HARPER LEANED against the counter of La Mikaelson, the gentle hum of the overhead lights the only sound in the stillness of the late afternoon.

Her phone screen illuminated her face as her fingers hesitated over the notification. 8 months and 3 days. The words seemed to pulse on the screen, a cruel reminder of the time she had left. She exhaled heavily, her shoulders sagging under the invisible weight she carried every waking moment. She set the phone down with a soft clink against the countertop and rubbed her temples, willing the oppressive thoughts to retreat, if only for a moment.

Life had taken a strange, almost surreal turn since that evening with the Mikaelsons. What had begun as an awkward, nerve-wracking dinner had evolved into a series of invitations, each one pulling her deeper into their world.

Freya had been the instigator, her warmth and genuine delight in Harper's company impossible to resist. More than that, though, Harper found herself inexplicably drawn to Elijah. There was something about his quiet presence, the way he seemed to see her—to really see her—that made her feel less invisible in a world where she often felt like a ghost of herself.

The Mikaelson home had transformed in recent months, losing some of its grandeur and adopting a more intimate atmosphere after Keira and Niklaus departed. Their absence was palpable, but it brought a homier feel to their gatherings. Freya often commandeered the kitchen, pulling Harper into the chaos of meal preparation. These moments, though chaotic, were filled with laughter and fleeting glimpses of normalcy—moments Harper cherished more than she cared to admit.

Yet, there was a shadow that lingered. Before Keira left, Harper had noticed the way the woman would watch her, a quiet intensity in her gaze that Harper couldn't quite place. It wasn't judgment or curiosity but something deeper—pity, perhaps, or understanding. It unsettled Harper, leaving her with the uneasy feeling that Keira knew the truth she worked so hard to hide. But Harper refused to confirm those suspicions, terrified of facing what they might mean.

The sharp chime of the shop's bell shattered the silence, jolting Harper from her thoughts. She straightened her posture, forcing a bright smile onto her face.

"Welcome to La Mikaelson," she greeted warmly, her voice steady despite the lingering weight in her chest. A woman stepped into the shop, her movements deliberate and purposeful. Harper noted her striking appearance but dismissed it as she often did with customers who exuded a certain confidence.

"Let me know if you need any help," Harper offered, her tone polite but distracted. She didn't notice the way the woman's gaze lingered on her or the subtle tension in her movements.

Unbeknownst to Harper, this was no ordinary customer. The woman was a vampire, a bitter adversary of the Mikaelsons, who had uncovered Harper's connection to the family. Freya, in her recent busyness, had neglected to refresh the protective wards around the shop—a rare oversight that now left Harper dangerously exposed.

The attack happened so quickly that Harper didn't have time to scream. One moment she was standing behind the counter, and the next, she was slammed against the wall with bone-crushing force. Her breath escaped in a sharp gasp as the woman's cold hand encircled her throat, cutting off her air.

"How naive they are," the vampire hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. Her eyes darkened, and spider-like veins crept across her skin.

Harper's own eyes widened in terror as she struggled against the iron grip. "W-What are you?" she choked out, her voice barely audible.

"A means to an end," the vampire sneered before her fangs elongated, gleaming in the dim light. She sank them into Harper's neck with brutal precision. Pain shot through Harper's body, a fiery agony that left her trembling and gasping for air. Her vision blurred, and the strength drained from her limbs.

Just as the vampire tightened her grip, preparing to deliver the killing blow, she was suddenly ripped away from Harper with inhuman force. Harper crumpled to the floor, clutching at her bleeding neck as she struggled to focus on the scene before her. Through her haze, she saw two figures—Kol and Elijah. Their faces were a mix of fury and determination, their vampire features mirroring the woman who had attacked her.

Kol didn't hesitate, crossing the room in a blur and tearing the woman's heart from her chest with a savage precision that left no room for mercy. Elijah, meanwhile, knelt beside Harper, his expression a mixture of worry and guilt as he reached for her.

"Harper," he said softly, his voice steady but laced with concern. He hesitated, unsure if she would recoil from him. Instead, Harper weakly lifted her hand toward him before her strength gave out, and she collapsed into his arms.

Kol wiped his bloodied hands with a handkerchief, his usual cocky demeanour tempered by the seriousness of the situation. "What now, brother?" he asked, his voice unusually subdued.

Elijah's jaw tightened as he cradled Harper's limp form. "We take her to the mansion," he said firmly. "And call Freya. Now."

As Elijah rose to his feet with Harper in his arms, she stirred faintly. Her voice was a barely audible whisper. "Medicine... in the restroom."

Kol's eyes narrowed in sudden realization, his mind flashing back to the faint scent of blood he'd detected when he first met Harper. The pieces clicked into place. The fragility he had sensed in her, the subtle but persistent aura of something amiss—it all made sense now. Harper wasn't just human. She was gravely ill.

Elijah's expression hardened with resolve as he carried her toward the door. Whatever battles Harper faced, whatever secrets she carried, he silently vowed she would no longer face them alone. The Mikaelsons had claimed her as one of their own, and they would protect her—no matter the cost.