Bloom || HOPE MIKAELSON x RYAN CLARKE

3] NEW ORLEANS' BEST

Ryan took the risk to crack an eye open... only to realize that he was still in the Original family's compound.

Even worse, he was still in Hope Mikaelson's room.

Her offer to let him stay through the night had come out through grief-fueled tears last night, but try as he might, he hadn't been able to turn it down.
The promise of a warm bed and a place to think had been simply too appealing to ignore.
Furthermore, the more calculating part of himself, the dutiful son that had served Triad for years, -the mud monster, as it were- viewed this offer as a window for opportunity.
When though?
When would he pluck up the courage to look that teenager in the eye and accomplish his father's will? When would he strike?
When would he give its true meaning to the word monster?

The question had kept him up all night.

He lay there, turning it over in his head as he stared at the rafters overhead. Hope wasn't in the room with him anymore and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, checking his wrist for the quite literal Black spot marring his skin.

Upon the morbid realization that his father had given him a shelf life in order to complete his end of the bargain, Ryan had felt an incomparable rage.

Rage aimed at his father and at himself for not owning up to his word yet, and maybe even rage toward Triad, Landon, everyone else in this universe.

However frustrating it was, he couldn't bring himself to be angry with Hope. Not when she looked like a child. Not when she'd shown him the most kindness anyone ever had. Not when she was so naive.
She could get herself killed in a heartbeat. In fact, it was a miracle she'd survived so long. He knew if it weren't for her family constantly doting on her, she'd be long swallowed by his father, as another mere forgotten witch. Were he to try his luck, would the dormant parts of herself still be toxic to Malivore?

Still, he started, his own thoughts surprising him. How easy it would be to just pretend...
Pretend to be her friend, to be there for her, get just a little bit closer and then when she least expects it, to strike like the cowardly traitor that he was?

She'd never see it coming.

Just like he'd never seen it coming.

Releasing a sigh, he walked to the narrow hallway and stopped.

From where he stood in the open doorway, he could hear distant voices, their words too far out of reach to make sense. He turned on his heel, catching sight of a mirror hanging from the brick wall.

Upon finding his reflection, a gasp of horror escaped him.

Somewhere during his restless night, another black spot had appeared below his chin, claiming its take of what was left of his lifespan. Wiping at the dark smudge, he watched it smear before making the sensible decision to button up his collar.
It wouldn't disappear. It was a part of him now.

Before he had time to dwell on what would inevitably become of him, his sights slid to a door farther down the hall.

He was positive he'd never seen it before, not even when Hope had led him to her room, touring the compound as they went. He'd made a mental note of all the exits and noticed all the doors. All but one, apparently.

Carefully, and with the same caution he'd spotted in Malivore, he walked toward the wooden door, half-expecting any kind of monster to jump right out at him. Centuries of looking over his shoulder had made him, not paranoid beyond reason, but cautious, as it were.
The knob rattled beneath his fist, his body jolting forward as he took his hand back.
It was burning hot.