,” she breathes into his mouth, a plea that makes his blood roar.

He decides, with a reckless clarity—fuck it—and throws himself into her, kissing her with a fervor that drowns out the world.

His hand slides down, fingers finding the slick heat between her thighs. He slips one finger inside her, then a second, teasing her with slow, deliberate strokes. She’s soaked, her warmth coating his hand, and she moans wildly, legs spreading wide as she arches into him.

Kol settles between her thighs, his arousal stirring again, hardening against her hip as he works her, her gasps filling the air.

The stomping crescendos, now a thunderous rhythm, and a frantic, angry knocking erupts at the door.

Kol ignores it, his eyes riveted on Miriam’s trembling form, the way her hips buck against his hand, her moans rising to a fevered pitch. But her eyes flicker, concern shadowing their haze, and she glances toward the door.

Kol doesn’t care—his fingers curl inside her, drawing another cry, and he leans down to capture her lips again, determined to keep her here, with him.

“Do not ignore me, Kol Mikaelson!” Rebekah’s voice screeches through the door, sharp enough to pierce stone. “Open this damn door!”

Kol pulls away from Miriam with a groan, his lips still tingling from her kisses, her words—more than there are stars in the sky—echoing in his chest like a heartbeat.

“What could you possibly need, Rebekah?” he calls, voice dripping with irritation, his fingers still buried inside Miriam, curling slow and deliberate.

Her warmth clenches around him, slick and inviting, and he feels her tense, her breath hitching as she tries to stifle her sounds. The effort, her sudden need to be quiet with their sister at the door, sparks something wicked in him—a mean streak, a flicker of vengeance for ever being interested in the dog at all.

He lets his fingers scissor inside her, stretching her with a slow, teasing pressure, while his thumb skates over her pearl, light at first, then firmer.

Miriam’s leg trembles, a soft whimper escaping her lips, barely muffled as she bites them. The sound is a knife to his restraint, sharp and sweet.

Kol’s lips curve into a smirk, catching the faint cursing from beyond the door—Rebekah’s voice, low and venomous, muttering under her breath.

He presses his thumb harder, rubbing Miriam in earnest now, circles tight and relentless, drawing another shudder from her.

“Open the door, Kol,” Rebekah snaps, her voice sharper now, cutting through the stone. “Now.”

Miriam whimpers audibly, the sound high and desperate, and Kol’s fingers thrust deeper, matching the rhythm of his thumb. Each movement is deliberate, a taunt to both sisters—one writhing beneath him, the other raging outside.

“I’m busy,” he calls back, voice lazy but edged with defiance, just as Miriam erupts into a loud moan, her hips bucking against his hand, her control fraying like thread.

The silence from the door is sudden, heavy, and then Rebekah’s voice comes again, deadly quiet, each word a shard of ice. “Open this door, Kol Mikaelson, or I will break it down.”

Kol rolls his eyes, undeterred, and leans down to capture Miriam’s lips, kissing her soundly, his tongue sweeping against hers.

His fingers don’t falter, thrusting in time with his thumb’s relentless circles, her slick heat coating his hand. She moans against his mouth, wild and unrestrained, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

“Kol, stop,” she gasps between kisses, her voice trembling with both pleasure and worry. “Let Rebekah in.”

He hushes her, a low, soothing sound, and kisses her deeper, drowning her protests.

“Not yet, Miri,” he murmurs against her lips, his fingers curling just so, feeling her tighten around him.

He wants her to break again, to spill over his hand one more time before he faces whatever annoyance Rebekah think is so pressing.

Miriam’s body tenses beneath Kol, her breath hitching as his fingers curl deeper, relentless, pushing her toward the edge. Her moans escalate, wild and unrestrained, until they break into a keening cry. She shatters, her release flooding his hand, her warmth pulsing around his fingers in a rhythm that makes his blood roar.

Rebekah screeches in fury from beyond the door, the sound sharp and enraged, slicing through the air like a whip.

Kol pulls his hand free, slow and deliberate, his fingers glistening with her essence in the firelight. He holds them up to her lips, a silent command, and Miriam—still dazed, still trembling—leans forward, her tongue darting out to taste herself. She sucks his fingers clean, her eyes half-lidded, locked on his, and the sight sends a fresh surge of heat through him.

With a low disappointed groan, Kol rolls away from her, snatching his abandoned linen shirt from the furs. He throws it over himself, the fabric settling at mid-thigh, barely covering his still-hard arousal.

He saunters to the door, all lazy confidence, but his ears catch the rustle of fabric behind him—Miriam reaching for her chemise, he assumes. A smirk tugs at his lips.

She’d better not put it on, he thinks. I’m not done with her.

The door swings open, and Rebekah stands there, pink-faced, her eyes rimmed with red as if she’s been crying.

Her sneer is venomous, and she shoves past Kol, storming into the room like a tempest. Her gaze lands on Miriam, perched on the bed, clutching the thin, barely white chemise to cover herself—streaked with Lucien’s blood, Kol’s enthusiasm having left its mark on the fabric.

Rebekah whirls on him, her voice a lash. “You better not have fucked her with that disgusting man covering your cock, Kol. How vile can you be? Exposing her to someone like that for her first time?”

Kol’s jaw tightens, annoyance flaring hot in his chest.

“The dog didn’t get a single finger in her, thank you very much,” he snarks, folding his arms, the shirt riding up slightly. His tone is sharp, biting, but there’s a flicker of indignation beneath it—Rebekah’s accusation stings more than he’d admit.

She strides toward the bed, her sneer deepening as she glances at Miriam, then back at Kol.

“Oh, but I don’t imagine that extended to the disgusting mess coating your body right now, did it?” she snaps, her voice dripping with disdain. “That’s good enough for our sister, is it?”

Kol’s anger spikes, a hot flare in his gut.

How dare she? Kol hadn’t even fucked Miriam—yet. And yes, he was planning to, was moments from it, but he didn’t.

The retort burns on his tongue, but before he can spit it out, his mouth falls open, words dying in his throat.

Rebekah has reached Miriam, her hands cupping their sister’s face with a tenderness that belies her fury.

Then, in a heartbeat, she pulls Miriam into a kiss so intense, so punishing, it steals the air from the room. Their lips crash together, Rebekah’s fingers tangling in Miriam’s hair, pulling her closer with a ferocity that makes Kol’s pulse thunder.

Miriam yields, her body softening, the blood-streaked chemise slipping slightly as she leans into their sister’s embrace.

Rebekah’s hands tangle deeper in Miriam’s hair, her fingers twisting with a possessive edge. The kiss escalates, a fierce collision of lips and teeth, Rebekah’s hunger a storm that consumes Miriam’s soft gasps.

She climbs onto the bed, fluid and predatory, straddling Miriam’s hips, her weight pinning their sister to the furs. Her lips never leave Miriam’s, the kiss vicious, punishing, as she tugs at her hair—sharp, deliberate pulls that draw gasps and groans from Miriam’s throat.

Miriam shakes beneath her, body trembling, the blood-streaked chemise slipping from her hands entirely as her grip moves to Rebekah’s shoulders, baring more of her flushed skin.

Kol stands frozen, his pulse thundering, a confusing mix of emotions swirling in his gut—left out, caught off guard, and painfully aroused.

His cock jumps to full attention, bumping against the linen shirt, the fabric doing little to hide his need.

The sight of his sisters—Rebekah’s ferocity, Miriam’s yielding softness—sets him aflame, and he’s torn between wanting to join and wanting to tear them apart.

Rebekah pulls back, but only just, her face mere inches from Miriam’s.

Her eyes are wild, unblinking, a storm of intensity that mirrors the firelight’s dance. Miriam’s gaze is half-lidded, dazed, her lips parted and swollen from the kiss.

“Did you let Kol fuck you?” Rebekah asks, her voice low, edged with something dangerous. “After he fucked Lucien?”

Miriam blinks, her expression blissfully vacant, as if the kiss has stripped her thoughts bare.

“Who?” she mumbles, voice soft and slurred, like she’s drunk on Rebekah’s touch.

Rebekah’s frown deepens, a flash of impatience crossing her face. “Lucien,” she repeats, sharper now, her fingers tightening in Miriam’s hair.

Miriam blinks again, slow and dreamy, then shyly murmurs, “Kol told me not to say his name.”

Kol’s mind crows, a triumphant roar echoing in his chest—Victory! Mine!—his sister’s obedience a spark that lights his blood on fire.

Rebekah’s lips twist, and she tugs harder on Miriam’s hair, making their sister buck beneath her, hips jerking against the furs.

“I asked you a question,” she says, each word precise.

Miriam’s eyes flutter, still half-lidded, and she breathes, “What was it again?”

“Did. Kol. Fuck. You.” Rebekah punctuates each word with a sharp tug, her grip unrelenting.

Miriam whimpers, the sound soft and achingly sweet, her body trembling under the weight of Rebekah’s intensity.

Kol opens his mouth, a protest rising—Be nicer, Bekah—but Rebekah’s head snaps toward him, eyes blazing.

“Stay out of this,” she snaps, her voice a whip that silences him.

Miriam’s voice comes quiet, almost hesitant. “We… hadn’t.” Her cheeks flush, a shy admission that hangs in the air.

Rebekah’s expression softens, but only slightly, her eyes still sharp as she leans closer to Miriam.

“Good,” she says, voice low and biting. “Because he’s got a disgusting mess on his cock right now. It’d be cruel to let him touch you with that smeared all over him.” Her gaze flicks to Kol, disdain curling her lips. “Clearly, he doesn’t know how to please a woman—especially not one of us. Not based on the sounds you were making.”

Kol scoffs, annoyance flaring hot in his chest, his hands clenching at his sides. “Oh, please,” he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm, but the jab stings more than he’ll admit.

Miriam shifts beneath Rebekah, her voice small but clear, hesitating as if weighing her words. “I… liked what Kol did to me, though,” she says.

Rebekah seems to freeze for a moment, her body going still atop Miriam, the air thick with the weight of Miriam’s quiet admission. Kol’s grin grows, slow and triumphant, a sharp curve that bares his teeth in the firelight.

Rebekah scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive, her eyes narrowing as she leans back slightly.

“Obviously, you’ve never had anything better,” she says, voice laced with condescension. “Judging by what I overheard, your experience amounted to that ugly thing—”

Hypocritical witch, Kol thinks, the memory flashing in his mind—Rebekah, not so long ago, cooing over Lucien’s face, calling him “pretty” with that soft lilt, her puppy eyes turned on Elijah as she begged, Can we keep him?

“—and our least charming brother.”

Kol squawks, indignation flaring hot in his chest. He slams the door shut behind him finally, the wood thudding with emphasis, and retorts, “I’m plenty charming, thank you very much.”

Rebekah rolls her eyes, ignoring him entirely, her fingers already working the ties at the front of her nightgown. The chemise is thicker than Miriam’s, long-sleeved and woven for warmth, but she undoes it with deliberate slowness, the fabric parting like a secret revealed.

“I’m going to show you how it’s supposed to feel, Miri,” she murmurs, her voice low and commanding, eyes locked on their sister. “Because obviously, neither of them were any good at it.”

Miriam is practically vibrating beneath her, nostrils flaring as she inhales sharply, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.

“Oh,” she murmurs, the word soft but high-pitched, breaking on the exhale like fragile glass.

Kol’s blood boils, a dark fury twisting in his gut—she hadn’t reacted like that for him, hadn’t trembled with such raw anticipation under his touch. The jealousy is a bitter taste on his tongue, sharp as bile.

Rebekah finishes with the last tie, letting it fall off her shoulders. It pools around her hips, and Kol’s cock throbs harder, damn it all—seeing them both nude, Rebekah’s breasts and Miriam’s blood-streaked curves in the same glance is a torment that leaves him aching.

Rebekah climbs off Miriam, graceful as a cat, and stands at the edge of the bed. She lets the chemise fall completely, the fabric whispering to the floor, her body bared without shame.

Her hands find Miriam’s legs, gripping the thighs with firm intent, and she pulls her sister to the edge until her hips dangle off the furs, vulnerable and open. Rebekah sinks to her knees between them, lifting Miriam’s legs to drape over her shoulders, the position intimate, commanding, her breath warm against Miriam’s curls.

Miriam props herself up on her elbows, her gaze fixed on Rebekah with wide, luminous eyes, her breath shallow and quick. Then her eyes flicker to Kol across the room, and a storm passes through them—panic first, sharp and fleeting, then softening into something tender, before igniting into a raw, hungry blaze that catches somewhere between all three.

Rebekah blows a soft breath against her slit, and Miriam’s left leg twitches, a small, involuntary jerk that betrays her.

Their sister leans forward, her tongue tracing a long, deliberate lick along Miriam’s flower, and she moans, the sound low and trembling, her eyes locked on Kol’s with an intensity that pins him in place.

Rebekah doesn’t pause, her tongue delivering two more slow, languid licks, each one drawing a shudder from Miriam’s core. On the last, Miriam’s eyes flutter closed, her head tipping back as an obscene moan spills from her lips, raw and unrestrained, echoing in the stone chamber.

Kol’s restraint snaps like a taut bowstring.

He flashes to her side in a blur, the bed dipping under his weight as he kneels beside her, his hand pressing to her cheek, fingers gentle but firm as he tilts her face toward his. Her skin is fever-hot under his touch, her breath ragged, and he leans in, lips hovering just shy of hers, ready to claim her in another kiss.

Before he can, Rebekah pulls back, her voice cutting through the haze.

“You better not touch her with that cock you fucked that boy with,” she snaps, eyes narrowing to slits.

Kol rolls his eyes, a groan of exasperation escaping him.

You fuck one dog, he thinks bitterly, and suddenly you’re a deviant who can’t be trusted.

Rebekah’s gaze sharpens, and she calls out, softer but commanding, “Miri, tell him. He can’t touch you with his cock—until he cleans Lucien off himself, or I stop.”

Miriam doesn’t even open her eyes, her face still cradled in Kol’s hands, her lips parted as she pants softly.

“You’re not allowed to touch me with your cock,” she murmurs, voice dreamy and slurred, repeating Rebekah’s words like a spell.

Kol groans, the sound half-frustration, half-hunger, but he mutters, “Fine,” his tone clipped as he leans back slightly, though his hand stays on her cheek, thumb brushing her skin.

Rebekah returns to Miriam’s cunt, her tongue moving in short, rapid bursts over her pearl, each flick precise and unrelenting. Miriam jumps, her body quivering, small gasps spilling from her lips as her hips buck against Rebekah’s mouth.

Kol watches, his cock throbbing painfully under the thin linen shirt, the sight of his sisters—Miriam trembling, Rebekah commanding—burning into him.

He leans forward, unable to resist, and presses his lips to Miriam’s once, soft and fleeting, then twice, lingering longer.

On the third, he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against hers, tasting the faint sweetness of their night together. She moans into his mouth, soft and desperate, her hand clutching at his shoulder as Rebekah’s tongue drives her higher, the room humming with their shared heat.

Rebekah doesn’t relent, her tongue a relentless tide, bringing Miriam closer to the precipice.

Kol pulls back to watch, his breath ragged, and Miriam’s head falls to the crook between his neck and shoulder, her lips brushing his skin, warm and trembling.

Rebekah glances up, a smirk curling her lips, her eyes glinting with triumph. Kol rolls his eyes, but the gesture is half-hearted, his focus stolen by Miriam’s heat against him.

Rebekah lifts her right hand, her fingers trailing along Miriam’s slit, slow and deliberate.

Miriam moans wildly, her voice breaking as she presses her lips to Kol’s neck, begging against his flesh, “Please, Bekah, let me feel good.”

Her words are a plea, raw and needy, and Kol feels the vibration of them against his skin, a spark that ignites his own hunger.

Rebekah hums, low and approving, and slides one finger into Miriam’s slick heat, then another, her movements sure and unyielding. She returns to Miriam’s pearl, her tongue flicking in tandem with her fingers, a rhythm that makes Miriam’s body arch, her breath hitching in sharp, desperate gasps.

Kol feels her tremble against him, her lips grazing his throat, and then—sudden and fierce—her fangs sink into his neck.

The pain is a lightning strike, sharp and searing, but it melts into a flood of pleasure so intense it makes his vision blur. Her bite is a claim, a pull that tugs at his very essence, each draw of his blood a pulse that echoes in his bones.

It’s intimate, visceral, a connection that binds them deeper than flesh—her lips sealed to his skin, drinking him in, her tongue lapping at the wound with a hunger that mirrors his own.

Kol moans, low and guttural, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her close as she feeds, the sensation a wildfire that consumes him, every nerve alight with the electric intimacy of her drinking from him.

Miriam’s moans vibrate against his throat, muffled but desperate, as Rebekah’s fingers thrust deeper, her tongue attacking Miriam’s pearl with unrelenting precision. Miriam clamps down harder, her fangs sinking deeper into Kol’s neck, and the pain-pleasure spikes, a white-hot surge that makes his cock throb, his breath hitch.

Her body tenses, quivering on the edge, and then she shatters, her release flooding over Rebekah’s fingers, a wild, obscene moan muffled against Kol’s skin.

Rebekah doesn’t stop, slipping a third finger into Miriam’s heat, her thrusts relentless, her tongue still working that sensitive bud, drawing out every shudder, every gasp.

Miriam’s body bucks, her hands scrambling over Kol’s shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as she pulls him down with her, collapsing backward onto the furs, her lips never leaving his neck.

She drinks deeper, her moans a low hum against his throat, and Kol feels the pull of her, the way his blood flows into her, a tide that binds them in this moment.

His own moans spill free, raw and reverent, the sensation of her feeding an ache that’s both exquisite and overwhelming, like a star burning too bright. Miriam’s body trembles beneath him, her legs splayed over Rebekah’s shoulders, and Kol can feel her climbing toward another release, her breaths coming faster, more ragged.

Suddenly, she releases his neck, her fangs pulling free with a wet gasp, and Kol moans, a strange emptiness washing over him, like a piece of himself has been torn away. His blood smears across her lips, her chin, a crimson mask that glistens in the light

Miriam tilts her head back, baring her throat, her moans rising as Rebekah pushes her closer to the edge again. Kol watches her face, her eyes half-lidded, her lips parted, blood-streaked and trembling with need.

Her throat is a pale column, an offering, and his fangs drop, sharp and eager. He leans down, his lips brushing her skin, and then he sinks his fangs into the meat of her neck, piercing deep.

Miriam howls, the sound loud and obscene, a needy cry that echoes in the stone chamber, her entire body shaking as she comes apart once more—around Rebekah’s fingers and Kol’s fangs.

His sister’s blood is a torrent of fire in his mouth, rich and sweet, salty from her sweat. Her entire body shakes beneath him, tremors rippling through her as if she’s unraveling, caught between ecstasy and overwhelm.

Kol’s hands anchor her, his right tangled in her hair, holding her head steady, his left gripping her shoulder, pressing her upper body still against the furs. Her hips twitch involuntarily, jerking toward Rebekah’s face, where their sister’s tongue works with relentless precision, coaxing moans and shudders from Miriam’s core.

Rebekah’s three fingers piston in and out, stretching Miriam’s slick heat, her tongue flicking short, rapid bursts over her pearl.

Miriam’s cries escalate, a symphony of rasping howls and sobbing pleas, her voice breaking as she begs, “Please, Bekah, Kol—please—”

Her body is a live wire, twitching and shaking, her thighs trembling over Rebekah’s shoulders. Kol drinks deeper, each pull of her blood a pulse that vibrates through his bones, the intimacy of it searing, like he’s consuming her very essence. Her moans are a hymn, desperate and raw, and he feels her crest again, her second orgasm crashing through her, her body arching as she sobs, her nails digging into his arms.

Rebekah doesn’t relent, her fingers and tongue pushing Miriam toward a third release, her cries growing hoarse, her body quivering uncontrollably.

Kol pulls back from her neck, his lips wet with her blood, and their eyes lock for a fleeting moment—hers glazed, wild, pleading.

He crashes his lips to hers, their kiss a collision of blood and hunger, tasting each other’s essence, her sweetness mingling with his own coppery tang. Miriam babbles into his mouth, incoherent, her voice trembling with desperation, “Kol, I’m—gonna die, Kol—”

Her words are a broken prayer, and he groans, his hand tightening in her hair and his left roaming her body, tracing the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the blood-streaked skin of her stomach.

Rebekah’s lips find the meat of Miriam’s inner thigh, her fangs sinking deep with a sharp bite.

Miriam’s cry is raw, animalistic, her body jerking as Rebekah’s fingers continue their relentless rhythm, her tongue lapping at the fresh wound, smearing blood across Miriam’s slit.

The sight is a wildfire in Kol’s veins, the crimson mixing with her release, and Miriam cums again, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that leaves her sobbing, pathetic mewls spilling from her lips as her body convulses, caught between Rebekah’s mouth and Kol’s hands.

Rebekah pulls back with a wet pop, her tongue returning to Miriam’s flower, licking through the blood and slick, dragging out every shudder until Miriam’s cries are little more than broken whimpers.

Rebekah finally pulls away, her fingers slipping free, her lower face a glistening mask of blood and release, her eyes glinting with triumph.

Kol feels a purr rumble in his chest at the sight—raw, primal, his sister a vision of sin—until her lips curl into a smirk.

“What’s that, brother? Three? Four?” she snarks, voice dripping with condescension. “More than you managed to squeeze out of her, Kol.”

He rolls his eyes, annoyance flaring, but it’s tempered by the heat still coursing through him. “Oh, sod off, Bekah,” he mutters, though the jab lands harder than he’d like.

Rebekah’s hands slide under Miriam’s thighs, lifting them slightly, and she presses a soft kiss to the inner thigh, just above the bite wound, her lips gentle against the bruised skin.

Miriam groans, low and exhausted, her face burying into Kol’s shoulder, her breath hot against his neck.

Rebekah’s smirk lingers, her eyes glinting with triumph as she pulls back from the soft kiss on Miriam’s thigh. She glances at Kol, her voice cutting through the haze of heat and blood.

“It’s time to change places, brother,” she says, her tone sharp but laced with a challenge that makes his pulse quicken.

Kol’s grin is instant, gleeful, his annoyance at her earlier jab dissolving in the promise of what’s to come. He pulls back from Miriam with a predatory grace, ignoring her sad whine, eager to take his place, as Rebekah slides out from between Miriam’s legs.

Rebekah stands, her movements fluid, and presses a knee to the mattress between Miriam’s legs, using it to leverage herself up. The pressure against Miriam’s heat draws a low, broken moan from their sister’s lips, her body twitching hard, rubbing slick and blood against Rebekah’s flesh in a desperate, instinctive grind.

Rebekah pushes forward, crawling over Miriam’s body, her own heat settling briefly atop her sister’s wet curls as she straddles her hips.

It sends sparks to Kol’s already burning desire and his cock feels impossibly hard at the sight.

Rebekah glances at him, her lips curling into a taunting grin. “Well? Get to your place between our sister’s legs, Kol,” she snarks, her voice dripping with mock impatience.

Kol rolls his eyes, but the gesture is half-hearted, his focus stolen by the vision before him—Rebekah’s lithe form sitting atop Miriam, her face smeared with their sister’s blood and slick, a primal mask that makes his bones hums.

Drawn forward, he leans in, unable to resist, and Rebekah meets him halfway.

Their lips crash together in a passionate kiss, fierce and hungry, tasting Miriam’s blood and release on each other’s mouths. The flavor is intoxicating—sweet and musky, layered with the coppery tang of blood, a shared sin that binds them in this moment. Rebekah’s tongue sweeps against his, claiming, challenging, and Kol groans into her mouth, his hands twitching with the urge to pull her closer.

Miriam’s soft, plaintive moan cuts through the haze, a sound so needy it pulls at something deep in his chest.

Rebekah pulls back from Kol at Miriam’s desperate sound, her movements fluid and deliberate, her eyes softening as they find their sister’s.

She leans down, capturing Miriam’s lips in a kiss that’s both tender and consuming, a slow burn of passion that makes Miriam sigh into her mouth.

“Miri,” Rebekah whispers against her lips, her voice a velvet caress, warm and intimate. “I’ve dreamed of you—your touch, your taste. Have you dreamed of me too?”

Her words are a gentle lure, laced with adoration, her breath mingling with Miriam’s.

Miriam’s eyes glisten, her voice trembling with quiet fervor. “Yes, Bekah, always,” she breathes, her hands reaching up to cup Rebekah’s face, fingers trembling against her skin. “You’re so beautiful, so perfect, my sweet Bekah.”

The words spill like honey, reverent and aching, and Kol feels a pang of envy twist in his gut.

Rebekah’s lips curve into a soft smile, her voice dropping lower, a sultry promise. “Do you want me, Miri? Want to taste me, love?” she murmurs, her fingers brushing Miriam’s cheek, tender and teasing.

Miriam whimpers, her body arching slightly, her voice a desperate plea.

Miriam whines, the sound raw and desperate, her body trembling as she presses herself closer. “Yes, I want it—more than breathing. If I don’t get to taste you, I’m going to die.”

Her voice cracks, a plea that makes Kol’s chest tighten, his arousal warring with the bitter sting of being sidelined.

He leans forward, instinct driving him to join them, to reclaim his place as he did with Lucien, to taste the shared heat of his sisters. But Rebekah’s hand snaps up, pressing against his face, shoving him back with a light but firm push.

“You have a different job, Kol,” she says, her voice sharp, her eyes flashing as she pulls back from Miriam. Their sister’s lips trailing down Rebekah’s chin, along her jaw, to the pale column of her neck, kissing with a fervor that makes Kol’s blood roar.

“Get between her legs, Kol,” Rebekah orders, her tone brooking no argument, her hand still firm against his face.

Kol’s lips part, and he flicks his tongue against her palm, a defiant little lick that makes Rebekah hiss in disgust, her eyes narrowing.

She uses her supernatural strength, pushing harder, sending him back onto his elbows with a thud. Miriam’s lips are still on Rebekah’s throat, her kisses soft but urgent, and she pulls back just enough to murmur, “Can I bite you, Bekah? Please, I need to taste you.”

Her voice is a needy whisper, her eyes pleading, and Kol squawks, indignation flaring hot in his chest.

“She didn’t ask me,” he snaps, the words sharp with a mix of jealousy and wounded pride.

Miriam goes quiet for a moment, her lips still brushing Rebekah’s skin, and Rebekah’s gaze snaps to Kol, her eyes narrowing to slits.

“That’s because we all know you’ve been biting at the bit for Miriam to sink her fangs into you all year,” she says, her voice dripping with knowing condescension, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Kol snorts, a grudging laugh escaping him as he shakes his head.

“You got me there,” he mutters, conceding the point with a wry grin.

He slinks off the bed, his movements fluid despite the ache in his body, and takes his place between Miriam’s shaking legs. Her thighs tremble, slick with blood and release, her hips still dangling off the edge of the bed, vulnerable and open. Kol’s hands find her thighs, his fingers brushing the bruised, blood-streaked skin, and he feels the heat of her, the pulse of her need, calling to him like a siren’s song.

Kol’s hand glides over Miriam’s slick, blood-streaked slit, his fingers tracing the heat of her, the pulse of her arousal thrumming against his skin. Her thighs tremble under his touch, still dangling off the bed’s edge, open and vulnerable.

Above him, he hears Miriam’s voice, soft and pleading, asking Rebekah again, “Please, Bekah, let me taste you.”

Rebekah’s response is a low, commanding murmur, “Blood is not what I’m offering you, Miri.”

With a swift motion, she pushes Miriam back, forcing her prone against the furs, her body splayed out, chest heaving, as Kol slides two fingers into her quim. Miriam bucks, a sharp gasp escaping her lips, her hips jerking toward his hand.

Rebekah crawls over their sister’s body, her movements predatory and smooth.

She positions herself above Miriam, her thighs bracketing her face, her cunt hovering just above Miriam’s parted lips. Kol watches, his breath catching, as Rebekah lowers herself, her heat meeting Miriam’s mouth. The sight is a spark to his already raging desire, his cock aching under the thin linen shirt.

Kol wishes more than anything he hadn’t fucked the boy, so he could sink into Miriam’s warmth while Rebekah took her place.

His fingers scissor inside Miriam, stretching her, and he slides in a third, feeling her tighten around him, her slick walls pulsing. With his free hand, he spits into his palm, gripping his cock and stroking in tandem with the rhythm of his fingers inside her, each movement a mirror of the other.

Rebekah grinds against Miriam’s face, her hips rolling with a domineering edge.

Kol’s eyes darken, a low groan rumbling in his chest—he knows that if Rebekah was born with a cock between her legs that she’d certainly be shoving it down Miriam’s throat, fucking her face with the same ruthless precision she’s using now.

Miriam’s whines and groans are muffled, swallowed by Rebekah’s cunt, each sound vibrating through their sister’s body.

Kol twists his fingers harder, drawing a sharp, high-pitched yip from Miriam that reverberates into Rebekah, who echoes it with a sweet, lilting moan, her head tipping back, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

Kol decides to push further, slipping a fourth finger into Miriam’s quim. It’s a tight fit—almost ridiculously snug. Two fingers were easy, her arousal making her slick and pliant. Three was snug, a delicious resistance. Four feels impossible, her walls squeezing so tightly he can feel every pulse, every shudder, as he works them deeper.

Miriam yips again, her body jerking, her thighs trembling as she adjusts to the stretch. It takes a moment, his movements slow and deliberate, but he keeps going, pushing her further, testing her limits.

Rebekah rides Miriam’s face harder, her hips grinding with increasing urgency, her hands tangled in Miriam’s hair and braced on the furs for leverage.

“That’s it, Miri,” she murmurs, her voice a mix of praise and command. “You’re doing so good, but you could do better.”

Her words are a velvet whip, spurring Miriam on, and Kol feels her tighten around his fingers, her muffled groans sending vibrations through Rebekah’s core.

“Faster, Kol,” Rebekah suddenly orders. “Harder. Make her groan. Make her cry. Make her moan into me.”

Kol’s fingers plunge into Miriam’s quim—the stretch a tight, searing vice that makes his own breath hitch. He thrusts hard and fast, the rhythm punishing, each drive eliciting a wet, crude sound that fills the chamber, mingling with the crackle of the fire.

Miriam’s walls clench around him, slick and pulsing, her arousal coating his hand up to the wrist. Her body is a storm beneath him, thighs quivering, hips bucking involuntarily to meet his hand, her muffled sobs vibrating against Rebekah’s cunt like a living current.

The sensation travels through Rebekah, drawing sharp, lilting moans from her lips, her head tipping back slightly, blonde hair cascading like a veil of gold in the firelight.

Rebekah’s fingers twist tighter in Miriam’s hair, mean and possessive, tugging just enough to arch their sister’s neck, exposing the pale column of her throat smeared with Kol’s blood.

“Yes, Miri,” Rebekah purrs, her voice a husky command laced with sweetness, “just like that, love—make me feel every sob.”

She grinds down harder, her thighs bracketing Miriam’s face with unyielding pressure, the force supernatural, enough to crush a human skull, but Miriam takes it—takes everything—her tongue delving eagerly, lapping at Rebekah’s pearl with desperate fervor. Rebekah’s hips roll in slow, deliberate circles, savoring the build, her breaths soft gasps that grow ragged, needy.

“You’re doing so well, Miri,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper, eyes glinting with adoration and dominance. “So perfect for me. I could keep you here forever, trapped between my legs, your sweet mouth worshipping me.” She leans back, tilting her hips to press even harder into Miriam’s lapping tongue. “Would you like that, sister? Me riding your face, night after night, while Kol fucks you senseless?”

Miriam’s moan is a broken, desperate sound, muffled against Rebekah’s heat, her body trembling violently at the words.

The idea sends a jolt through Kol, his cock throbbing painfully, his hand faltering on its frantic rhythm as he nearly cums on the spot from the raw need in Miriam’s answering moan. Her hips buck harder against his fingers, her quim squeezing impossibly tight, and Kol groans, low and guttural, the image Rebekah paints searing into his mind—Miriam, forever theirs, caught in this eternal dance of pleasure and possession.

Rebekah’s grinding intensifies, her hips shifting to sharp, demanding thrusts, her moans rising in pitch, wild and unrestrained.

“Oh, Miri—yes,” she gasps, her head tilting back, neck arched, body taut with impending release. Miriam’s tongue works frantically, lapping and sucking, her own climax coiling under Kol’s assault.

Kol pushes harder, curling his fingers, scissoring them wide, his thumb circling her pearl with relentless precision. The air hums with their sounds—wet slaps, Rebekah’s throaty moans, Miriam’s muffled howls—and Kol’s pleasure builds, his hand stroking his cock in time, teetering on the edge.

Miriam shatters first, her quim clamping down on Kol’s fingers, her release flooding hot and copious, her howl vibrating into Rebekah’s cunt.

The sensation tips Rebekah over, her scream wild and piercing as she cums, hips stuttering against Miriam’s mouth.

And Kol rips his fingers free, the sudden absence drawing a raw howl from Miriam, and he rises, his hand a blur on his cock. His release spills across her cunt, white ropes mixing with her blood and slick, a vision so primal it burns into his soul.

As Rebekah and Miriam calm, their breaths slowing, their bodies softening in the afterglow, Kol’s fingers return to Miriam’s slit. He gathers his seed, still warm, and pushes it inside her, slow and methodical.

A thought flickers, warm and fleeting—his seed taking root in her, a spark of life in the wake of so much death.

Miriam would like that, he knows, after the gaping wound of Henrik’s loss. Rebekah too, her heart ever yearning for something soft to hold. The others—Elijah, Niklaus—would welcome a little one, a new thread in their eternal tapestry. Finn might scoff, but Kol doesn’t care.

If not this time, then the next, or the time after that. They have forever now, an endless stretch of nights to weave their desires into reality.