Chapter 2: Interrogation and Interruption
The silence after the door’s destruction was more absolute than any sound.
Kol slowly pulled out of Iris, the wet, separating sound obscenely loud in the quiet. He tucked himself away with a casualness that was itself a defiance, never taking his eyes off Elijah. Iris slumped forward over the desk, her jeans still around her knees, her body trembling from the sudden stop and the cold air now hitting her sweat-slicked skin. Elena scrambled to her feet, hastily pulling her shirt down, her face a mask of sheer terror.
Elijah stepped over the threshold, ignoring the splinters. He meticulously folded his handkerchief and returned it to his breast pocket. “Elena. How… unexpected.” His gaze swept over her dishevelment without a flicker of judgment. “Wait in the hall.”
It wasn’t a request. Elena stumbled out, unable to look at Iris.
Elijah’s eyes moved to his brother. “I received four complaints about the blood-tainted beverages and a panicked call from Marcel about an unauthorized constrictor. I should have known.”
Kol leaned against the desk, right next to Iris’s hip, as if posing for a portrait. “You’re interrupting a cultural exchange, brother. The witch and I were… comparing traditions.”
“Get dressed,” Elijah said, his voice dropping an octave as he finally looked at Iris.
Humiliation warred with fury, burning away her shock. Iris yanked her jeans up, her fingers fumbling with the button. She found her glasses on the floor, one lens cracked. She shoved them on her face. The world came back into sharp, splintered focus.
“Now,” Elijah continued, his tone impeccably polite, “the three of us will adjourn to the compound. We have matters to discuss that require privacy beyond what even these walls can afford.” He glanced at the ruined door. “And a modicum of decorum.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Iris spat, magic gathering in her chest, a storm looking for a lightning rod.
Elijah was in front of her in a movement that blurred the air. His hand didn’t grab her wrist. It simply closed around her forearm, his grip like forged iron. “You are a disturbance of remarkable potency in my city. You will come.” He looked over her head at Kol. “Bring the doppelganger.”
The ride to the Mikaelson compound was a silent one in a black town car that smelled of old leather and older power. Elena stared out the window, arms wrapped around herself. Kol sprawled in the middle seat, humming anachronistically. Iris sat rigid beside Elijah, his oppressive calm a physical weight.
The compound was a restored mansion in the Garden District, all wrought iron and shadows. Inside, it was a museum of their immortality. Elijah led them not to a drawing-room, but to a study that felt like the inside of a dragon’s hoard. Dark oak shelves reached to a ceiling lost in gloom, crammed with books whose spines were etched in languages that hurt the eyes. A fire roared in a massive hearth, but gave no heat. The portraits on the walls weren’t paintings; they were somehow windows into moments of frozen time, and the faces in them seemed to track their movement.
“Elena, with me,” Elijah said, gesturing to a pair of high-backed chairs near the fire. “Kol, entertain our other guest in the library. But keep the door ajar.”
Kol’s grin was feral. “With pleasure.”
The library was an annex to the study, separated by a wide, carved archway and a pair of heavy curtains currently drawn halfway. It was a smaller, more intimate crypt of knowledge, with a large, scarred reading desk under a green-shaded lamp.
Elijah sat, motioning for Elena to do the same. He steepled his fingers. “Now. From the beginning. What compelled you to bring a volatile, underage witch into the heart of New Orleans?”
In the library, Kol pushed Iris toward the desk. “See? Much better ambiance. No interrupting older brothers. Just us, and a thousand tales of gruesome death.”
“Fuck you,” Iris whispered, her back to him, staring at the leather-bound spines.
“That’s the idea, darling.”
She heard his zipper. She didn’t turn. She was pulsating with angry magic, but also with a deep, shameful throb between her legs that his earlier assault had ignited.
He was on her again, his body pressed flush against her back. One hand snaked around her front, roughly unbuttoning her jeans once more. The other covered her mouth, his palm tasting of salt and club air. “Quiet now,” he murmured into her hair. “Let’s not distract the adults.”
He shoved her jeans and underwear down, and this time, when he pushed inside her, she was wet. Her body betrayed her with a shocking readiness, accommodating him slightly easier, the pain sharper at the edges but the core of it a devastating fullness. A muffled cry escaped against his palm.
He set a ruthless, deep rhythm, his hips slamming her against the desk’s edge. Each thrust made a volume on the shelf above them shudder.
In the study, Elena flinched at the muffled sound. Elijah’s expression didn’t change.
“I… we met in London,” Elena began, her voice thin. “After everything fell apart at home. I was just traveling. She was in a pub, convincing a bartender to float every bottle in the place. She seemed like… freedom.” Another soft, choked sound from the library. Elena’s nails dug into the armrest. “She has no idea about any of this. About you. She just wanted an adventure.”
“And you,” Elijah said, his eyes dark pools reflecting the unnatural fire, “saw an opportunity for your own. To taste a different kind of danger. One you could, in theory, walk away from.”
He wasn’t wrong. The shame of it tightened Elena’s throat.
In the library, Kol shifted his angle. “Such a greedy little cunt,” he breathed, his own breath coming faster. He removed his hand from her mouth and gripped her hip instead, nails breaking skin. “Taking every inch. You were made for this, witch. For taking what you shouldn’t.” He slid a hand under her shirt, pinching her nipple hard, twisting. The sharp pain lanced straight to her core, and she came with a silent, shuddering convulsion, her walls clamping around him.
“Good girl,” he snarled, and his pace became brutal, piston-fast, chasing his own end. The desk creaked in protest.
Elijah listened to Elena’s fractured story, his gaze occasionally flicking to the archway. He could see a slice of the scene: his brother’s back muscles flexing, the small, pale hands of the witch braced against ancient wood, her head bowed, fiery hair swaying with each violent impact.
“Her name is Iris Potter,” Elena said, her voice barely audible over the rhythmic creaking. “She’s an orphan. Famous in her world. They call her the Girl Who Lived.”
Elijah’s spine straightened, almost imperceptibly. His eyes fixed back on Elena. “Potter.”
The name meant something. A flicker in a millennia-old memory. A gossip column in a wizarding paper, retrieved for a trivial purpose years ago. A mention of a powerful, Muggle-born witch. Lily. Lily Potter.
His eyes cut back to the archway. To the girl’s red hair.
Kol was reaching his climax. “Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, his movements losing all finesse, becoming raw, animalistic plunges. “Mark you up inside. Let you carry a Mikaelson in your filthy little gut.” With a final, guttural roar, he drove deep and held, pulsing into her, his whole body rigid against hers.
Iris felt the hot flood, a claiming that was somehow even more intimate than the violence. She went limp over the desk, spent.
Kol stayed buried in her for a moment, panting. Then he pulled out, the aftermath dripping down her thighs. He tucked himself away, smirking down at her wrecked form. “Magnificent.”
Elijah stood. He walked to the archway and drew the curtain fully open, his face an unreadable mask as he surveyed the scene: Iris, barely dressed, trembling and leaking his brother’s seed onto the priceless rug; Kol, looking smug and sated.
“Her mother,” Elijah said, the words precise and cold as surgical steel, “was Lily Potter. Née Evans.”
Kol, wiping his hands on a cloth, paused. “So?”
“Approximately twenty years ago, Niklaus spent a season in the Scottish highlands. He was tracking a rumor of a hidden pack of werewolves that could bypass the curse. He kept a… local companion. For a time.”
The air left the room.
Kol’s smirk vanished. He looked from Elijah’s grave face to the girl slumped over the desk. He saw it now—not the hair color, but the set of the jaw. The defiance in the spine even in submission. The absolute, chaotic will.
“Oh,” Kol breathed, a slow, delighted horror dawning in his eyes. “Oh, fuck me.”
Iris pushed herself up, turning around. Her green eyes, bright with unshed tears and fury, locked on Elijah. “What are you talking about?”
Elijah didn’t answer her. He stared at the lightning bolt scar on her forehead, a mark he had assumed was part of her own wild magic. Now, he saw it for what it might be: a brand left by a killing curse meant for a child of mixed, impossible blood. A child who should not have lived.
“Nik will need to be informed,” Elijah said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.
The finality in his tone shattered the last of Elena’s composure. Kol began to laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated chaos.
Iris just stood there, exposed and confused, the sticky evidence of her degradation cooling on her skin, as the walls of her adventure crumbled into something far darker, and a word she never knew echoed in the silent, judging space.
Father.
The word hung in the air like a physical object, sharp-edged and lethal. It cut through the afterglow and the confusion, leaving a clean, surgical wound in its place. Iris stared at Elijah, her mind scrambling over the syllables, trying to make them form a shape that fit the hollow space inside her she’d always called James Potter.
“That’s not funny,” she whispered, her voice raw from screams she’d swallowed.
“We’re not a funny family, darling,” Kol said, his laughter dying into something quieter, more fascinated. He leaned against the bookshelf, studying her like a newly discovered equation. “A little monstrous, absolutely. But not hilarious.”
Elijah’s attention was already shifting, re-ordering the world with this new variable inserted. “The timeline aligns. The physical resemblance, while tempered by her mother, is… apparent to anyone who knows him.” He straightened his cuffs, a gesture of immense finality. “Niklaos must be informed. Immediately.”
He turned his dark eyes to Kol. “You will ensure our guests remain here. Keep them entertained, occupied, and above all, contained. Do not let her touch a wand. Do not let the doppelgänger near a phone. The consequences of their premature departure would be… severe.”
Kol gave a lazy, two-fingered salute. “Entertainment and containment. My two favorite verbs.”
“Wait,” Elena said, finding her voice. It trembled. “You can’t just drop that on her and leave. What does this even mean?”
“It means,” Elijah said, moving toward the study’s main door with preternatural grace, “that the adventure she sought is over. The reality she has found will be dictated by my brother. I suggest you both prepare.”
He was gone without a sound, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
Silence flooded back, thick and choking. Iris slowly pushed herself fully upright. The sticky, cooling wetness on her inner thighs was a grotesque anchor to the present moment. She pulled her jeans up with clumsy hands, the fabric chafing against the mess Kol had left inside her. She felt split open, mentally and physically.
“Well,” Kol clapped his hands together, rubbing them. “Orders are orders. Containment is so dreary. Let’s focus on the entertainment.”
He prowled toward Elena first, who shrank back into her chair. He traced a finger along her jawline. “Don’t look so worried, pet. You’ve already met the family. Mostly. This is just a new… branch.”
“Don’t touch her,” Iris said. The words came out flat, drained of the earlier chaotic energy. They were just sound.
Kol swiveled his head, a predator hearing an interesting rustle in the grass. “Or what, little witch? You’ll turn my drink to blood? I’d probably enjoy the vintage.” He left Elena and closed the distance to Iris in two strides. “You’re in shock. I know just the thing for that.”
He grabbed the front of her shirt and tore it open, buttons pinging off the bookshelves. She didn’t fight him. Her mind was a whirlpool, sucking down the concept of father and Niklaos and Mikaelson. He shoved her back against the desk, the edge biting into her spine. His mouth was on her breast, biting hard enough to bruise, his tongue rough on her nipple.
Pain flared, bright and clarifying. It dragged her out of the static in her head. “Stop,” she hissed.
“Make me,” he mumbled against her skin, one hand diving back into her open jeans. His fingers, slick from his own spendings, found her clit. He rubbed harsh, tight circles. “Use that famous magic. Or just take it. I know you want to. Your cunt’s still dripping for me.”
Shameful heat pooled in her gut again. Her body, traitorous and simple, responded to the crude assault. A low moan escaped her. He shoved two fingers back inside her, curling them, fucking her with his hand. The squelching sound was hideously intimate.
“See?” Kol whispered, lifting his head. His lips were wet. “Your body knows what it is. It knows its own blood. Feral. Hungry.”
He unbuckled his belt again. “Elena, love. Come here. Don’t just sit there looking tragic.”
Elena stood, her legs unsteady. A lifetime of surviving told her to obey the more immediate threat. She approached, her eyes wide and fixed on Iris’s face.
“Kneel,” Kol said, not looking at her, his focus on guiding his hard cock back to Iris’s entrance. Elena sank to her knees beside the desk. “Show your friend how to be good. Take me in your mouth. Get me nice and wet for her ass.”
Iris’s breath hitched. Elena glanced up at her, a silent apology in her eyes, before leaning forward. She took Kol into her mouth, her movements hesitant at first, then deepening with a practiced rhythm born of painful necessity.
Kol groaned, his head tipping back. “Yes. Just like that.” He looked down at Iris, his eyes glazed with pleasure. “She learned from the Salvatore brothers, you know. Centuries of practice between them. But they never fucked her like this, did they, Elena? Never used her like the pretty little toy she is.”
Elena’s cheeks hollowed. The obscene, wet sounds of her mouth on him filled the room. Iris watched, mesmerized and horrified, her own arousal spiking at the degradation of it, at the raw power Kol wielded so casually.
After a minute, he pulled himself from Elena’s mouth with a pop. He was gleaming with her saliva. He pushed Iris’s shoulders, bending her over the desk once more. “Hold her down,” he ordered Elena.
Elena moved to obey, placing her hands on Iris’s shoulder blades, pressing her flat against the cold, scarred wood. Her touch was gentle, a stark contrast to what was coming.
Kol spat into his palm, slicking himself. He positioned the head of his cock not at her vulnerable, used entrance, but higher, against the tight, forbidden pucker of her asshole. “You like it here, don’t you?” he murmured, applying pressure. “You said you were an anal slut. Let’s see if that’s true.”
Iris clenched. “It’s not—“
“It is,” he countered, and pushed.
The burn was excruciating. A sharp, tearing intrusion that stole her breath. She cried out, a ragged sound. Elena flinched above her but didn’t let go. Kol pushed inexorably forward, an inch, then two, his thickness stretching her beyond reason. The pain was a white-hot wire, but beneath it, a shocking, full feeling bloomed. He bottomed out, his hips flush against her, and held there, letting her rectum spasm wildly around the invasion.
“Fucking hell,” he gasped, his composure cracking for a second. “Like a vise.”
He began to move, short, brutal thrusts that lit her nervous system on fire. Each withdrawal was a revelation of emptiness, each thrust a punishment of overwhelming fullness. The pain began to mutate, blending with a perverse pleasure that radiated from her core. She was being unmade, rewritten from the inside out.
“Touch yourself,” Kol grunted at Elena. “Play with your cunt while you watch me wreck your little friend.”
Elena, her face flushed, slid a hand under her own skirt. Her breath came in shaky sync with Kol’s thrusts, which were growing longer, harder. The desk slammed against the floor with a steady, rhythmic thud.
Iris was losing herself in the sensation, the world narrowing to the brutal split of her body and the heat coiling in her gut. The revelation, the fear, the confusion—it all melted in the forge of this raw, claiming act. She was just a thing being used, and there was a terrible freedom in that.
Kol’s hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. “You’re Mikaelson now,” he snarled in her ear, his pace becoming frantic, animalistic. “This is your inheritance. This is your welcome. Take it.”
He slammed into her one final, devastating time, and with a roar that shook the shelves, he came, pumping his release deep into her bowels. The hot, alien flood triggered her own climax, a silent, seizing thing that ripped through her, leaving her blind and trembling.
He stayed lodged inside her, panting. Slowly, he pulled out. The sensation of emptiness was profound, violated, aching.
Kol stepped back, fastening his trousers. He looked between them—Iris collapsed over the desk, utterly spent, her ass leaking his cum; Elena on her knees, her fingers still between her own legs, her face slick with tears.
“Entertained?” Kol asked, his voice hoarse but cheerful.
The main door of the study opened.
Elijah stood there, immaculate as ever. Beside him was a man who seemed to pull all the shadows in the room toward him. He was shorter than Elijah, but his presence was a physical weight. He had curling, dark hair and eyes that were ocean-blue and utterly without mercy. They swept the scene, from his brother’s dishevelment to the two broken girls, and finally settled on Iris.
On her face. On her hair. On the scar.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across Klaus Mikaelson’s face.
“Well,” he said, his voice a rich, rolling accent that held a universe of violence. “What have we here?”