Author's Note: This is just a little something I originally started half asleep when the idea came to me. I worked on it for about it a day after that and this is what it turned into. I suggest listening to "Volcano" by Damien Rice at some point. I think it fits the fic personally.

Disclaimer: I do not own and am in no way affiliated with The Vampire Diaries.

He held her so tightly that she could hear and feel her bones shift in protest. And there she stood, staring back at him, unwavering. The fear was there, never completely forgotten but still pushed aside. She had a pretense to maintain and no, not even he could be aware of it. So when the pupils dilated and the clothing fell away, she felt an odd sense of comfort in knowing that he couldn't possibly be aware of her secret. It was all blood and lust to him. What should it matter if her fear had ebbed away to something more, something far worse and terrifying than the horror itself?

Because she would never admit the delight she took in seeing him pressed against her when it was all over. She would never admit that her sighs and strangled moans didn't need compulsion to pave the way.

He was hers and she was his in some dark, twisted sense even she couldn't fully grasp. Everything just was and she could not conjure an explanation even if she tried. And oh how she had tried.

"Are you going to kill me?"

She froze under his touch. Admiring the amber and rippling veins pulsing under his eyes. The double fangs made his smirk appear far more sinister. She was taken back, reminded of a time when she had uttered the very same sentence in similar circumstances. But now she was out of breath, her nails digging into his shoulders, lips parted in blinded ecstasy. Her voice was breathy, full of awe and a morbid curiosity she could not subdue. But he only smiled, not even stilling his movement.

"Not today," he replied before sinking his teeth into her throat.

And somehow, even though she knew it was a fatal wound, it was always a comfort to hold him there. She'd cup his head with her hands, cradling him there until she felt light. He'd pull away and she would always raise her hand to the wound, admiring the way the scarlet fell from his chin. And he would grin so wolfishly and she knew she should find it frightening. But like the bite itself, she felt only comfort. And when she behaved, which was always, he'd lift his wrist to her lips and stroke her hair as she drank.

"When can I go home?" She mumbled into his chest when it was over. It was strange to held there without a vice grip.

"You don't go home, sweetheart," he whispered into her hair. "You stay until I grow tired of you."

"And then you'll kill me?" She couldn't stop the way her voice cracked. And she tried her best to hide the tears flooding her eyes even though she was certain he already felt them against his skin.

"Don't fret, love," he chuckled and she hated that endearment most of all. It meant nothing to him, just a phrase he said to everyone. But to her, it meant everything. "I'm not tired of you yet."

"But you will be," she pointed out and pulled away from him, pouting like the teenager she would always be.

"Don't sulk," he hissed before pulling her back to him.

"I don't want to die, Klaus," she pleaded even though she refused to meet that steely gaze.

"And I don't want to put up with a pouting child," he growled before pushing her away. He could change his mind so quickly.

She could only watch as he stood, completely bare before her in such a taunting way. He called her a child, and she found it to be humorous whenever she thought back on it. He wasn't treating her like a child earlier. She didn't understand why he kept her around. She didn't bring anything unique to his attention. She was just a friend of his precious ripper and, for whatever reason, capable of being spared death. For the time being anyway.

"You know I hate you," she called after him and barely even turned to glance back at her.

"I know," he sighed and it was a sound of irritation because this was such a painfully repeated routine.

"You can't keep me here forever," she whimpered, managing to feel just as pathetic as he often said.

"Oh, but I can," he snarled, turning to face her completely. "Even if it's just your corpse in a box."

He didn't say anything else and for that she was thankful. He dressed before leaving the room and she was still there, constant and unmoving. Her posture was rigid and she pulled at her hair in frustration. Because she knew she was kidding herself wanting to believe that he felt anything. He never let her in; never let a single emotion slip. She saw flashes of who he might have been underneath occasionally, but only when he was in Rebekah's company. And she felt horrible for being jealous of his sister of all people. Because she doubted (or hoped) that Rebekah was not familiar with Klaus as she was, even if she knew him on a larger level.

"Get dressed."

She glanced up to see Stefan standing in the doorway doing his best to avoid eye contact and looking at everything that wasn't her. She sighed and stood before wrapping herself in a sheet. He would have to tolerate it for now and gave her that typical serious vampire look of his. But he didn't say a thing and she threw a pillow at him in response. Not that it mattered since he deflected the blow easily enough.

"If you want to say something, say it, Stefan."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because he compels me to. I don't have a choice in the matter."

"Don't lie to me. That is far from the truth and we both know it."

He fixed her with a pointed look and she was only able to stand her ground for a few more painful seconds before she felt her resolve crumble entirely. And Stefan was there, pulling her to his chest and just holding her. She didn't cry. She just let him hold her as he brushed his fingers against her hair, her cheek, her neck, her back, again and again until she was no longer trembling. And she didn't speak at first. She couldn't.

She could hear Klaus moving around downstairs, she realized faintly. His movements seemed heated, choppy. The growls were unmistakable and she twisted around in Stefan's arms, fully prepared to apologize, as she always did but he held her in place.

"I can't help it, Stefan."

"I know," he smiled sadly before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I just wish it wasn't him."

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us," she scoffed and Stefan only stared at her a moment before they both chuckled, almost nervously. She hadn't seen humor in his green eyes for a very long time, it seemed. "Thank you."

He nodded once, remaining in the room as she slipped a robe on, more for comfort than anything. She hated being alone after the nightly routine and he was becoming well aware of that. He would stay until she left the room to go downstairs, profess whatever apology she managed to conjure, not delighting in the situation at all, but being as supportive as he could be. Things had changed since Chicago, but with her here he could remember who he had become. And he was reminded with each victim that he never would have wanted this life for her.

So as she turned to leave the room, he grabbed her arm, stopping her until she faced him completely.

"You'll get through this," he reassured her and squeezed her hand for good measure. "You're stronger than you think, Caroline."

And she could only smile because at this point she couldn't say she believed him. She felt incredibly broken, the fragile little porcelain doll in her bedroom she often remembered Damon comparing her too.

There was no use mentioning that the doll was smashed to pieces in her closet now.

Please review and let me know what you think!