Desolate (Klaus Mikaelson)

The oppressive scent of old wood and dust filled my nostrils, a stale blanket over the frantic beat of my heart. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes, a souvenir from whoever had decided to introduce me to the floor with extreme prejudice. Next to me, Elena stirred, a soft groan escaping her lips.
"Son of a bitch!" I yelled, the words a raw protest against the lingering fuzziness in my brain. Memories, sharp and unwelcome, flooded back: the masked man, the sudden blow, the sickening lurch into unconsciousness. My gaze swept the room, an old, forgotten living space, dimly lit. We were definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Elena's eyes snapped open, wide and startled, just as a figure emerged from the shadows. A man. He moved with a predatory grace, his eyes fixed on Elena. My gut clenched. This was bad. Very bad.
"What do you want?" Elena's voice was a whisper, laced with fear. The man shushed her, a chilling smile playing on his lips.
"Please, I'm hurt," Elena tried again, her voice wavering.
"I know. Just a taste." His words were a low growl, and he leaned in, a clear intention in his eyes to bite her. No way. Not on my watch.
