Chapter 2: The Red Room Initiation
She woke to an empty bed and the phantom ache of hands that weren't there anymore.
The sheets smelled like him—cedar and whiskey and something darker, something that made her thighs clench involuntarily. Iris rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, which was painted with some kind of medieval fresco involving a lot of naked people and at least three goats.
Classy.
Her body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together wrong. There were bruises on her hips in the shape of fingerprints, a pleasant soreness between her legs that made her smile despite herself, and a faint red mark on her arse from where he'd spanked her.
She should leave.
She should absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent leave.
Instead, she stretched like a cat, arching her back until something popped, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her dress was somewhere on the floor—she found it crumpled near the door, inside out—and her wand was on the nightstand, exactly where she'd left it.
Small mercies.
She pulled the dress over her head, not bothering with anything else, and padded barefoot toward the door. The hallway beyond was quiet, all dark wood and oil paintings of people who looked like they'd murder you for looking at them wrong.
Iris had grown up in a cupboard under the stairs. She'd spent seven years navigating a castle full of traps and monsters and teenagers who wanted her dead. She knew when she was being watched.
"Alright," she said, to no one in particular. "You can come out now."
Nothing.
"I know you're there. Your shadows are shit."
A pause. Then, from the darkness at the end of the hall, a figure emerged.
He was tall—taller than Kol, with dirty blond hair and eyes the color of a storm at sea. He moved like a predator, all coiled grace and barely restrained violence, and he was looking at her like she was the most interesting thing he'd seen in centuries.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was rough, accented, and it did something to her insides that she refused to acknowledge.
"And you're lurking outside my bedroom like a creep." She crossed her arms. "Who the hell are you?"
"I think the better question—" He stepped closer, and the air around him seemed to thicken, to grow heavy with something ancient and hungry. "—is who the hell are you?"
Iris lifted her chin. "I asked first."
A smile flickered across his face—not warm, not friendly, but appreciative. Like she'd passed some kind of test.
"I'm Klaus," he said. "Klaus Mikaelson. And I believe you've met my brother."
"Kol? Yeah, we're well acquainted." She let her gaze drift down his body, deliberately insolent. "You're not as pretty as he is."
Klaus laughed. It was a surprise—a genuine, rumbling sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"You have your mother's tongue," he said. "Lily was always quick to cut."
Iris went very still.
"What did you say?"
"I said—"
"No, I heard what you said." Her voice was sharp enough to draw blood. "How do you know my mother's name?"
Klaus studied her for a long moment. Then he turned, gesturing toward the end of the hall.
"Come," he said. "There's something we need to discuss. All of us."
---
The room they led her to was like something out of a fever dream.
Red velvet walls. Gilded furniture. A piano in the center, sleek and black and gleaming, its keys stained with what she really hoped was just age. The air hummed with something she couldn't name—magic, maybe, or memory, or the collected weight of a thousand years of very bad decisions.
Kol was there, sprawled on a chaise lounge like a cat who'd eaten the canary. Another man stood by the fireplace—tall, immaculate, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than her entire flat. He had the same eyes as Klaus, the same sharp-boned face, but where Klaus radiated danger like heat off a fire, this one was ice.
Elijah, she assumed. The responsible one.
"Sit down, Miss Potter," Elijah said, gesturing to a chair. "We have much to discuss."
"I'll stand, thanks."
"Suit yourself."
She stayed on her feet, trying to ignore the way all three of them were watching her. Like she was a puzzle they were trying to solve. Like she was prey.
"Someone want to tell me what's going on?" she demanded. "Because I'm getting really tired of the cryptic bullshit."
Klaus moved to stand in front of her. He was close—too close—and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.
"Tell me," he said softly, "what do you know about your father?"
"James Potter. Died when I was a baby. Big hero, lots of people were sad about it." She shrugged. "Why?"
"James Potter." Klaus repeated the name like it was a joke. "The man who raised you—who died protecting you—was not your father."
Iris's heart stuttered.
"What?"
"Your mother was Lily Evans. A witch of considerable talent and even more considerable stubbornness." A ghost of a smile crossed Klaus's face. "She came to New Orleans nineteen years ago. We met at a bar on Bourbon Street. She was looking for adventure, and I—" He paused. "I was looking for a distraction."
"You're lying."
"I'm many things, sweetheart, but a liar isn't one of them. Not about this."
Iris shook her head. "No. No, that's not—my parents were James and Lily Potter. They loved each other. They—"
"They loved each other," Klaus agreed. "But Lily loved me first. For three months, she was mine. And when she left, she was carrying my child."
The room tilted.
Iris reached out blindly, gripping the back of a chair to steady herself. Her ears were ringing. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying that you are my daughter. My blood. A Mikaelson." Klaus's voice softened, just slightly. "I didn't know. Not until Kol called me tonight. I didn't know Lily was pregnant when she left. I didn't know she married another man, raised you as his. I didn't know any of it."
"But you know now." Her voice was barely a whisper. "And you expect me to just—what? Accept it? Believe you?"
"I expect nothing." Klaus's eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw something almost like vulnerability in them. "But I would like to prove it to you. There's a spell. A blood spell. It will confirm what I'm telling you."
Iris swallowed hard.
"And if it's true?"
"Then you're family." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "And family is everything."
She looked at Kol, who was watching her with an expression she couldn't read. She looked at Elijah, who inclined his head in a small nod. She looked at the piano, the velvet walls, the red room that felt like a heartbeat.
"Fine," she heard herself say. "Do the spell."
---
The spell was simple.
Blood from her finger. Blood from Klaus's. A few words in a language she didn't recognize but felt in her bones.
The magic surged, bright and hot and undeniable, and when it faded, there was a glowing line connecting her chest to his.
Father and daughter.
Iris stared at it. At him. At the line that tied them together.
"Well," she said, because she didn't know what else to say. "Fuck."
Klaus laughed again—that same warm, surprised sound. "Indeed."
"So what happens now?" She crossed her arms, trying to project confidence she didn't feel. "You going to lock me in a tower? Demand I take your name? Turn me into a proper little princess?"
"I was thinking something more along the lines of dinner." He tilted his head. "And perhaps a conversation about what you want from this city. From this family."
"I don't want anything from you."
"Everyone wants something, Miss Potter. Even you."
Iris's jaw tightened. "What I want is to have a good time. To live my life. To stop being the Girl Who Lived and just be… me."
"And who is that?"
She met his eyes. "Someone who's tired of being told what to do."
Something shifted in Klaus's expression. Something hungry.
"Then perhaps," he said slowly, "you'd be interested in a different kind of initiation. A way to prove—to yourself, to us—that you belong here."
Kol sat up on the chaise, suddenly alert. Elijah's eyes narrowed.
"What kind of initiation?" Iris asked, though she already knew.
Klaus smiled. It was not a nice smile.
"There's a room in this compound," he said. "The Red Room. We use it for… special occasions. It contains things collected over centuries—instruments, tools, toys. Things that can break a person or remake them." His gaze swept over her. "Kol tells me you're not shy about your desires. That you like pain with your pleasure. That you like being used."
Iris's mouth went dry.
"He talks too much."
"He's thorough." Klaus stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. "I'm offering you a night in that room. With all three of us. If you can handle it—if you can take everything we give you and come out the other side still standing—then you're a Mikaelson. Truly. Not just by blood, but by spirit."
"And if I can't handle it?"
"Then you're still my daughter." Something flickered in his eyes. "But you won't be one of us."
Iris's heart was hammering. Her cunt was throbbing. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to say no, to walk away, to not let these monsters have this kind of power over her.
But she'd never been good at listening to her instincts.
"I have conditions," she said.
Klaus raised an eyebrow. "Name them."
"No permanent damage. No turning me. And if I say stop, you stop. All of you."
"Agreed."
"Then—" She took a breath. "Let's do it."
---
The Red Room was exactly what she'd expected and nothing like it at all.
The walls were red—deep, blood-red velvet that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The floor was dark marble, cold against her bare feet. And everywhere, everywhere, there were things.
Whips. Canes. Crops. Ropes of silk and leather and chains. Instruments whose purpose she couldn't even guess at, arranged on shelves and tables like museum exhibits.
In the center of the room was a bed. Big. Black. Covered in silk sheets that would probably ruin her.
"This is…" She trailed off.
"Overwhelming?" Kol offered from behind her. "I know. It's my favorite room in the house."
"You would say that."
"Strip," Klaus ordered.
Iris turned to look at him. He stood by the door, Elijah and Kol flanking him like guards.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Strip. I want to see what I'm working with."
For a moment, she considered refusing. Considered making a run for it. Considered telling him to go fuck himself.
But her hands were already moving, pulling her dress over her head, letting it fall to the floor.
She stood naked before them, skin flushed with embarrassment that quickly turned to something else. She could feel their eyes on her—Klaus's possessive gaze, Elijah's clinical assessment, Kol's hungry delight.
"Beautiful," Klaus murmured. "Turn around. Slowly."
She did. Letting them see every inch of her—the curve of her arse, the marks Kol had left on her hips, the scar hidden in her hair that she usually kept covered.
That scar had defined her for eighteen years. Tonight, it was just one part of a larger picture.
"On the bed," Klaus said. "On your back. Arms above your head."
Iris obeyed, settling onto the silk sheets. They were cool against her heated skin, sliding beneath her like water.
Elijah approached first, carrying a coil of red silk rope. His touch was gentle—surprisingly so—but firm as he secured her wrists to the headboard.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
"What do you care?"
"I always care about the comfort of someone in my care." He tested the knots, making sure they weren't too tight. "Pain is only pleasurable when it's chosen. When it's controlled."
Iris met his eyes. "What makes you think I need comfort?"
"Everyone needs comfort, Miss Potter. Even the ones who pretend they don't."
He withdrew, and Kol took his place.
He was grinning, that wicked grin she remembered from the balcony, and his hands were already on her—skating over her stomach, her breasts, her throat.
"Hello again," he murmured.
"Your brother already attacked me with rope. You're late."
"I was busy." He leaned down, breath hot against her ear. "Thinking about what I'm going to do to you."
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably."
His mouth found her neck, and she arched into him, her bound hands tugging uselessly at the ropes. He sucked hard enough to bruise, marking her, claiming her, and she moaned despite herself.
"You like that." He pulled back to look at her, eyes dark with hunger. "You like being marked. Being owned."
"I don't like anything."
"Liar."
He bit down—hard enough to draw blood—and Iris cried out, hips bucking off the bed.
Kol licked the wound, growling low in his throat. "Delicious."
"Enough." Klaus's voice cut through the haze. "You'll have your turn. I want to start."
Kol withdrew, and Klaus approached.
He'd removed his shirt at some point, and Iris's brain short-circuited.
He was built like something out of a wet dream—broad shoulders, sculpted muscles, a tattoo curling over his left pectoral. There were scars, too—old ones, silver and faded, telling stories she'd never hear.
"Eyes on me," he ordered.
She looked up, meeting his gaze.
"I'm going to test you," he said. "Learn your limits. Learn what you can take. Pay attention."
He picked up a crop from the table beside the bed—black leather, flexible, with a tip that looked designed to cause maximum pain.
"This will hurt," he warned. "If you want to stop, say the word. We use colors. Green for go. Yellow for slow down. Red to stop entirely."
"Tricolor," Iris said. "Got it."
"Say it." He pressed the crop against her stomach, cold leather against hot skin. "What's your color?"
"Green."
The first strike landed on her breasts.
Pain exploded through her—sharp, bright, electric—but underneath it was something else. Pleasure, hot and pulsing, radiating outward from where he'd hit.
"Green," she gasped.
Again.
And again.
He worked his way down her body, marking every inch of her with those precise, controlled strikes. Her breasts. Her stomach. Her thighs. Her cunt.
Each blow sent fire through her veins. Each blow made her wetter, needier, more desperate.
"You're doing good," Klaus murmured, leaning down to kiss her neck. "Taking it so well. My good little girl."
"I'm not—unnh—"
"You're not what?"
He hit her right on her clit, and she screamed.
"Yours," she admitted, the word tearing out of her throat. "I'm yours."
"Damn right you are."
He set the crop down, and for a moment she thought it was over. But then he was climbing onto the bed, settling between her legs, his cock pressing hot and hard against her thigh.
"You're soaked," he observed. "Filthy thing. Getting off on being whipped."
"You're the one who—"
"Shh." He pressed a thumb to her lips. "No talking. Not unless I ask you a question."
Iris swallowed, nodding.
He positioned himself at her entrance—and then stopped.
"Kol," he said. "Come here."
Kol appeared at his side, that feral grin still in place. "Yes?"
"Prepare her. I want to be inside her properly."
"With pleasure."
Kol didn't bother with lube. He just spat on his fingers and pressed them against her arse, circling her rim with casual expertise.
"What about—"
"I brought something." Kol produced a small crystal vial from nowhere. "Lubricant. Enchanted. Makes everything easier."
"That's a thing that exists?"
"I spent three centuries collecting useful things." He slicked his fingers, then pressed one inside her. "Pay attention. I don't do this for just anyone."
The stretch was immediate, intense. Iris gasped, her body tensing.
"Breathe," Elijah said from somewhere. "Let him in."
She tried. She really did.
But then Kol added a second finger, then a third, spreading her open, stretching her, and she couldn't think anymore. There was only the feeling of being filled, being used, being prepared.
"Good girl," Kol crooned. "You're going to take us all. Fill every hole. And you're going to love every second."
"I don't—I can't—"
"Yes you can." Klaus's voice was right in her ear. "And you will."
Kol withdrew, and then Klaus was there, pressing the head of his cock against her cunt.
"Look at me," he ordered.
Iris forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze.
"You're going to come on my cock," he said. "And then you're going to take your brother in your mouth and my other brother in your arse. And if you do it all without complaining, without safewording, I'll let you stay here tonight. In my bed. In my arms."
"And if I do complain?"
"I'll still let you stay." He pushed inside her, slow, deep, merciless. "Because you're mine now. My daughter. My blood. And I don't abandon mine."
She was so full. So impossibly full.
Klaus didn't move at first, letting her adjust to the feeling of him. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he stared down at her with an intensity that made her feel flayed open.
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I'm yours." She arched her back, taking him deeper. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
He fucked her.
Not gently. Not sweetly. He fucked her like he owned her, like she was a thing to be used and discarded, and it was everything she'd ever wanted.
His hips slammed against hers with brutal precision, a rhythm that was at once punishing and perfect. The silk ropes bit into her wrists as she pulled against them, needing to touch him, needing to claw at his back, but he wouldn't let her. She was trapped, pinned, completely at his mercy, and the realization made her cunt clench around him.
"You like that," he growled. "Like being held down. Like being fucked like a whore."
"Yes—"
"Say it. Say you're my whore."
"I'm your whore." Her voice cracked on the words. "I'm your fucking whore."
"Good girl."
He drove into her harder, faster, his thumb finding her clit and pressing hard. The pleasure spiraled, tightened, coiled inside her like a spring about to snap.
"Come for me," he ordered. "Now."
Iris screamed.
The orgasm ripped through her like wildfire, burning away everything except the feeling of him inside her, the weight of him above her, the ownership in his eyes. She shook with it, sobbed with it, and still he didn't stop.
Through the haze, she felt Kol move. Felt his cock press against her lips.
"Open," he said.
She opened.
He tasted like salt and skin, and she took him as deep as she could, gagging when he hit the back of her throat.
"That's it," he groaned. "Fuck, your mouth is perfect."
Elijah was behind her, positioning himself at her arse. She felt the head of his cock pressing against her rim, slick with that enchanted lubricant, and then he was inside her too.
Three of them. All at once.
The fullness was obscene. Overwhelming. Perfect.
"Move," Klaus commanded.
They did.
They moved together, a rhythm born of centuries of practice, and Iris was nothing but a vessel for their pleasure. Klaus fucked her cunt with brutal efficiency. Kol fucked her mouth like he was trying to make her gag. Elijah fucked her arse with precise, measured strokes that somehow made it all feel more real, more raw.
The sounds were obscene. Wet flesh slapping against wet flesh. Moans and groans and the slick slide of bodies together. The room smelled of sex and sweat and something primal.
"Taking us so well," Elijah murmured against her ear. "Perfect little thing. Made to be filled."
Iris couldn't respond. She could barely breathe.
Klaus's thumb found her clit again, rubbing in hard circles, and she came a second time—a smaller, sharper orgasm that left her trembling.
"Good girl," Klaus crooned. "Such a good girl. Taking everything we give you."
Kol pulled out, painting her lips and cheeks with his come. "Fucking hell," he gasped. "Best mouth I've had in centuries."
Iris lay there, covered in fluids, still being fucked from both ends, and felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Whole.
---
When it was over, they untied her wrists and gathered her into the center of the bed.
She couldn't move. Every muscle ached. Her arse throbbed. Her cunt felt raw and used and perfect.
But she was still there. Still breathing. Still alive.
"Passed the test," Klaus murmured, stroking her hair. "You're one of us now."
"I was one of you before." Her voice was hoarse. "You just didn't know it."
"True." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But now I do. And I'm never letting you go."
She should have found that threatening. Should have bristled at the possessiveness in his voice.
Instead, she curled into him, letting herself be held.
"Kol," Klaus said. "Fetch some water. Elijah, blankets."
They moved to obey, and Iris watched them go through half-lidded eyes.
"Was this—" She paused, swallowing. "Was this what you expected?"
"No," Klaus admitted. "You surprised me."
"Good."
"Tomorrow, we'll talk business. Your inheritance. Your magic. Your place in this city."
"Tomorrow." She yawned, exhaustion pulling at her. "Right now, I just want to sleep."
"Then sleep." He pulled her closer, and for the first time in her life, she felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Outside, the city hummed with life and danger and the promise of more trouble to come.
Iris Potter—Iris Mikaelson, she supposed—closed her eyes and smiled.
She'd come to New Orleans looking for adventure.
She'd found a family instead.