In Mystic Falls, nothing stays buried forever-especially not secrets.
Elena Gilbert always believed she was an only child. But when her long-lost twin sister, Keira, is dragged into town under dangerous circumstances, everything changes.
Raised in t...
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Daddy Issues & Blood Bag Sleepovers
Neither one of us said a word for a while. The only sound was the increase in John's heartbeat. He stared at me with wide eyes, blinking slowly every ten seconds or so. The silence wasn't helping. If anything, it was making the anger rise like boiling water inside me. Damon had made himself scarce, but I knew he was nearby, listening in—not because he was worried about me, but because he knew I was seconds away from ripping my father's head clean off his shoulders. And if I know Damon, he's loving every second of it.
"Keira?" my sperm donor mutters.
"Oh, so you do know my name?" I laugh bitterly, crossing my arms over my chest.
"How?" He shakes his head like he's stuck in a dream. "Why are you here?"
I throw my head back and let out a loud, borderline maniacal chuckle. "It's been almost eighteen years, and that's all you've got? 'Why are you here?' Jesus, Dad."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that," he stammers. "It's just... you should be far away from here."
My eyes narrow instantly. That sounded too deliberate. Too planned. Like this whole thing was orchestrated. I already know they separated us on purpose—but now I get the gut-wrenching feeling there was more to it.
"What do you mean by that?" I ask, stepping closer.
"You shouldn't be here," he repeats, voice shaking.
"Why? Because I might get sacrificed to a psychotic Original to break some dumb curse?" I close the distance between us completely. "Or is it because, technically, I shouldn't exist?" My voice drops to a hiss as I bare my fangs, "Well, don't worry, Father—I'm not a lamb."
His eyes widen in horror, and he stumbles back, nearly falling over.
"What's wrong, Daddy?" I tilt my head, wearing a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
"You weren't supposed to live this life..." he mutters, more to himself than to me.
"And what kind of life did you imagine I'd live?"
"A normal one." His voice is flat. Deadpan. Like that answers everything.
I laugh—short, bitter, cold. This guy has got to be kidding me.
I used to dream about this moment. I think all foster kids do—the moment their birth parents show up with some big, valid reason why they had to leave. That they wanted you. That they looked for you. That they'd save you from all the pain. That they cared.
But this? This man not only ruined my life, he ruined the dream too.
"If you wanted me to have a normal life, maybe you shouldn't have tossed me into the system the moment I left the womb," I growl, my hands shaking.
