Page 77 of Hellebore

He walks out of the bathroom without looking back and I let out a shaky breath.

The bathroom mirrors the gothic elegance of the bedroom. Black marble tiles veined with silver, dark wood vanities, a plush purple rug beneath the chandelier that casts soft, fractured light across the space. The shower is enormous, and the bathtub easily fit both of us. Everything feels intentionally chosen. Intentionally me.

I rise on trembling legs and reach for the soft beige towel he left folded on a small stool beside the tub. After drying myself, I open one of the drawers and find my favorite blossom-orange scented lotion and matching deodorant waiting there. A quiet, unsettling warmth blooms in my chest.

Jesus. He really has thought of everything.

I walk back into the bedroom on unsteady feet. Drystan sits in one of the deep armchairs near the window, dressed once again in all black, his posture rigid and his gaze fixed on the floor. The fire has burned low, casting long shadows across his sharp features.

“Drystan?” I call softly.

He doesn’t look up at first.

“I will keep losing control with you,” he says at last, his voice low and rough with self-disgust as he shakes his head. “You drive me to the brink of insanity, Briar. No matter how deep I bury myself inside you, it is never enough. I need more. I crave more. I fear I will always want more until there is nothing left of either of us.”

I walk toward him slowly, my bare feet silent on the thick rug. “Look at me, please,” My voice weaker than I intend.

He lifts his head. Those forest-green eyes meet mine, stormy and tormented.

“I will hurt you,” he continues, the words heavy. “I will take things too far because that is who I am. That is what I become when I am with you.”

“I don’t care,” I breathe, reaching out to touch his face.

He catches my wrist in a firm grip and rises to his full, imposing height. “I know you don’t. And what truly terrifies me is that you enjoy it, don’t you, my love? You enjoy it when I am rough with you. When my hand tightens around your throat and your mind spirals wondering whether I will end you or ruin you completely.”

A flush crawls up my neck. “I don’t know why I like it, Drystan. I don’t know why the panic… why the fear makes me feel so alive.”

He grips my chin gently but possessively, tilting my face up to his. “Because there is a darker side to you, Briar. A side that was always there, buried deep. A side someone pulled out of you. Tell me—what the fuck happened while I was locked away? Who hurt you?”

“It was a long time ago.” I try to step back, but his hand settles firmly on my lower back, anchoring me against him. “It doesn’t matter anymore…”

“It does matter,” he insists, his voice deepening with quiet intensity. “Everything that concerns you is the only thing that matters to me in this world. Tell me what happened, Briar.”

His green eyes are so deep, so raw with genuine concern that it steals the air from my lungs. For a moment, he almost sounds like a man who truly loves me.

“Fine,” I say, swallowing hard. “But let me get dressed first? Maybe make a cup of tea? I need a moment to gather my thoughts.”

He studies me for a long second before stepping back, giving me the space I asked for. “Yes. Meet me downstairs when you are ready.” He moves toward the door but pauses, glancing back at me with a dark warning in his gaze. “But Briar? Do not try anything. You will not like what happens if you do.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

DRYSTAN

Twenty-three minutes have passed, and she still has not come down. The silence of the mansion presses against my skull like a living thing. I pull out my phone, enter the code with steady fingers, and the bedroom camera feed flickers to life. There she is, dressed in the soft black sweater and leggings I left for her, sitting motionless on the edge of the bed, staring out the window into the dark woods beyond. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twisting together.

What the fuck happened that altered the entire course of her life and still makes her struggle so deeply to speak the words aloud?

She finally stands. I watch her take a slow breath and give a small, decisive nod to herself, as though steeling her courage for something she dreads. I kill the feed immediately, set the phone aside, and move toward the stairs just as I hear her soft footsteps descending.

She appears at the bottom, looking painfully nervous and afraid, her small frame wrapped in the dark clothes that only emphasize how fragile she seems right now. At five-three, and wearing only socks, the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. The sight tightens something savage and protective in my chest. Once she tells me what happened, I will rain hell upon whoever dared to hurt her.

“I made you apple cinnamon tea with honey,” I say, gesturing toward the hallway that leads to the living room, “and I got those chocolate chip cookies with almond that you love so much.”

She stares at me for a long second, eyes wide with surprise.

“I told you already,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and even. “I know everything there is to know about you.” Everything except this. Except the one thing that still haunts her.

“It’s weird—” she says, then walks past me.