Damon Salvatore Pictures Novels & Stories

“I don’t believe anything from a man who watched us bleed and said nothing.” “If you’re so sure I’m lying…” Carter’s eyes flashed, “then kill me. Right now.” Damon stepped forward, lips curled in disgust. “Too easy.” He stared Carter down like he was filth beneath his boots. “If she’s real,” Damon said coldly, “if Tatiana’s really the one pulling your strings, then let her come for you. Let her crawl through the shadows and save you.” He turned, already walking. “Prove it,” he said over his shoulder. “Or rot.”

They had left nothing for me to use as a weapon. The steel door grated open, splitting the darkness with a blinding shaft of pale yellow light. I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes, preparing myself for whatever violence was about to enter. It wasn't a mercenary. It was Damon Salvatore. He stepped into the cell, impeccably dressed in a light grey suit, carrying an expensive briefcase and looking infuriatingly fresh. He looked around the cell with a sneer, as if the cold and the darkness were a necessary, aesthetic component of the scene.

A figure leaned against a sleek black Maserati and a thick cigarette burned between his fingers while he watched me with the kind of scrutiny that usually made weaker people wither. I recognized him at first glance. He was Domenico Salvatore, the Fourth Capo of the Salvatore family. He hadn’t changed much— he was tall, dark and still exuding that effortless Sicilian arrogance. He was wearing a tailored suit that fitted like a second skin and he looked at me the way a predator studies a rival that had stepped into its hunting ground. I let him look and let him wonder why I was here. I could bet he was speculating if it was because my father was dying.

"Find what you're looking for?" Damien leaned against the doorframe, shirtless, a tumbler of bourbon dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. The camera feeds painted his torso in shifting blue shadows, illuminating the scars I hadn't known about three parallel lines raked across his pectoral, pale and raised like the marks of some great beast. I lifted the letter opener between us, letting moonlight dance along the blade. "Does the footage come with director's commentary, or do you just jack off to the silent reruns?"

Saige explained. Great. Now our plans have come to a pause. Damon’s blonde hair is slicked back and his ocean blue eyes held can pierce the soul of any naïve woman he wanted. He has an athletic physique which he framed with his ripped, black skinny jeans and fitted burgundy top. The black Chelsea boots and the leather jacket perfected complimented this mysterious bad boy picture he tried so hard to put on. I tilted my head to the side. Something about him feels familiar. “Have we met before?” I asked curiously.

Diana was shaking all over, but she was holding the baby with a strength I'd never seen. The last car stopped. The door opened. Salvatore got out. Impeccable black suit. Sleek black hair combed back. His pale skin gleamed under the Hawaiian sun. He didn't look at the bodies on the ground. Didn't look at Enzo writhing in pain. He only looked at me. Then at Diana. Then at Luna. That cold look. Analytical. Dead. The same look he had when he ordered a traitor's death in Palermo. The same look he had when he tortured me. The same look as always.

It was someone else's. "It isn't over." I ran a shaky hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. It was just a dream. That's all it was. And yet, deep down, I wasn't sure I really believed that. A soft rustling pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to find Damon sitting in the chair by the window, his gaze fixed on me. He was shirtless, his dark hair slightly disheveled, and the way the moonlight highlighted the sharp angles of his face made him look almost otherworldly.

The SUV cut through the winding mountain roads, headlights slicing through the mist. The Draven convoy—three black vehicles moving in tight formation—headed toward the Catskills cabin, the tension inside thick enough to choke on. Damon sat in the backseat with Sarah, his hands clasped together, eyes locked on the road. “Who was in the photo?” she finally asked. Damon hesitated. “Someone I once trusted. Someone I once loved.” Sarah turned toward him. “What happened to them?”

Damon Salvatore got struck by one of Thamer's demon on his back. He hold his back and looked around. He saw the six demons who got out from Thamer's body. They're six of them but Damon knew how to kill them one by one. He wing it's way to his enemies and made his first attack to one of them. Thamer was standing between them but he's not moving, his eyes only flickered in the light of fire circling on him.

The man showed Tom a picture of his daughter. “I couldn’t see her but I told you earlier to show that picture to Cassandra. She already saw the new girl at St-Xavier’s.’” “And I told you that I hate talking to women. They are deceitful. All of them! I just can’t fucking trust them, at all!” “She knows her job and -” “I’m fucking talking to you. Did you see her in there with that bastard?” The man seized Tom’s collar and got into his face with a daring look on his face.