𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙 ° 𝘒𝘓𝘈𝘜𝘚 𝘔𝘐𝘒𝘈𝘌𝘓𝘚𝘖𝘕

PROLOGUE | GETTING UNDER, NOT OVER |

In some small, forgettable town in Virginia, a girl—barely eighteen—sat at the bar and ordered a cola. She was alone, that was obvious by way of her wary, steel stare that drew about Mystic Fall's Grill every few minutes and the unapproachable air about her. Yet that didn't stop a group of intoxicated frat boys to approach the dark haired beauty.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing all alone in a place like this?"

"You're much hotter than the other chicks around here, baby."

"I know a nice place you can stay for tonight."

The comments were vile, but she was used to it. She had been traveling for months, fending for herself just fine, dipping into her trust fund, avoiding phone calls home—well, from her mother. She didn't really have a home anymore. Not that she cared.

"Aye, we're talkin' to you, bitch," One of the other drunken men growled, slamming his fist on the bar.

On the other side of the Grill, the blond bartender glanced over from taking a large, rambunctious family's confusing order. He tried to hasten the family, intent on coming to the poor girl's defense.

"Evidently, the lady wishes not to consort with you drunks," a posh voice cut in, interrupting the growing altercation to everyone's surprise.

They all turned to the other guy sitting three stools down from the girl, who had been silently nursing his own glass.

"So, you can all leave the girl alone now and hit on some other flounce in want of attention," he said firmly. The guy didn't even glance up from his drink.

She raised her brow, knowing she could end all the fuss, but interested in finding out just what would come out of the night. For the most part, life was boring when she skipped from town to town almost randomly. She didn't have time for drama anymore.

"And what're you gon' do about it?" One of the frat boys slurred. He boldly snaked his arm around the girl's stiffened shoulder.

She had let it go on for too long, she knew that now as the drunk's meaty hand was way too close to her throat. She squirmed under the stranger's touch.

Her unexpected defender was quiet for a moment. He downed his drink. Then he stood to his full height—yet it wasn't his six feet of self that intimidated the younger men, but his dark, threatening stare. His steely blue eyes dared them to say another word, in fact, he wished they would.

A drunk snorted, "Fuck off, man. Find your own bitch."

In a sudden movement, that was just a fraction of a second faster than should've been possible, the stranger was at her side, slamming the guys head on the bar and knocking him out cold without warning. She stayed in her seat as if she was bolted to the wooden stool, watching this devilishly handsome character come to her
aid.

"Now," he said in a clipped tone, "let's have some fun, chaps."

"Klaus, no!" The bartender rushed to the bar, his eyes wild and begging the handsome and dangerous stranger—Klaus—to stop defending her? She raised her brow. Normally, most people applauded the guy who saved the damsel in distress from handsy drunks in a bar.

Klaus smirked at the blond, and raised his hands up innocently.

The bartender glared at the frat boys. "Grab your friend and get out!" he snarled, pointing to the slumped over guy who no longer had his arm around the girl.

"I'm so sorry, Miss," the bartender breathed out to the silent girl. "I tried to get over here as quickly as possible." He seemed to intentionally ignore the older, handsome stranger still standing near her.