𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 ⚜️ ELIJAH MIKAELSON

[ The Flame ]

CHAPTER 42
[ New Orleans, 2013 ]

"Whether you hate me, or whether you still want me?"

Georgia's breath was warm against his skin, her presence wrapping around him like a noose, tightening with every passing second. Elijah refused to move, refused to step back, even as the space between them collapsed into nothing. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest, the delicate warmth of her breath brushing against his jaw. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull away, to regain the control that had always defined him, but he couldn't. Not with her standing this close, not with the weight of her words still lingering in the air between them.

"Perhaps," he had said. Perhaps he was uncertain of both.

And that was all she needed.

A slow, knowing smile curved against Georgia's lips, her eyes dark with something unreadable. It wasn't quite satisfaction, nor was it victory—it was something else, something deeper. Something Elijah wasn't sure he wanted to name.

"You always were a terrible liar," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elijah's jaw tightened, his breath pulling sharp through his nose. She had always been able to read him too well. Even now, even when he had given her every reason to turn away, she still knew him. And that was the cruelest part of it all.

Georgia lifted a hand, her fingers trailing the edge of his lapel, smooth and unhurried. "You know what I regret?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Elijah forced himself to speak. "I imagine there is much."

She let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, you have no idea."

Her fingers brushed higher now, tracing the sharp line of his collar, resting lightly at the base of his throat. Elijah swallowed, forcing himself to remain still beneath her touch.

"I regret ever believing you," she continued, her voice softer now, more intimate. "I regret every moment I spent thinking you were different."

Elijah closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. He deserved that. Every word. And yet, the way she said it—so quietly, so measured—made something in his chest ache in a way that was unbearable.

"But most of all," she whispered, her fingers drifting to the side of his jaw, the touch featherlight, deceptive, "I regret that even now, after everything you've done—"

She paused, and Elijah swore he felt the moment hang between them, heavy and inescapable.

"—I still want to know if you'll kiss me."

The words settled between them like a curse, wrapping around Elijah's throat, stealing the air from his lungs. He should have expected them. Should have known that Georgia, in all her ruthless, aching honesty, would strike where it hurt most. And yet, standing here now, inches from her, watching the way the candlelight flickered in her eyes, he realized he hadn't been prepared at all.

Because the worst part—the most damning, most soul-crushing part—was that he wanted to.

Elijah felt it, deep in his bones, in the marrow of his existence, a need that had never dulled, never wavered, not even when he had given her every reason to hate him. It was still there, still clawing at his ribs, still whispering in the darkest corners of his mind.

She still had him.

Georgia's fingers drifted along his jaw, her nails skimming his skin just enough to make him shiver, just enough to remind him that she knew exactly what she was doing. She always had.