The Vampire Diaries: The Salvation, Unspoken(75)

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.

#TVD12DelenaForever





“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.