Hurricane / The Originals

Chapter 33

Klaus lay in bed, shirtless, his eyes tightly shut as he gasped in pain. The blade from Papa Tunde was embedded deep in his chest, and each ragged breath was a reminder of his suffering. Elijah stood nearby, clearly torn, while I sat in the plush chair in the corner, frustration boiling over.

"No way in hell are you going to let him use Cami as a blood bag," I snapped, irritation sharpening my words. The thought was infuriating.

"She has vervain in her system. It will keep him weak," Elijah replied, rolling up his sleeves, his tone matter-of-fact, but I could see the worry in his eyes.

"Not happening. Use me instead," I said, my heart racing as I leaned forward in the chair, desperate to make him see reason.

"That's not happening. He is out of control," Elijah shot back, his voice tense, frustration mixing with concern.

"But we both know he won't come after me," I pressed, urgency lacing my words. "Take the dagger out of his chest!"

Elijah hesitated, his internal struggle palpable. "Cleo, I can't risk you."

"Then what's the alternative?" I shot back, desperation rising. "Let him suffer? Let him die?"

"I won't lose you," he insisted, anguish etched across his face.

"Then trust me. You're the one who called me here anyway," I urged, desperation seeping into my voice.

Elijah sighed, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders. "Because of all the people who could be here, you're probably the only one he wouldn't immediately slaughter." He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Also, he speaks of you with what is a rare degree— for him, at least— of respect. I can see you challenge him to see himself and others in a new light."

With that, he grabbed a scalpel, slicing into the red scar bisecting Klaus's chest. My stomach churned at the sight, but I forced myself to watch, knowing there was no turning back now. Elijah jammed his fist into the open wound, gritting his teeth as he reached for the blade.

Klaus groaned, the sound a mix of pain and fury. "AGH!" His voice echoed in the room, raw and agonized.

"A wonderful skill that I shall be counting on very shortly," Elijah said, his voice steady despite the chaos around us. "Be careful. If you need me, then you call me."

As he finally pulled the knife free, Klaus's eyes fluttered open, filled with rage and weakness. "Elijah," he whispered, the words laced with a threat. "You will pay for this."

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I sat by Klaus's bedside, the dim light casting shadows across his pale, battered form. He was slowly recovering, but the toll of his injuries was etched into every line of his face. I sighed, feeling a mix of concern and frustration as I pulled up my sleeve, revealing the delicate skin beneath.

"I'm not feeding from you," he said, turning his head away, defiance dripping from his words despite his weakened state.

I moved closer, my heart pounding. "I'm not giving you a choice. Drink." I pushed my wrist toward him, the pulse beneath my skin a tempting invitation.

"No," he insisted, his voice low and strained.

The tension between us crackled in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. I could see the fire in his eyes, but there was also something else—vulnerability, fear.

"Don't be stubborn, Klaus," I urged, desperation creeping into my voice. "You need to regain your strength. I won't let you waste away."

He hesitated, the conflict evident on his face. For a moment, I thought he might relent, but then he clenched his jaw, turning further away. "I said no."