Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

Serena woke in the still hush of early morning, the kind of quiet that feels unnatural—too perfect, too poised, like the calm before something terrible.

The bedsheets tangled around her bare legs, the silk still warm from where Damon had been hours ago. But he wasn't there now. The space beside her was cool. His absence felt louder than footsteps.

Her head ached, dull and throbbing behind her eyes. And her skin…

She winced.

There—on her wrist.

Four thin red marks, just below the curve of her palm. Scratches.

Not deep, but raw. Fresh.

Like fingernails had dug into her while she slept.

Serena sat up quickly, heart stammering in her chest. The room still smelled of him—cedar and heat—but something else lingered too. Something colder. Like static. Like ozone before a storm.

The mirror across the room was fogged at its edges.

Which made no sense. She hadn't showered. There was no condensation. No steam. And yet—there it was.

Clouded.

Breathing.

She stood slowly, wrapping Damon's white shirt around her body. It hung past her thighs, oversized and still infused with his warmth. Her bare feet padded across the marble.

Each step felt like stepping closer to something she shouldn't see.

She stopped in front of the mirror.

And froze.

Because her reflection wasn't hers.

It wore her face. Her hair. Her body. But the eyes—the eyes were wrong. They were colder. Wilder. And her mouth was curled in a soft, cruel smile Serena knew she hadn't made.

The reflection lifted its hand.

Showed the same scratches on its wrist.

But bled.

Serena stumbled back.

"No…"

Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.

Behind her, she heard footsteps.

She turned—expecting Damon.

But no one stood in the doorway.

The sound had stopped.

She turned back to the mirror.

Now the reflection was back to normal.

Her face. Her eyes. Her body.

And yet—

The scratches were still there.

Serena reached for the vanity table beside the mirror, gripping its edge to steady her breathing. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Her thoughts swirled like smoke.

"Get a grip," she whispered to herself.

But the reflection?

It whispered too.

Mouth moving—but no sound.

Over and over.

Like a chant.

Like a promise.

"You're not her yet. But you will be."

Serena's knees buckled.

---

Later That Morning

The smell of espresso drifted through the villa. Damon stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled back, watching the dark liquid swirl into the white cup like something sacred. He hadn't slept. Not really.

After last night, he couldn't.

He had touched her.

Taken her.

And she had let him.

More than that—needed him.

And God help him, he needed her too.

But something had shifted since then. The air in the house was different. He couldn't place it—but he could feel it.

When Serena appeared, he turned—expecting her usual soft, sleep-dazed eyes. But she looked pale. Unsteady.

"Serena?" he asked, instantly alert.

She didn't answer right away. Just moved toward him in that same oversized shirt, her bare legs moving slow, cautious.

She looked like a ghost of the woman who'd kissed him into silence only hours ago.

He set the coffee down.

Walked to her.

Took her hands. "What happened?"

She swallowed.

Held up her wrist.

He saw the scratches.

His entire body tensed.

"Who did this?"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I think… I did."

"What?"

She looked up at him then—eyes wide, glassy, terrified. "I think I was dreaming. But… I wasn't. Damon, something's wrong with the mirror."

He didn't mock her. Didn't question her sanity.

Because deep down, he already knew.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight.

"I need you to tell me exactly what you saw."

Serena clung to him like she'd fall apart without the anchor.

And then she told him.

Every word.

Every flicker of the wrong smile.

Every whispered warning.

---

Hours Later

The mirror had been covered.

A thick velvet sheet now hung over it like a shroud for something dead—but not buried.

Damon didn't ask questions he wasn't ready for the answers to.

Not yet.

He stayed near her the rest of the day.

His presence was grounding.

And when night came, he laid beside her—not with heat this time, but with protection. One arm wrapped around her waist. Her head on his chest.

But she couldn't sleep.

Because in her head, that reflection still whispered.

And she couldn't shake the feeling that something ancient had seen her.

Something that wore her face…

But wanted her life.