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spared your life. But this time is different. Damon stepped away from the tree again and spoke aloud.
"I am warning you, Stefan, don't oppose me. It doesn't matter what I came here for. What I want now
is Elena. And if you try to stop me from taking her, I will kill you."
"You can try," said Stefan. The hot pinpoint of fury inside him burned brighter than ever, pouring
forth its brilliance like a whole galaxy of stars. He knew, somehow, that it threatened Damon's
darkness.
"You think I can't do it? You never learn, do you, little brother?" Stefan had just enough time to note
Damon's weary shake of the head when there was another blur of motion and he felt strong hands
seize him. He was fighting instantly, violently, trying with all his strength to throw them off. But they
were like hands of steel.
He lashed out savagely, trying to strike at the vulnerable area under Damon's jaw. It did no good;
his arms were pinioned behind him, his body immobilized. He was as helpless as a bird under the
claws of a lean and expert cat.
He went limp for an instant, making himself a deadweight, and then he suddenly surged with all his
muscles, trying to break free, trying to get a blow in. The cruel hands only tightened on him, making
his struggles useless. Pathetic.
You always were stubborn. Perhaps this will convince you. Stefan looked into his brother's face,
pale as the frosted-glass windows at the boarding house, and at those black bottomless eyes. Then he
felt fingers grasp his hair, jerk his head back, exposing his throat.
His struggles redoubled, became frantic. Don't bother, came the voice in his head, and then he felt
the sharp rending pain of teeth. He felt the humiliation and helplessness of the hunter's victim, of the
hunted, of the prey. And then the pain of blood being drawn out against his will.
He refused to give in to it, and the pain grew worse, a feeling as if his soul was tearing loose like
the sapling. It stabbed through him like spears of fire, concentrating on the punctures in his flesh
where Damon's teeth had sunk in. Agony flamed up his jaw and cheek and down his chest and
shoulder. He felt a wave of vertigo and realized he was losing consciousness.
Then, abruptly, the hands released him and he fell to the ground, onto a bed of damp and moldering
oak leaves. Gasping for breath, he painfully got to his hands and knees.
"You see, little brother, I'm stronger than you. Strong enough to take you, take your blood and your
life if I wish it. Leave Elena to me, or I will."
Stefan looked up. Damon was standing with head thrown back, legs slightly apart, like a conqueror
putting his foot on the neck of the conquered. Those night-black eyes were hot with triumph, and
Stefan's blood was on his lips.
Hatred filled Stefan, such hatred as he had never known before. It was as if all his earlier hatred of
Damon had been a drop of water to this crashing, foaming ocean. Many times in the last long centuries
he had regretted what he had done to his brother, when he'd wished with all his soul to change it.
Now he only wanted to do it again.
"Elena is not yours," he ground out, getting to his feet, trying not to show what an effort it cost him.
"And she never will be." Concentrating on each step, putting one foot in front of the other, he began
walking away. His entire body hurt, and the shame he felt was even greater than the physical ache.
There were bits of wet leaves and crumbs of earth adhering to his clothes, but he did not brush them
off. He fought to keep moving, to hold out against the weakness that lapped at his limbs.
You never learn, brother.