Chapter 1: The Devil's Due
The penthouse smelled like money and menace. Old leather, expensive whiskey, the ghost of cigar smoke that clung to the walls no matter how many times the cleaning crew scrubbed them down. Floor-to-ceiling windows turned Richmond into a jagged painting, all sharp edges and bruised purple sky. Hel stood with her back to the glass, watching Klaus pour himself a drink he didn't need. Stefan sat in a leather armchair across the room, fingers drumming against his thigh, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
Three days since the deal. Three days since she'd signed away a decade of her life to keep Damon breathing.
Klaus swirled the amber liquid in his glass, ice clinking against crystal. He didn't look at her. That was the thing about Klaus. He never rushed. Every movement, every glance, calculated to make you squirm in the silence.
"You're tense," he said finally, taking a slow sip. "That won't do."
Hel released a breath through her nose. "I'm fine."
"You're lying." He set the glass down on the marble side table and finally turned to face her. Blue-green eyes, ancient and predatory, dragged over her body like he was cataloging every inch. "You've been pacing this room since we arrived. You flinch every time I move. You're not fine, little cat. You're terrified."
She wasn't. Not exactly. Fear required uncertainty, and she knew exactly what she'd agreed to. But there was something else coiling in her chest—a tight, electric thing that made her pulse skip and her palms sweat. Anticipation. Dread. Hunger, maybe.
"I'm not scared of you," she said.
Klaus smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "No. You're not. That's what makes you interesting." He crossed the room in three strides, stopping close enough that she could feel the cold radiating off his skin. Vampires ran hot with blood, but Originals ran cold. Something about the magic that made them. Something wrong.
He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. "But you are waiting. For permission. For instruction. You've been waiting since you walked through that door, haven't you?"
Hel's jaw tightened. She hated that he was right.
"The bargain binds you," Klaus continued, his voice dropping to something low and intimate. "Not just your actions—your instincts. Your very nature bends toward obedience now. You feel it, don't you? That pull. That need to please."
She wanted to deny it. Wanted to spit in his face and tell him he didn't know a damn thing about her. But the words died in her throat because he was right. The fey blood in her veins sang with the weight of the oath, and every cell in her body was screaming at her to submit.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Klaus's thumb traced the line of her jaw. "Right now? I want you on your knees."
Stefan shifted in his chair. Hel heard the leather creak, heard the sharp intake of breath. He was watching. Of course he was watching. Klaus had made sure of that.
"Klaus," Stefan said, voice rough. "This isn't—"
"Quiet." Klaus didn't even look at him. "You agreed to my terms, Stefan. Both of you. If you can't stomach the consequences, you're welcome to leave. But the cure stays with me."
Stefan didn't move.
Hel's heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the glamour flickering at her fingertips, useless in the face of the binding. She could run. Could shift into her leopard form, tear through the glass, disappear into the city. But the oath would snap her back, drag her across the miles until she was kneeling at his feet anyway. And Damon would die.
No choice. There had never been a choice.
She sank to her knees.
The carpet was plush beneath her, expensive silk that did nothing to cushion the hard floor underneath. Klaus watched her descent with an expression of quiet satisfaction, like a collector admiring a new piece.
"Good girl," he murmured. The words curled through her like smoke, warm and damning.
His belt came loose with a soft whisper of leather. Klaus unfastened his trousers with unhurried precision, never taking his eyes off her face. He wanted her to watch. Wanted her to see exactly what she was submitting to.
Her mouth went dry.
Klaus was built like something out of a fever dream—thick and heavy, already half-hard just from the power trip of having her on her knees. He stepped closer, and the scent of him hit her—that dark earth and burnt copper smell that clung to everything he touched.
"You've done this before," he said. Not a question.
Hel swallowed. "Once or twice."
"Then you know how this works." His hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. Not gentle. Not asking. "Open your mouth."
She did.
Klaus didn't waste time. He pushed forward, sliding past her lips in one slow, deliberate stroke that made her gag reflex fire and her eyes water. He didn't stop when she choked. Didn't slow down when her hands came up instinctively to brace against his thighs. Just kept pushing until she felt him bottom out in her throat, stretching her jaw to the point of pain.
"That's it," he breathed. "Take it."
He held her there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch of him. Letting her feel how completely he owned this moment. Then he pulled back—slowly, dragging against her tongue—and shoved forward again.
The first thrust was brutal. Measured. He fucked her throat like he did everything else—with precision, with purpose, with the absolute certainty that she would take whatever he gave her.
Hel's fingers curled into fists against his legs. Her eyes burned. Spit dripped down her chin, slick and obscene. She could taste him on her tongue, salt and something darker, something ancient. Above her, Klaus let out a low growl of satisfaction.
"This is your first lesson," he said, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that made her whole body jerk with each thrust. "Obedience isn't just about following orders. It's about surrendering yourself. Your wants. Your pride. Your body." Another thrust. Deeper. Her throat convulsed around him. "You belong to me now, little cat. Every part of you."
Stefan made a sound—something between a groan and a protest—and Hel's eyes flicked toward him. He was gripping the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles had gone white. His fangs had descended. His eyes were dark with hunger and horror and something else. Something that looked almost like envy.
Klaus noticed. Of course he noticed.
"You're staring, Stefan." He pulled Hel off his cock with a wet sound, a fist tight in her hair. She gasped for air, vision swimming, throat raw. "Did you want a turn?"
Stefan's jaw clenched. "No."
"Don't lie to me." Klaus released Hel's hair with a shove, sending her sprawling forward onto her hands and knees. "You've been sitting there for twenty minutes, watching her swallow my cock, and you expect me to believe you're not interested?"
"I didn't—"
"You're a vampire, Stefan. You can hear her heartbeat. You can smell how wet she is." Klaus crouched down, grabbing Hel's chin and turning her face toward the other man. "Look at her. She's dripping. She liked it. She liked being used like a common whore."
Hel's cheeks burned. Not from shame—succubi didn't feel shame—but from the truth of it. He was right. Her thighs were slick, her clit throbbing, every nerve ending in her body screaming for more. Being on her knees for Klaus, being used, being watched—it had lit her up like a goddamn Christmas tree.
"Go to him," Klaus said, releasing her chin. "Crawl."
The command hit her like a physical blow. She could feel the weight of it settling into her bones, the binding magic wrapping around her limbs and pulling. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, hands and knees carrying her across the expensive carpet toward the man in the chair.
Stefan's eyes widened. "Hel, you don't have to—"
"She does." Klaus straightened, adjusting his trousers with casual indifference. "She made a deal. She pays the price. That's how this works." He walked to the bar, pouring himself another drink. "Go on, Stefan. She's yours."
Stefan looked at her the way a drowning man looked at a life raft. Desperate. Starving. Fucking wrecked.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
Hel laughed. It came out hoarse and broken. "You won't."
His hand shook as he reached for her. Fingers tangled in her hair—gentler than Klaus's, but no less possessive. She could smell the human blood on his breath, the fresh kill Klaus had forced down his throat to bring out the Ripper. It was there in the blackness creeping at the edges of his irises, in the way his fangs gleamed when he spoke.
"Open your mouth," he said.
It wasn't a command. It was a plea.
She opened.
Stefan was different from Klaus. Where the Original was brutal and deliberate, Stefan was hungry. Frantic. He shoved himself past her lips with a groan that sounded like it had been ripped out of his chest, hips bucking forward without rhythm or finesse.
"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, you feel—"
Hel closed her eyes and took it. Let him use her throat like a stress ball, let his fingers tighten in her hair until her scalp screamed. He was bigger than Klaus in a different way—leaner, but no less overwhelming. And he tasted different. Sweeter. The blood on his tongue bleeding into her mouth with every thrust.
Behind her, Klaus chuckled. "There he is. I was wondering how long it would take."
Stefan's hips stuttered. His grip tightened. One hand left her hair and landed on her shoulder, pushing her down, holding her in place while he fucked her face with a desperation that bordered on violence.
"I can't—" he started.
"Don't hold back," Klaus said. "She's not fragile. Are you, little cat?"
Hel shook her head as much as she could with a cock in her mouth.
Stefan came with a broken cry, flooding her throat with heat. She swallowed it down, every drop, until he pulled out and sagged back against the chair, chest heaving.
"Good," Klaus said. "That's good."
Hel stayed on her knees, breathing hard, lips swollen and slick. Her cunt was aching, empty, clenching around nothing. She needed more. Wanted more. But Klaus wasn't done giving orders.
"Clean yourself up," he said. "We're not finished yet."
Stefan looked at her—really looked at her—and for a moment, something human flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Regret. Apology.
She looked away.
There was no room for regret here. The deal was done. The story was written. All that was left was to survive the chapters.
Klaus smiled his cold, beautiful smile and reached for his whiskey.
Klaus smiled his cold, beautiful smile and reached for his whiskey. The glass met his lips slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving the two of them. Stefan was still panting in the chair, shirt rumpled, hands trembling against his thighs. He looked like a man who'd just woken up from a nightmare and couldn't tell if he was still dreaming.
Hel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Spit and come, slick on her skin. Her knees ached from the carpet, her jaw throbbed, and there was a hollow, clenching emptiness between her legs that made her want to scream.
"On the bed," Klaus said.
No please. No ask. Just the command, sharp as a blade.
Hel rose on unsteady legs. The silk of her dress clung to her thighs, damp and ruined. She crossed to the massive bed at the far end of the room, the one with black sheets and too many pillows, and climbed onto it like a woman walking to her own execution.
"On your back. Legs spread."
She complied. The glamour that usually wrapped around her like armor was useless here, stripped away by the weight of the oath and the hunger gnawing at her core. She could feel Stefan's eyes on her, could feel Klaus's gaze like a physical touch. They were both watching. Both waiting.
Klaus set his glass down and unbuttoned his shirt with infuriating slowness. Each button revealed more skin, more muscle, more of that ancient, coiled power that made the air around him hum. He shrugged the shirt off and let it pool on the floor.
Stefan made a sound low in his throat.
Klaus glanced at him. "Jealous?"
"Fuck you."
"Later, maybe." Klaus kicked off his trousers and crossed to the bed, naked and unashamed. His body was a roadmap of old scars and older violence, jagged lines that told stories Hel would probably never hear. He climbed onto the mattress, settling between her legs like he belonged there.
He didn't kiss her. Didn't touch her tits or whisper sweet bullshit in her ear. Just lined himself up and pushed inside.
Hel gasped.
The stretch was brutal. She was wet—so fucking wet—but he was thick, and he didn't give her time to adjust. Just buried himself to the hilt in one slow, relentless stroke that made her back arch off the mattress and her nails rake down his shoulders.
"Look at you," Klaus murmured, voice rough. "Taking me like you were made for it."
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
He pulled back and slammed forward.
The first real thrust knocked the breath out of her. The second made her see stars. By the third, she was clawing at the sheets, hips bucking up to meet him, every nerve ending in her body screaming for more.
Klaus fucked like he did everything else—with absolute control. Every stroke was measured, deliberate, designed to hit that spot deep inside her that made her vision go white. He watched her face while he did it, cataloging every twitch, every moan, every time her eyes rolled back.
"You're close already," he said. "That's pathetic."
"Shut up."
He grinned. "Make me."
She couldn't. The binding wouldn't let her. But Klaus didn't want her to fight—he wanted her to break. And she was breaking, piece by piece, under the weight of his body and the precision of his hips.
Behind them, Stefan had moved. He was standing at the foot of the bed, watching with wide, hungry eyes, one hand palming himself through his jeans.
"Get on the bed, Stefan," Klaus said without looking at him.
Stefan hesitated.
"I said get on the bed."
The command hung in the air, thick with power. Stefan moved. He crawled onto the mattress, settling beside Hel, close enough that she could smell the blood on his breath and the heat radiating off his skin.
Klaus pulled out—slow, agonizing—and rolled onto his back, pulling Hel with him. "Ride me."
She straddled his hips. Sank down. The angle was different this way, deeper, and she had to brace her hands on his chest to keep from collapsing.
"Good," Klaus said. "Now, Stefan—kiss her."
Stefan's eyes met hers. There was something desperate in them, something that looked almost like prayer. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers.
His lips were soft. His kiss was not.
Stefan kissed like a man drowning—desperate, consuming, tongue sliding against hers with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the way she tasted. She could feel the tremor in his hands as he cupped her face, the tension in his jaw, the way he moaned into her mouth when Klaus thrust up into her.
"Beautiful," Klaus murmured beneath her. "Both of you. Fucking beautiful."
He moved beneath her, hips snapping up in a rhythm that made her head spin. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Stefan was still kissing her, swallowing her moans, and somewhere in the back of her mind the succubus was feeding, pulling energy from both of them, filling her up even as Klaus emptied her out.
"Touch him," Klaus said. "Put your hand on his cock."
Hel broke the kiss. Her fingers found Stefan's zipper, pulled it down, wrapped around him. He was hot and heavy in her palm, slick with pre-come.
"Now stroke him while I fuck you."
She did. Slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of Klaus's hips. Stefan's head fell back, throat exposed, a low sound rumbling out of his chest that was almost a growl.
"I'm not going to last," he ground out.
"Then don't."
Klaus thrust harder—harder, faster, that precise rhythm turning feral. The bed creaked beneath them, headboard slamming against the wall. Hel's vision blurred. Her body was a live wire, every touch sending sparks through her system, and she was so fucking close, so—
"Come," Klaus ordered.
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her like lightning, back arching, mouth open in a scream that never made it past her throat. Stefan followed a heartbeat later, spilling over her fist with a groan that sounded like it had been punched out of him. And Klaus—Klaus watched all of it, eyes bright with something that was half triumph, half hunger, before he finally let go with a guttural sound that shook the walls.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Hel collapsed onto Klaus's chest, sticky and shaking. Stefan fell back against the pillows, arm thrown over his face, breathing ragged. The room smelled like sex and sweat and something heavier—something that felt like a cage door slamming shut.
Klaus's hand found her hair. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just there.
"That's better," he said. "Now we can talk about tomorrow."
Hel closed her eyes and listened to the sound of two heartbeats that weren't hers and one that was. The binding hummed beneath her skin, satisfied. The fey blood in her veins settled, content.
For now.
But somewhere in the dark, in the hollow place where hope still lived, she was already calculating her next move. A decade was a long time. Long enough to learn every weakness. Long enough to find every crack in Klaus's armor.
He thought he owned her. Maybe he did. For now. But Hel had been alive for sixty years, and she'd never once been someone's pet.
She would be patient. She would be clever. And when the moment came—when the binding loosened, when fate handed her the right cards—she would burn this whole fucking penthouse to the ground.
But that was for later.
For now, she pressed her cheek to Klaus's chest and let her eyes drift closed. The succubus in her fed and purred, drowning out the protest of her conscience with a pleasant hum of contented hunger. Somewhere across the room, Stefan shifted in the bed, and she felt his eyes on her still—a weight all on its own, separate from Klaus's possession. The man who'd just fucked her face with such desperate hunger couldn't seem to look away.
Tomorrow would bring something new. New tests. New humiliations. New ways for Klaus to prove his point. But right now, buried between two warm bodies and a silken duvet, Hel could almost pretend she was somewhere else entirely.
Almost.
Klaus's fingers tightened in her hair. "Sleep," he said. Not a suggestion. "You'll need your strength."
Hel smiled against his skin, small and sharp and dangerous.
She'd need a lot of things for what was coming. Strength was just the beginning.