Chapter 7: The Ring and the Reckoning
"Live for me, not for her."
---
Saturday dawned foggy and quiet, the kind of morning that made me want to burrow under the covers and ignore everything.
Unfortunately, I had a mission.
Charlie was already in the kitchen nursing coffee and reading the paper when I padded in wearing socks and a determined look.
"Morning," he muttered.
"You like cinnamon rolls, right?"
He gave me a squinty side-eye. "What do you want?"
"A new couch."
He grunted. "What's wrong with the couch we've got?"
"Besides the fact that it looks like a lumberjack died on it?"
He blinked.
"Dad. It's a crime against furniture. A flannel crime."
He didn't answer right away.
So I played my ace.
"Cinnamon rolls. Real ones. From scratch."
That got him.
Ten minutes later, I had dough rising and Charlie was pretending not to watch over my shoulder while I worked flour into sticky magic. His eyes softened when I sprinkled cinnamon-sugar and started rolling the dough into neat spirals.
"You remember how to do all this from your grandma?"
"Yup," I said. "Mom set a microwave on fire once trying to melt butter. I learned survival skills early."
That earned a huff of a laugh.
By the time the rolls came out of the oven—golden brown and dripping with vanilla glaze—Charlie had already agreed to furniture shopping.
"Let me grab my jacket," he said, taking a giant bite. "Best bribe I've had in years."
---
The Forks Home & Furniture Center smelled like wood polish and stale coffee. I led the way past recliners and floral nightmares to the couch section.
Charlie paused in front of one that had built-in cup holders and groaned when he sat down. "This one has lumbar support."
"That's great," I said, "but it looks like someone's divorced uncle's bachelor pad exploded."
He narrowed his eyes at a sleeker gray sectional with soft cushions. "What about that one?"
"Dad," I gasped. "You've been… influenced by Pinterest."
"You keep saying words like that and I'm leaving."
We finally settled on a dark gray L-shaped couch with just enough rugged edges to pass Charlie's test and enough clean lines to avoid another flannel monstrosity.
Delivery: Monday.
Progress: made.
---
We grabbed a quick lunch at the diner, sharing a booth by the window. Charlie dug into a turkey club while I sipped sweet tea and tried not to eavesdrop on a pair of women gossiping in the next booth.
"I heard Dr. Cullen's family doesn't eat in town," one whispered.
"Too good for us," the other replied.
Charlie noticed my expression. "Don't listen to that crap."
I smiled faintly. "I'm not."
But I was.
Something about the Cullen's buzzed under my skin, a low-frequency warning I couldn't ignore.
We paid and hit the hardware store for paint samples—Ashwood Gray, Smoked Sunset, and a risky but gorgeous shade called Antique Bronze—and picked up supplies for painting the living room.
"You really think people do this for fun?" Charlie muttered as we lugged cans and brushes back to the truck.
"Some of us do it for the aesthetic. Others because their couch gave them plaid-induced trauma."
"I'm gonna regret this, aren't I?"
"Probably."
---
The afternoon passed in a blur of drop cloths, masking tape, and shifting furniture. Charlie manned the heavy lifting while I climbed ladders and made playlists to match the vibe. I even caught him humming along to The Rolling Stones when he thought I wasn't listening.
Dinner was leftover pizza and soda while we admired our prep work.
"Tomorrow," I declared, stretching my sore arms, "we paint. And then your living room will finally join us in this century."
Charlie smirked. "Don't push your luck, kid."
---
I showered, changed into my softest sleep shirt, and crawled into bed early. My fingers ached from taping corners and my shoulders had that good kind of sore from honest effort.
But it wasn't just the physical weight pulling me down tonight.
I could feel the pull again. That strange tether curling like a thread through time.
Damon.
And this time, the dream was darker.
---
It started in silence.
A cold, still room in the Salvatore house. The fire had long gone out. The air was heavy with dust and mourning.
Damon lay stretched across a parlor couch, hands folded, chest still.
Except… not dead.
In transition.
And waiting to die.
I moved closer, the light catching on his pale skin, on the too-sharp edges of his jaw. His face was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Until the door creaked.
Stefan entered.
He was… alive. Inhuman. Changed.
Blood clung to the corner of his mouth.
Damon opened his eyes slowly. "You're here."
"You were going to die," Stefan said softly.
"That was the deal."
"Father's dead," Stefan added.
Something shifted in Damon's face.
"You did it?"
"He was going to kill me."
Damon swallowed hard. "You killed him anyway."
Stefan stepped forward, leading a young woman with vacant eyes into the room. "You don't have to die."
"I wanted to."
"Please," Stefan begged. "I don't want to be alone."
"Then you shouldn't have betrayed me."
The girl stepped closer. Her heartbeat thumped like a drum. Stefan pressed her wrist to Damon's mouth.
Damon's jaw clenched.
"No."
"Please, brother."
Damon tried to turn away. But the scent of blood—fresh, warm, human—was too much.
His fangs dropped.
And he fed.
The moment it was done, he shoved the girl away, horrified at himself.
"You made me."
"You'll thank me," Stefan said.
Damon's laugh was broken glass. "No. I'll never forgive you."
---
The dream shifted.
Now Damon stood outside, under moonlight, fists clenched. Rage rippled through him like a storm contained in flesh.
Then someone stepped out of the shadows.
Emily Bennett.
She was regal in a way no one should be in dreams. Her voice rang like chimes on the wind.
"You walk the path now, Damon Salvatore."
"I didn't choose it."
"You were chosen all the same."
He scoffed. "Then I'll make the most of it."
She held out a silver ring inlaid with lapis. "You'll need this."
He stared.
"Protection from the sun," she said. "But it won't protect you from your own heart."
He took it.
Then she turned her gaze to me.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I never mean to be."
"Still, here you are."
Damon looked up. "You see her?"
"She's threaded through your fate, boy and you through hers."
He frowned. "What does that mean?"
Emily reached into her cloak again and pulled out a second ring. It was smaller, more delicate, but clearly crafted with intention.
"For her," she said, placing it in Damon's palm.
He turned toward me, dazed.
"I don't—how can I—?"
"Just give it to me," I whispered.
He did.
Our fingers touched.
And the ring flared.
Emily stepped back. "The future isn't written. But the threads are tangled."
The world began to fade.
Damon reached for me again.
"I don't want to lose you."
"You won't."
---
I woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed.
The room was dark, moonlight filtering through the curtains.
My heart pounded.
And on my finger—where nothing had been when I fell asleep—was the ring.
The one from the dream.
Small. Cool. Silver. Inlaid with lapis.
Very, very real.