A Lock Undone
Elijah Mikaelson was a man of control. A creature of deliberation.
But as he watched her, the smirk tugging at his lips was anything but controlled.
With a sudden, fluid motion, he reached out, his fingers closing around her wrist with precisely the right amount of force—not bruising, but unyielding. And in a heartbeat, she was pulled closer, her body now inches from his own, forced to face him directly.
"And pray tell," he mused, his tone rich with amusement, "why does the Black esteemed Duchess Black, Apologies, your grace, have the lingering scent of wet dog all over her?"
For a moment, she stilled. Then, predictably, she tried to yank her wrist free. But his grip held firm. Not cruelly—just enough to make a point.
And then it happened.
That look.
For a moment, she stilled. Then, predictably, she tried to yank her wrist free. But his grip held firm. Not cruelly—just enough to make a point.
And then it happened.
That look.
Something flashed in her emerald eyes. Something like fire.
Not fear.
Never fear.
No, this was something far more delightful. A spark of rage. A silent warning, a barely-there snarl lurking beneath her otherwise composed expression.
Elijah felt something stir in him.
Interest.
Cassiopeia had burned like this too.
But he? He was never the type to back down. So, with the same smirk lingering on his lips, he leaned in just slightly and pressed forward.
"I thought that the so-called savior of the magical world abhorred dark creatures like us. And yet…" His head tilted slightly, his eyes darkening with a knowing glint. "You reek of wolf. Have mercy on my soul, and tell me why is that?"
That did it.
Her wrist freed itself in a single, sharp motion, but instead of retreating, her hand moved.
Straight to his collar.
Oh, this was unexpected.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his suit with the sharp frustration of an angry little kitten.
Fury blazed in her gaze, hot, alive, feral.
"I do not identify as the savior of the magical world any longer," she bit out, her voice like a knife’s edge. "And it would do you well not to address me as that, Mr. Original Vampire."
Then, just as quickly as she had grabbed him, she released him, turning back toward the race with an air of nonchalance.
But she wasn’t done.
No, no, of course not.
She looked back at him—up at him, because she had to. He stood a commanding 6'2", while she was merely 5'6".
There was something condescending in her gaze as she let those brilliant green eyes meet his brown ones.
"And you are write, I abhorre creatures like you predators not protectors, that's why it would also do you well to stay away from me. For, as you so eloquently put it, vampires don't mix with Wolves and witches. And I was my Uncle Moony's strongest cub, according to him. And the most powerful witch to have ever lived by the annoying but only in this case true Prophet, So, maintain distance, Mr. Vampire."
Then—dismissal.
Just like that.
Her attention snapped back to the racetrack as if their entire exchange was nothing more than a fleeting moment in time.
And Elijah?
Her attention snapped back to the racetrack as if their entire exchange was nothing more than a fleeting moment in time.
And Elijah?
For the first time in ages, he wasn’t looking at the race.
His eyes were fixed on her.
"You are something I don't quite understand," he murmured, more to himself than anything.
She didn’t turn to face him. Instead, she simply rolled her eyes, amusement threading through her voice as she said, "I'm not someone you should concern yourself with, Mr. Vampire."
But then, something changed.
He saw it before he fully registered what was happening.
The shift.
One second, she was cool, calculated, and the next—
Light.
Bright, unguarded, childlike joy spread across her features. A radiance so pure, it was almost startling.
Then she was jumping, her entire body alive with excitement as she shouted, "Go, Ipokus!"
And now Elijah’s attention flickered back to the race.
Ipocus
As he had assumed, the steed was gaining speed—no, he was dominating the track. A warhorse in every sense, tearing forward in the final lap, overtaking the others with ease.
Elijah would have continued to watch, had it not been for the hand suddenly squeezing his arm.
Little Miss Saviour
It didn’t hurt, of course. How could it? He was indestructible.
But what did surprise him was the way she twisted his face back toward the track, forcing his gaze away from her.
For a second, just a second, he was stunned.
Then—gone.
The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, and just as he refocused, it happened.
Ibukus won.
The race was over. The crowd roared.
And her?
She practically jumped at him.
And before he could think, his arms moved.
Reacted.
One strong arm wrapped instinctively around her waist, pulling her close in a grip both protective and firm.
It was…
Unexpected.
Electric.
And as the cheers filled the air, he found himself not caring about the race anymore.
Not even in the slightest.
For the love of everything pure and holy, Lyra did not even realize what she was doing—not until it was already done.
Her arms had flung around Elijah Mikaelson without a second thought, an instinct born of sheer, unfiltered joy. Her precious Ibukus had won. The thrill of victory had overtaken her entirely.
But the cold.
The cold of his frame against hers made her realize—far too late—exactly what she had done.
It was improper. Completely out of line.
With a sharp inhale, she immediately pulled back, smoothing her skirts, her posture straightening. And then, with a tiny curtsy, she murmured, "Good bet."
Elijah smirked. That insufferable, knowing smirk.
"I have all-knowing eyes, my lady."
And just like that, the childlike excitement in her vanished, retreating beneath the polished, elegant mask of a Black heiress.
But then—another collision.
A tiny blur of energy barreled into her legs with the force of a particularly determined toddler.
"Mama! Icus won! Icus won!"
Teddy’s little voice rang out, his joy bubbling over in gleeful squeals as he latched onto her legs. He had just started speaking in recent months, his words still slightly muddled, but to Lyra, every little syllable was perfect.
She bent down, scooping him up effortlessly, pressing kisses to his chubby cheeks.
"Yes, our Ipocus won," she cooed, her voice warm.
"Your Ipocus?"
Elijah’s voice startled her.
Her head snapped up, her grip on Teddy tightening slightly, cradling him as if shielding him.
"Yes. Mine."
A slow smirk stretched across the vampire’s lips.
"A most prized steed indeed, Duchess Black."
Lyra’s lips pressed together.
And then—
"Apologies," he said smoothly, "I have yet to introduce myself. Elijah Mikaelson, at my lady’s service."
With practiced ease, he extended a hand toward her.
It was all very proper, very polite—both things she detested, yet had been raised to endure.
So, without hesitation, she placed her hand in his.
And curtsied.
Lightly.
Just enough to acknowledge him—but not enough to offer anything more.
And yet, as she moved to withdraw her hand, his grip tightened—just slightly.
A silent challenge.
"Will the lady not grace me with her name?"
Lyra’s lips curled into the faintest smirk.
"I thought you had all-knowing eyes, Mr. Mikaelson."
That earned her a laugh.
A real one.
Not a smirk. Not a chuckle.
A laugh.
Elijah threw his head back, the sound rich and unrestrained.
And—damn it—she found herself giggling, just a little.
"Rosalina Black," she said finally, with the slightest hint of courtesy.
Elijah arched a brow.
He knew.
Of course, he knew.
She was lying—or rather, not exactly lying. A half-truth. A game.
But he did not push.
"See you around."
His words were casual. Almost lazy.
Her response, however, was pointed.
"I hope to never see you again."
And with that, she turned, taking teddy with her.
Elijah watched them go, eyes lingering on the little boy for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Curious.
Very curious, indeed.
Lyra took in a deep breath, steadying herself.
The last thing she needed when she decided to relocate to Mystic Falls was getting entangled with a vampire. Any vampire. A magical creature was trouble enough, but a vampire? That was asking for disaster.
And if she had to get entangled with a vampire, did it really have to be a freaking Original?
Of course it did.
Because when had fate ever been kind to her?
She knew exactly what he was. How, one might ask? After all, the Wizarding Kitten—as some in the magical world had mockingly dubbed her—had been kept carefully hidden from prying eyes. Her existence, though whispered about, was shrouded in secrecy.
But when you were as old as the Originals, you were not simply known—you were legend.
And Lyra had read about legends.
Buried deep in some of Voldemort’s older journals—ones she had spent far too many restless nights deciphering—was a particular entry. One where the Dark Lord himself had desired to recruit the Originals, to bend them to his will, to make them his allies.
He had failed.
Miserably.
If her understanding was correct, Voldemort had barely escaped the wrath of Klaus Mikaelson, and only because of his immortality. If he hadn’t been tethered to his cursed Horcruxes, he would have been nothing more than ashes—burnt to a crisp in the boiling hellfire of Klaus’s fury.
The thought made Lyra ridiculously petty.
If only Klaus Mikaelson had finished the job.
Perhaps things would have been different.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have been forced to be the Savior of the Magical World.
But then again, it wasn’t the Originals’ fault. The blame lay solely on Voldemort. His insatiable greed. His obsession with power.
She rolled her eyes as she stepped onto her property, letting the matter slip from her thoughts.
But just as she crossed the threshold—
She froze.
Realization hit.
A mistake.
A huge mistake.
And one she fully intended to correct.
Her blood lock was undone.