Chapter Text
The air in the speakeasy was a living thing, thick with the haze of illicit smoke and the heady promise of gin that burned sweet going down. On the cramped stage at the far end of the room, Gloria's voice rose above the din, a siren's call wrapped in velvet and sin. Her smoky lament wove through the thrumming pulse of the crowd, each note a deliberate seduction.
Seventeen and cloaked in the borrowed sophistication of a dropped hemline and kohl-darkened eyes, Quinn Fabray sat at the bar nursing a stolen glass of white wine. The cool stem felt dangerous between her gloved fingers, a tiny rebellion against the stifling propriety of her parents' world. She needed this. Needed the music thrumming in her bones, the illicit thrill of being somewhere she shouldn't be, the intoxicating taste of freedom, however fleeting.
She watched the crowd with careful detachment, her gaze eventually drifting to a corner table where a boisterous crew of young men held court. Their laughter was too loud, too crude, cutting through the jazz like a knife through silk. One of them, a handsome boy with slicked hair, was already three drinks past propriety, his voice carrying over the music as he made some bawdy joke that set his companions roaring.
A small smile played at Quinn's lips as she caught sight of her friend gliding through the crowd like a golden apparition. Rebekah Mikaelson was a vision in flapper chic, all champagne silk and glittering beads that caught the low amber light. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly the effect she had on every person in the room. Quinn watched as Rebekah approached the noisy table, a predator moving to tame her prey with nothing more than a devastating smile and a cocked hip.
The boys fell silent almost immediately.
Quinn was still smiling when she felt it, a soft, deliberate pressure against the nape of her neck. Warm lips, familiar and gentle. She didn't startle; instead, she melted back into the touch, already knowing whose arms would be waiting when she turned.
"Hey there, sweetheart," Finn Hudson rumbled, his voice a pleasant baritone that always reminded Quinn of Sunday morning hymns, warm, comforting, and uncomplicated.
He was sweet. Safe. Easy. The kind of boy her parents would approve of if they knew she was sneaking out to speakeasies at all. His brown eyes were warm as he took her hand, leading her toward the small dance floor where other couples swayed to Gloria's crooning.
Finn's arms came around her waist, pulling her close but not too close. His movements were earnest but clumsy, a half-beat behind the music. He stepped on her foot twice in the first minute, apologizing each time with an embarrassed laugh that she found endearing despite herself.
It was nice. It was safe.
It was not enough.
Quinn closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the moment, in the gentle pressure of Finn's hands and the smoky warmth of his breath against her temple. But even as she swayed in his arms, she felt restless, hungry for something she couldn't name.
They were laughing. Finn had just spun her inexpertly, nearly sending them both crashing into another couple, when a hand appeared on Finn's shoulder. Elegant. Firm. Commanding attention without raising a voice.
The music shifted, slowing into something languid and intimate. Quinn looked up to find Klaus Mikaelson standing beside them, his expression unreadable in the low light.
Finn's face tightened, his jaw setting in a way that might have been a protest. But when his eyes met Klaus's, something passed between them, some unspoken understanding that Quinn couldn't read. The tension drained from Finn's shoulders. He gave a short, sharp nod, his grip on Quinn loosening. "Sure," he said, though his voice sounded strange, distant. "Go ahead."
And then Klaus was there, filling all the space Finn had vacated and more.
Rebekah's brother. The one whose ice-blue eyes had always seemed to slide right past Quinn as though she were merely part of the scenery. The one who made her feel invisible and aware all at once.
Tonight, his eyes didn't slide past her. Tonight, they caught, held, and consumed.
He took her hand, and the contact sent a jolt up her arm that had nothing to do with static electricity. His skin was cool through the thin fabric of her gloves, and yet the touch burned.
"Mind if I cut in, Finn?" The question was a formality; the answer was already written in the air between them, in the way Finn had already stepped back, in the way Klaus's fingers were already curling possessively around Quinn's.
His other hand settled on her waist, firm and sure, pulling her flush against him in a way that would have scandalized her mother. There was no polite distance here, no propriety; just the hard line of his body against hers and the intoxicating scent of him filling her senses.
He smelled like nothing she'd ever encountered, ancient and alluring, like old leather and crisp night air, with an underlying note of something metallic and wild. Like blood on the snow. Like danger.
Without thinking, Quinn let her head come to rest against his chest, seeking the comfort of a heartbeat. But there was nothing. Just stillness. Just the expensive fabric of his coat and the cool, solid mass of him beneath it. The contrast with her own racing heart was dizzying.
They moved together in perfect synchronization, his lead absolute and effortless. Where Finn had stumbled, Klaus glided. Where Finn had hesitated, Klaus commanded.
"Figured I would save your feet, my love," he murmured, his lips close enough to her ear that she could feel the vibration of his words against her skin. The endearment made her breath catch.
A reckless courage, born of champagne and proximity and the dangerous thrill of his attention, made Quinn pull back just enough to see his face. The low light carved shadows beneath his cheekbones. It made his eyes look almost luminous.
"Were you jealous?" she challenged, a soft laugh escaping despite the way her pulse was hammering. "Watching me dance with Finn?"
He didn't laugh with her. Instead, he caught her gloved hand and brought it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. He pressed a deliberate kiss to her palm, the heat of his mouth searing through the thin fabric. The gesture was courtly and possessive all at once.
"No," he breathed, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that made something coil tight in her belly. "I'm a vampire, love. I don't get jealous."
He paused, his thumb stroking over her knuckles in a maddeningly slow rhythm.
"I take what I want."
The unspoken conclusion hung between them, heavy with promise and threat: And I want you.
Quinn's mouth went dry. She'd heard the rumors, of course, the whispered stories about the Mikaelson siblings, the way they never seemed to age, the mysterious circumstances that followed them from city to city. She'd dismissed them as elaborate fiction, the kind of gothic romance her mother forbade her to read.
But looking into Klaus's eyes now, seeing the predatory stillness in the way he held himself, she wondered if perhaps she'd been wrong to dismiss those stories so easily.
The promise in his eyes was terrifying and magnetic. She should run. She should laugh it off, make some excuse, and return to Finn's safe, clumsy arms.
Instead, she heard herself whisper, "Right." The word came out barely audible, nearly lost beneath Gloria's final, mournful note. "It's getting late, Klaus. I should go home."
His arms tightened around her, an unyielding cage of muscle and intent. She felt rather than saw him lower his head, his lips brushing the crown of her head in a ghost of a kiss that promised everything and nothing.
"Why not stay with me?" His voice was dark honey, temptation made audible. "Your parents won't even notice you're gone. They never do."
The words should have stung, the casual acknowledgment of her parents' indifference, the way they barely looked at her across the dinner table, too absorbed in their own disappointments to see their daughter disappearing before their eyes. But coming from Klaus, the observation felt like understanding rather than cruelty.
The temptation was a physical ache, a pull in her blood that felt dangerously like destiny. She could picture it so clearly, disappearing into the Chicago night with him, letting him show her worlds she'd only dreamed of, surrendering to whatever this magnetic force between them truly was.
"No," she managed, though her body screamed the opposite. She shook her head, even as every nerve ending begged her to say yes. "But tomorrow... I'll stay with you tomorrow."
She needed time. Time to think, to breathe, to understand what was happening to her in his presence.
"Tomorrow then," he agreed, his voice a dark velvet promise that made her shiver. His hands lingered for a moment longer before he released her, and the sudden absence of his touch was a shock, like stepping from a warm room into winter cold.
Quinn fled.
Not out the front door where Finn still stood looking dazed, not past Rebekah, who was now perched on the lap of that handsome, boisterous boy. Instead, she slipped through the back hallway, past the storage rooms and the illicit barrels of gin, and out into the alley beyond.
The night air hit her like a slap, sharp and cold after the humid warmth of the speakeasy. The alley was narrow and dark, lit only by a distant streetlamp that cast long, ominous shadows. The damp chill of the brick walls pressed in on either side, and somewhere in the darkness, she could hear the skitter of rats and the distant wail of a police siren.
She was halfway down the passage, her heels clicking against the wet cobblestones, when it happened.
An arm like a steel band snaked around her waist from behind, yanking her back against a body as hard and cold as a tombstone. Quinn's scream died before it could form, swallowed by a hand clamped over her mouth with absolute, crushing force.
Terror flooded her system, white-hot and all-consuming. She thrashed, her heels scraping uselessly against the ground, her gloved hands clawing at the arm that held her. But she might as well have been fighting stone.
Something wet and thick, a metallic taste, was forced past her lips, flooding her mouth. Blood. She was choking on blood, her body bucking in a futile struggle for air, for freedom, for anything.
Then came the pain.
Searing. Blinding. Teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her neck with the brutal efficiency of a predator. The world spun into a whirl of dizzying horror. She could feel her life draining away with each pull, each swallow. Her vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges.
And then…
Nothing.