Damon x oc

18

Dawn sunlight filtered through the grey voiles at the window, once again waking Scarlett from her peaceful slumber. Cracking her eyes open, she glared at the offending pieces of material and dragged her duvet over her head.

"I have to get better curtains," she mumbled to herself as she stretched languidly to awaken her tired muscles. The stress of the last few days was already beginning to take its toll on her body and her mind. She felt exhausted, drained. She didn't know what to do, and Scarlett hated not knowing what to do. Her mother always used to say that the best way to be prepared was to have a plan, but Scarlett didn't have a plan, and she didn't think she'd be able to put one together anytime soon.

Clambering out of the relative safety of her bed, Scarlett walked to her bathroom to shower, squealing quietly as her feet touched the cold floor. The hot water seemed to calm her nerves, and when she finally stepped out of the shower thirty minutes later, she was in a much better frame of mind. She dressed quickly and comfortably in grey skinny jeans, a white gypsy-style blouse and black ankle boots, before applying a touch of mascara and blow-drying her thick auburn hair until it fell in loose waves down her back.

Once she was dressed, Scarlett spent a few moments carefully erecting barriers around her mind, just like her mum had taught her when her empathic ability had first appeared aged fourteen. Her stomach rumbled loudly and, taking the hint, Scarlett made her way to the kitchen. As she passed Stefan's bedroom, she heard a quiet groan. Scarlett frowned and changed direction, creeping up the stairs to her godfather's room. She stepped over the stair that always creaked and hid just out of sight of the door, slowing her breathing to a near stop.

"Deadly beast captured, all's well in Mystic Falls," she heard Damon say, his voice deepening as though he were mimicking someone. Scarlett's brow furrowed in confusion. Why was Damon worried about having a scapegoat?

"Why would you cover your tracks?" she heard Stefan ask, as though he had read her mind. Scarlett heard slow footsteps, though she didn't know whose, and tensed to run in case someone came down the stairs. Not that she'd get very far...

"I've decided to stay a while," Damon said. His voice sounded flippant to Scarlett's ears. "And I'm just having way too much fun here with you and Scarlett ... Maybe Elena could join the party?" Scarlett held back a gasp – did Damon know that she was listening?

"You can't touch them, Damon," Stefan said calmly. He sounded ... proud.

"Well, the vervain keeps me out of their heads... Maybe that's not my target." Scarlett had heard enough. She slowly crept back down the stairs and hurried to the kitchen, wondering what Damon meant by his last comment.

Up in Stefan's bedroom, Damon's lips curved in to a small smile. He listened carefully to Scarlett's rapid footsteps as she rushed away from the room before turning back to his brother.

"Don't worry about your little girlfriend, brother, I'm not gonna touch her." Stefan seemed to visibly relax in front of Damon's eyes, and his smirk widened as he twirled the knife that had been thrown into his stomach between his hands. "Scarlett, on the other hand... Well, I have lots of plans for her. Believe it or not Stefan, some girls don't need my persuasion." Damon began to pace towards Stefan as he watched his brother's face darken with his every word. "Some girls just can't resist my good looks, my style, my charm and my unflinching ability to listen to Taylor Swift." With that, he thrust the knife he was holding right between Stefan's ribs and watched his brother fall to his knees in pain. Damon looked down at his t-shirt, examining the hole Stefan had created when he threw the knife into his stomach.

"This is John Varvatos, dude," he said, annoyed that he'd have to throw out such a good shirt. He glared down at Stefan who was still on the floor. "Dick, move." With that, he strolled out of Stefan's room and went to change. Once he had cleaned up, he followed the familiar scent of jasmine downstairs and into the kitchen. Scarlett was sat on a barstool at the centre island, a slice of toast in one hand while her other twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. Her eyes were glued to the television, where a news reporter was talking to the sheriff about the dead mountain lion Damon had used to cover his tracks.