Unspoken

“I will, Stefan, I will.” Elena was sobbing freely, trying to hold onto Stefan as his image wavered, his voice getting softer.

“Live well, Elena. I’ll always love you.”

And then Stefan was gone.

Three hours later, Elena was back in Dalcrest. Dawn was breaking, and sleepy birds began chirping to each other in the trees as she let herself into the apartment.

Damon was standing by the windows in the living room, waiting for her. She stopped and stared at him, struck anew by how beautiful he was—fine boned and sleekly arrogant—and how different from classically profiled, noble-faced Stefan.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Elena realized she must look a mess, her gown stained with the dust of the uninhabited house, her eyes wild, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears.

“I’ve always loved you,” she said. “I won’t ever stop loving Stefan, but that doesn’t mean my feelings for you are any less.”

For a moment, Damon’s eyes shone and a soft smile broke over his face.

But then he hesitated, and his gaze clouded over. Stefan. Like a shout, the word hung in the air between them. Elena knew that, somehow, loving her felt like more of a betrayal to him than it ever had when Stefan was alive.

“I saw Stefan,” she said. “Stefan’s ghost. He was in my house in Fell’s Church. He couldn’t stay long, but he was there.”

Damon sucked in a startled breath. For a moment, his expression was full of wonder and alarm, and then it went smooth and perfectly blank, the way it always did when Damon was concealing strong emotion.

“No,” Elena said sharply, and took a quick step across the living room to grab hold of Damon’s arm. “No, he was fine. He seemed… content. He wants us to be happy. He wants me to keep living, to go after what I want.” She tried to smile at Damon, although her face felt stiff and strange. “He had a message he wanted me to give you.”

Damon’s face softened. For a moment, he looked young, like the boy he’d been, who’d died on his brother’s sword so long ago. “He did?” he asked.

Elena nodded. “He said he was sorry about all the bad blood there’d been between you, and he wanted me to tell you that you were brothers again, by the end.”

Ducking his head, Damon smiled, a small, private smile that Elena had never seen before. And then he wiped that smile from his face, replacing it with his customary brilliant flash of teeth. “Well, I knew that, of course,” he said. “Just like Stefan, to show up as a ghost and state the obvious.”

Elena took his hand and tugged him toward the couch, coaxing him to sit beside her. “I guess I should have known what he told me, too.”

Damon went very still. “What did he tell you?”

Running her fingers across the back of his hand, tracing the long bones of his fingers, Elena said slowly, “He told me that, if what I wanted was… you… if I loved you… he’d be happy for me.”

Damon was staring very hard at the opposite wall, his dark eyes unreadable. “And is it?” he asked, sounding almost indifferent. “Am I what you want?”

“Oh, Damon, you know I’ve always loved you,” Elena said, her voice breaking. “Even when I wasn’t supposed to.”

Damon turned to her then, a new light dawning in his eyes, his mask of indifference breaking and letting hope shine through. Elena leaned toward him, sorrow and joy mixing together inside her, and their lips met.

His kiss was as soft as silk, but somehow demanding, too, and Elena opened to it. Between them, their bond flooded with emotion: love and joy, a sweet thrill of acceptance at last.

Yes, she thought, the joy conquering the sorrow just as, outside, the sun broke over the horizon. Yes. This is my future.

Chapter 34

“But the Eiffel Tower closes at eleven, it says so right on the sign,” Elena objected, laughing. “If you didn’t compel anyone, how did you get us up here so late?”

“As well as being incredibly charming and handsome, I am also extremely wealthy,” Damon told her dryly. “Any human could have spread a few euros around. You said you wanted to come up here.”

“I’m not complaining,” Elena told him. She leaned against the railing of the observation deck, taking in the lights of Paris below them. Damon grinned at her.

“I was here in Paris when it was being built for the Exposition Universelle, you know,” he said. “Hideous. Completely ruined the skyline. A bunch of artists drew up a petition against it. They called the Tower a useless monstrosity, and a truly tragic street lamp.”

“Oh, you’re just teasing me,” Elena said, swatting at him.

“It’s true,” Damon said. “They said it in French, of course. Ce lampadaire véritablement tragique.”

Elena snorted and turned back to gaze over the city. Damon leaned beside her.

“It is rather pretty up here, of course,” he said. “It’s one of the few spots in Paris from which you can’t see the Eiffel Tower.”

Despite herself, Elena giggled, and Damon laughed along with her. The golden lights of the city below reflected in her lapis lazuli blue eyes. She was so eager to take everything in, to get all the pleasure Paris had to give her.

Damon looked out over the skyline. His eyes caught on the Arc de Triomphe. Elena would probably like to see that up close, too. He was going to show her the whole world.

A jarring wave of pain came through their bond and Damon flinched. Beside him, Elena suddenly gagged and doubled over.

“Are you all right?” Damon asked, steadying her.

Elena shook her head, her face paper-white. She was clutching her stomach, her arms tightly wrapped around herself. The pain, which Damon had instinctively dampened, was still flowing through the bond. Elena was in agony.

“Sit down,” Damon said, guiding her to a bench. Elena started gasping for breath. Doctor, he thought. Hospitals. Appendicitis? It would be faster to take her in his arms and run than to call an ambulance. Everything was in sharp focus, his mind speeding. “We need to get you down,” he said, keeping his voice calm.

From behind them came the sound of a quiet step, and Damon whipped around. He had been sure they were alone.

The step belonged to a blonde woman, or something that chose to look like a woman. She was neatly dressed in a navy blue suit and perfectly coiffed. Her face was stern and, as she met Damon’s eyes, her own were cold. The Guardian who had bound them together. Mylea.

Something in him hardened into suspicion and then into certainty. He lunged for her, but his hand stopped, suspended in air, a few inches from her.

Her voice was as cold as ice. “Damon Salvatore,” she said formally. “We find you in violation of your oath. As you murdered Henrik Goetsch, also called Jack Daltry, in Zurich, Elena Gilbert’s life is now forfeit.”

Elena made a choking sound, and Damon grabbed her hand. “Wait,” he said, as Mylea began to turn away. The Guardian stopped and looked at him. “Jack was a vampire,” he said. “He wasn’t a human. He wasn’t covered by my oath.”

Mylea gave a click of her tongue, as if irritated by some minor error. “Henrik Goetsch chose to turn himself into a monstrosity. He was a human who imitated the traits of a vampire, but he never died. His human life did not end until you murdered him.”

Elena choked again, her free hand pawing at her throat. Her nose began to bleed, a thin red trickle.

“No,” Damon said, his voice raising frantically. “He was a vampire. We didn’t know…”

Mylea arched an eyebrow. “There are no loopholes in the law of the Guardians.” And with that, she turned on her heel, took one step forward and was gone, blinked into nothingness.

Elena moaned and slid off the bench, onto the ground. Dropping to his knees beside her, Damon pulled her close. The blood was flowing faster, smearing across her lips and chin.

“It’s all right, princess,” Damon said, stroking her hair, trying to ease Elena’s suffering. “I won’t let them have you. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

His mind began to buzz with rage. He wasn’t going to let Elena die, not because of him. No matter what he had to do, he was going to save her.