WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

2:23

| THE STAND:
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE |

The sun had dipped low enough to cast warm amber light across the cobbled streets of the French Quarter, casting long shadows through the alleyways. Rhea stepped out of a little-known apothecary tucked behind a perfumery, the smell of dried lavender and myrrh still clinging to her coat. Her mind had been occupied with Kol—always Kol—and the final touches of the ritual that might bring him back. But the moment her boots hit the pavement, a familiar voice cut through the murmuring hum of tourists and street musicians.

"Rhea Monroe," the voice drawled, laced with dry amusement. "Now there's a face I absolutely expected to see at the center of all the Mikaelson drama."

She blinked once, then turned.

Leaning casually against the wrought-iron frame of a gaslamp was Stefan Salvatore, dressed in worn denim and a black leather jacket, looking every bit the charming enigma he'd always been. His presence was like a ghost—unexpected, bittersweet, and strangely grounding.

"Stefan Salvatore," she replied, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Here to thank me for saving your broody little life from being tethered to Klaus for eternity?"

Stefan let out a low chuckle, the kind that barely tugged the corners of his mouth but filled his eyes with something that looked like real gratitude. "As thankful as I am—and believe me, I am—you know he's probably already plotting your untimely death in that baroque, murdery way of his."

Rhea tilted her head and shrugged, that same smile still dancing on her mouth. "Hasn't he been doing that since the moment he met me?"

Stefan shook his head, chuckling softly. "You've got a hell of a survival rate for someone who pisses off Original vampires on a weekly basis."

"I take it as a point of pride," she quipped.

Then, for just a moment, the levity between them cracked.

Stefan shifted, his shoulders tightening slightly beneath the leather. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck before looking back at her, a little sheepish.

"I just... wanted to see you before I go."

Something in Rhea's stomach twisted.

"Back to being on the run?" she asked, the question casual on the surface—but the sharp glint in her eye said she already knew.

Stefan's brows rose in mild surprise. "How'd you—?"

Rhea gave a humorless little laugh. "You reek of Rayna Cruz's mark. It's laced in your aura. Subtle, but not that subtle. And I've been studying that particular flavor of dark magic for the last seventy-two hours."

His expression shifted, the humor slipping away as reality crept in.

"So," she continued, her voice gentler now, "what did you and your brother get yourselves into that ended with you being stabbed by a centuries-old vampire huntress wielding a mystical sword forged from pure spite?"