She looks at him, hard and calculating. Fear is ebbing back in the face of how dare you and not again.

The nightmares aren't things she talks about. Barely even to Simon, and rarely elaborated on. How could she explain it anyway? And now Stefan has come in and seen it all and change it without telling her. Seen it and changed it like he's the brother allowed to fix her.

(Gratitude will come later, slowly.)

"It wasn't yours," said darkly as she storms pass him and into the house with the crack of thunder in her heels. The Katherine Tiger laughs to itself on the steps.

One by one, the doors are opened. Flung wide like open autopsy chests, hinges creaking as the knobs crack against the walls.

Rosalyn stands behind some of them, wide-eyed and waiting for her suitor. Others have the rumble of a father in their floorboards. There's one with a pair of giggling, half-dressed women sporting open bite marks on their necks, and the next room down is empty save blood soaked furniture.

This is what happens when you don't as a psychic for permission.