Page 56 of Hellebore

“The flower?” I frown, still disoriented.

“The mansion. Our mansion.”

Our?

The word sends a strange jolt through me, part fear, part something darker I refuse to name. I hear his boots moving across the floor, calm and unhurried.

I lower the cloth and blink hard. My vision slowly clears.

And there he is.

Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretches tight across powerful shoulders and defined arms. Veins stand out along his forearms. No mask.

Strong, sharp jaw. Messy black hair falling into his eyes. Those piercing forest-green eyes watching me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs. A faint, dangerous smirk plays on his lips.

Jesus… he’s tall as hell. Beautiful in a terrifying, otherworldly way.

“Drystan,” he says, voice low and smooth, that smirk deepening.

Drystan.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I feel dizzy again. My eyes can’t stop tracing the lines of his body, the way the fabric clings to his chest, the sheer presence of him filling the room.

I should be terrified.

I am terrified.

But there’s something else twisting low in my stomach, something hot and shameful and wrong.

I clear my throat and turn away, trying desperately to hide the treacherous heat crawling up my neck.

It’s a bedroom. Almost empty. One massive four-poster bed draped in black silk, one ornate chair, and a dark vanity. The walls are cold stone grey, the floor polished black wood that swallows the light. A huge window dominates one wall, barred with intricate black iron like a cage.

“Come on.” Drystan turns and gestures toward the door. I follow slowly, legs unsteady, heart hammering against my ribs. I still don’t know if he’ll hurt me. If I’m truly safe. Or if he’s going to cut me open and keep pieces to enjoy later.

The hallway is vast and suffocating. Arched stone ceilings disappear into shadow. Four enormous paintings line each wall, all hand-painted in deep, bloody tones. Dark, twisted trees reach like skeletal fingers toward a moonless sky. Shadows of bodies litter the ground beneath them, limbs bent at wrong angles, blood splattered in violent arcs across the canvas. The red looks wet. Fresh.

“This is disturbing,” I whisper, voice barely audible.

“Depends on your perspective,” he says calmly, still walking ahead. “It’s an homage to lives taken.”

“Taken… by who?” My eyes lock on the last painting. Half a body is buried beneath a field of black hellebore, petals stained with gore.

“Me.”

He turns. Those forest-green eyes bore straight into mine. I cover my mouth, stepping back until my spine hits the cold stone wall.

He kills people. He’s a killer.

“Briar.” His tone is a low, velvet threat.

“No—” I spin and run.

My boots slap against the stone as I sprint down the endless hallway. A corridor opens to my left, I take it and some stairs appear, I fly down them, lungs burning, and burst toward the massive black double doors carved with hellebore flowers. I slam into them, yanking desperately. They don’t budge.

I whirl around.

He’s already there. Standing at the top of the stairs, towering in all black, looking down at me as a king watches his prey realize there’s no escape.