Page 30 of Hellebore

My life.

Whoever this is… they have just made the biggest mistake of their short, miserable life.

I stand up, gather the bloody evidence, and stuff it into a plastic bag from the gas station. I will dispose of it properly on the way back to Hellebore.

Eleven hours later and I’m back on her street, parked in the shadows where the streetlights flicker. The body is gone. That pathetic fucker who thought he could touch what’s mine? I cut him up slowly in the basement of the old mansion, piece by piece, until the concrete floor ran red. Then I bagged him, weighted him with rocks, and dumped what was left in that stagnant little lake an hour outside the city. No one will find him. Not for a long time. Not ever, if the eels do their job.

I should feel calmer now but I don’t.

My eyes stay glued to the phone screen, the hidden feed from her bedroom camera feeding me every soft breath she takes. Briar is still curled under the blankets, her dark lashes fanned against pale cheeks. The sight of her like this twists something vicious and needy in my chest. I want to crawl through the screen, slide into her bed, and wrap my hands around that delicate throat just to feel her pulse jump under my thumbs, but I keep delaying.

Something is pulling me back. A whisper in the back of my skull. Not yet. Not yet.

A flicker of movement catches my eye, down the alley beside her building. A black car, windows tinted so dark they swallow the moonlight, no plates.

No fucking plates. My jaw tightens.

A guy steps out, long blond hair pulled into a low ponytail, a thick beard hiding half his face. He’s wearing a suit that costs more than most people’s rent. He walks behind the overflowing garbage bins, unzips, and pisses against the brick wall. The steam rises in lazy curls. When he’s done, he zips up, glances once toward her building and climbs back into the car.

My fingers itch for the knife still strapped to my ankle.

I zoom in with the phone camera, snap a few shots. The image is grainy, but clear enough: sharp cheekbones under that beard, cold eyes, the way his suit jacket strains over broad shoulders. He lingers another ten minutes, engine idling low, before he finally pulls away, disappearing into the night.

I would usually ignore it. After last night, I can’t.

My phone pings.

While I was watching that bearded prick, Briar woke up. The feed shows her now—fresh from the shower, steam still clinging to the bathroom mirror. Water droplets trace down her bare shoulders as she dries off. She dresses quickly: black jeans and a soft dark green sweater.

She’s safe for now. Not alone once she reaches the bakery.

But that car… that man… something about him feels wrong in the same way I feel wrong.

I watch her lock her apartment door and head to her car. The moment she pulls out, I start mine, keeping a careful distance. She drives carefully. Cautious turns, eyes flicking to the rearview more than necessary. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

She reaches the bakery. The little bell above the door chimes as she steps inside. I switch feeds seamlessly to the interior cameras. She ties on her apron, black, with that delicate purple flower embroidered on the pocket, and smooths it over her front. The ponytail and hairnet make her look professional. She smiles at her coworker and they talk about the weather.

She’s safe here. Surrounded by people, by witnesses.

That gives me time.

I turn the car around and drive back to her apartment.

Her alley is empty now. No black car. No blond ponytail.

I let myself in, breathing her in the second the door clicks shut behind me. The apartment is thick with her scent, soft florals, something achingly feminine that hits me like a drug straight to the bloodstream. My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.

Fuck.

My cock throbs painfully against my zipper as something ugly and possessive crawls awake inside me, stretching its claws against my ribs. I want to roll around in her sheets like a starving animal.

I trail my fingers over her unmade bed, the sheets still rumpled from where she slept last night. I pick up the pillow she rested her head on and press it to my face, inhaling deeply. My other hand slides down to adjust myself through my pants, palm pressing hard against the ache.

I sit at her small kitchen table, pull out my phone, and switch to the live feed. There she is laughing softly at something her coworker said while she kneads dough, flour dusting her forearms.

I stand and begin to study the apartment with fresh eyes, hunting for any sign of hidden cameras. I check behind the heater, under the couch, above it, on the television. Nothing.

My own cameras trigger the moment someone walks inside her apartment. I get the notification instantly, and there hasn’t been anything that wasn’t her. But they could have placed something before I did.