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me, or you might get a disease."
He turned away toward the window.
And yet even as she moved away herself, walking back to the center of the room, she could sense
his watching her reflection. And she knew, suddenly, what she must look like to him, pale hair spilling
over the blackness of the cape, one white hand holding the velvet closed at her throat. A ravaged
princess pacing in her tower.
She tilted her head far back to look at the trapdoor in the ceiling, and heard a soft, distinct intake of
breath. When she turned, his gaze was fixed on her exposed throat; the look in his eyes confused her.
But the next moment his face hardened, closing her out.
"I think," he said, "that I had better get you home."
In that instant, she wanted to hurt him, to make him feel as bad as he'd made her feel. But she also
wanted the truth. She was tired of this game, tired of scheming and plotting and trying to read Stefan
Salvatore's mind. It was terrifying and yet a wonderful relief to hear her own voice saying the words
she'd been thinking so long.
"Why do you hate me?"
He stared at her. For a moment he couldn't seem to find words. Then he said, "I don't hate you."
"You do," said Elena. "I know it's not… not good manners to say it, but I don't care. I know I should
be grateful to you for saving me tonight, but I don't care about that, either. I didn't ask you to save me. I
don't know why you were even in the graveyard in the first place. And I certainly don't understand
why you did it, considering the way you feel about me."
He was shaking his head, but his voice was soft. "I don't hate you."
"From the very beginning, you've avoided me as if I were… were some kind of leper. I tried to be
friendly to you, and you threw it back in my face. Is that what a gentleman does when someone tries to
welcome him?"
He was trying to say something now, but she swept on, heedless. "You've snubbed me in public time
after time; you've humiliated me at school. You wouldn't be speaking to me now if it hadn't been a
matter of life or death. Is that what it takes to get a word out of you? Does someone have to nearly be
murdered?
"And even now," she continued bitterly, "you don't want me to get anywhere near you. What's the
matter with you, Stefan Salvatore, that you have to live this way? That you have to build walls against
other people to keep them out? That you can't trust anyone? What's wrong with you?"
He was silent now, his face averted. She took a deep breath and then straightened her shoulders,
holding her head up even though her eyes were sore and burning. "And what's wrong with me," she
added, more quietly, "that you can't even look at me, but you can let Caroline Forbes fall all over
you? I have a right to know that, at least. I won't ever bother you again, I won't even talk to you at
school, but I want to know the truth before I go. Why do you hate me so much, Stefan?"
Slowly, he turned and raised his head. His eyes were bleak, sightless, and something twisted in
Elena at the pain she saw on his face.
His voice was still controlled – but barely. She could hear the effort it cost him to keep it steady.
"Yes," he said, "I think you do have a right to know. Elena." He looked at her then, meeting her eyes
directly, and she thought, That bad? What could be as bad as that? "I don't hate you," he continued,
pronouncing each word carefully, distinctly. "I've never hated you. But you… remind me of someone."