Page 26 of Hellebore

He chuckles, the sound dry and amused. “So I guess you are still after Briar Linden.”

My blood ignites.

“Do not fucking say her name.” I warn.

He tsks. “Drystan, she is just a woman. One of millions. She does not even know you. She does not care. Stop being a psychopath. Go to fucking therapy. Leave her alone before you are sent back to jail.”

I laugh, a dark, low sound that scrapes up from deep in my chest. I try not to shout, but the rage claws at the edges of my control.

“Let me remind you, Father, that you were the one who put me in jail. Not her. Not something I did. You.”

He tries to speak, but I keep going, voice dropping lower.

“You said I would get probation. Maybe community service. Or, if the judge was rough, maybe six months to a year.” I lean closer to the phone, teeth grinding. “I got six fucking years.”

“Son—”

“Do not.” I growl and slam my fist against the steering wheel once. The impact echoes loud inside the quiet car. “You did not even visit. You sent your fucking dog to ask what I wanted. But in reality all you wanted was to pay me off. Well, you did. Now fuck off.”

I do not wait for his reply. I end the call and slam the phone onto the car floor. It bounces once and lies still.

Motherfucker.

The silence that follows presses in heavy, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the glowing screen that still shows Briar pacing in her living room, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

I close my eyes and force the rage back into its cage, smoothing my expression until the mask of control slips back into place. The beast is still there, pacing behind my ribs, but it will wait. It always waits.

I turn the car on. The phone rests in its stand on the dashboard, feeding me every move she makes as I drive toward the bakery. The rain has eased into a steady drizzle, turning the streets into slick mirrors that reflect the bruised sky.

I park in the narrow alley behind the shop. It is after five, the bakery closed for the day, the perfect quiet window to start placing the last cameras and microphones. I reach for the small black bag on the passenger seat when movement on the screen stops me cold.

She walks into her bedroom.

I click on the feed and enlarge it until she fills the entire screen.

She removes her clothes slowly, piece by piece, until she stands in nothing but a light purple bra and matching cotton panties. The soft fabric clings to her skin, the delicate lace edges tracing the gentle curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts in the warm lamplight of the bedroom.

I lean closer to the screen, my breath fogging the glass.

What the hell is that?

I zoom in.

On her left hip, inked in delicate lines of purple and black, sits a butterfly.

“She has a tattoo?” I murmur, voice low in the quiet of the car.

Why? She hated those. That is why I kept my own skin clean, because she once told her friends she saw no appeal in them. They were not for her. The old Briar would never have done this.

Yet here she is, a beautiful creature with ink on her skin and darkness in her eyes.

“Briar, my love.” The words slip out like a prayer and a curse woven together.

My hand moves to my zipper almost without thought. My cock is already hard, straining painfully against the fabric, throbbing with six long years of starvation. She moves slowly around the room, stress-cleaning, bending to organize a drawer. The purple lace stretches taut across her ass as she leans forward. Her full breasts shift with every motion, her skin glowing softly under the lamp.

She is fucking cleaning in her underwear.

The Bluetooth speaker on her nightstand crackles to life. A song starts—heavy, industrial, dark. I do not recognize it, so I open the app on my phone and let it identify the track.