Birds Of A Feather || N. Mikaelson

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❝Attitude is a choice. Happiness is a choice. Optimism is a choice. Kindness is a choice. Giving is a choice. Respect is a choice. Whatever choice you make makes you. Choose wisely.❞
— Roy T. Bennett

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Roxanne barely had time to wrap a towel around herself when heavy knocks hit the door of her hotel room. She sighed and walked out of the bathroom and opened the door, leaning against the door frame.

He was standing there. In all his damn handsome glory. His blue eyes were warm and curious, raking down her practically nude form. She sighed, and tugged her sopping wet hair out of her face. "Hi?"

Smiling, her old lover looked her in the eyes, his head cocking slightly. "Hello. I'm-" His blue eyes moved to a certain tattoo on her shoulder, and confusion was clear across his face. Confusion, anger and a bit of distrust.

"I know who you are," replying, she pursed her lips and looked him up and down quickly. Judgmentally, though mentally she was definitely checking him out. "What can I do for you, Mr. Mikaelson?"

He rose a brow and hesitated, his lips pressing together tightly. "How do you know who I am?"

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, pulling her towel further up. "I did my research on this town. Your family is rich, powerful and new. That's hard to hide in a town like this."

"You're new, too." He remarked and looked around the fancy suite she had gotten herself. "Not badly off, either. Who are you?"

Roxanne looked up at him from under long lashes, a sweet smile tugging on her pouty mouth. "Roxanne St. Claire. Not that it's your damn business. How'd you even find me?"

He didn't answer, his eyes focusing on her tattoo. A feather on her shoulder and arm with birds that erupted from it, flying over her clavicle. "How did you get that? I designed that-"

"It's rude to follow girls to their hotel rooms from bars. It's honestly downright creepy. So, why don't you leave, stalker?" She snapped, not replying to his question as she slammed the door in his face and had to stumble to the couch before her legs gave out. There was a rock in her throat, tears built in her eyes and she almost started sobbing.

But, he would hear her. He was still out there.

Of course he saw the tattoo. Of course he recognized it. Just the memories of getting it . . . getting it with him . . . she wanted to throw up.

She collapsed onto the couch, trying to even her breathing and just fucking relax. But, goddamn she had forgotten how hard it was. How difficult it was to look at him and see zero recognition in those beautiful eyes. He looked stunning. His confidence, his happiness, it made him so attractive.

She rested her head in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

Why the hell did she agree to this?

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Niklaus stared at the door. Shock, annoyance and confusion reigned over his mind. She had the same tattoo as him. She had the same tattoo as him? In the same spot? A tattoo he had designed. A tattoo he had created himself and got tattooed. A tattoo he had never seen anyone else have? Especially not in the same place.

He turned, moving slowly down the hallway. The carpeted floors and fancy wallpaper. The fancy lighting. He barely even acknowledged it. He wasn't used to being sassed, but more than that, the tattoo had been like a punch to the gut.

He knew this girl. He knew her, somehow. He just couldn't remember. He could hear her uneven heartbeat behind the door, it was going fast like a rabbit. She was scared. Or sad. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to know how she had that tattoo. His tattoo.