Page 83 of Hellebore

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur.

“Welcome back,” he says, a faint smile touching his lips as he glances up at me.

“You need a hospital,” I beg, my mind still reeling with fractured memories of the chase, the balcony, the terrifying height, the way he had taken me so brutally while the storm raged around us.

“Feeling calmer now?” he asks casually, as if he hadn’t just fucked me half-dangling over the balcony rail.

“You are insane.” I pull the blanket higher. The moment I shift, a deep, stinging ache blooms between my legs, a raw reminder of how thoroughly he had used me. My body is sore, bruised, and yet… still humming with lingering pleasure.

“You already said that.” He looks up at me, forest-green eyes intense. “And I already told you—I am. And you love it.”

“No, I don’t,” I protest, but my voice wavers. “Drystan, you kill people. You kidnapped me⁠—”

He stands slowly. The movement makes his abs tighten, the fresh stitches pulling against his skin. Rainwater still clings to his black hair, which falls messily over his eyes. He strides toward the bed, his massive frame making the mattress sink deeply as he climbs over me.

“They were using you,” he says, voice low and rough. “I kept you safe. You know that.” His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of damp hair from my face. “No other man will ever love you the way I do. No other man will memorize what food makes you smile, what scent makes you sigh, how you like your tea scalding with honey. Yes, I killed them. Because you are mine. Only mine. And I would burn the world down and do it again without hesitation.”

His words sink into me like dark velvet and steel. They shouldn’t comfort me. They shouldn’t make warmth bloom in my chest even as fear still coils in my stomach. But they do. No one has ever seen me the way he has. No one has ever wanted me with this terrifying, all-consuming devotion.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say under my breath, staring into his eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything, my love.” He leans closer, his lips brushing mine in a surprisingly gentle kiss. “Let me show you the depth of my love for you.”

I glance down and notice my name carved into his skin. The sight sends a shiver through me.

“I can’t fall in love with you,” I say softly.

“Why not?” His breath ghosts across my lips. “Because you know that if you do, it means you are as beautifully fucked up as I am? Because the world told you that no one should love the villain?” His fingers trace my cheek with aching tenderness. “I will never lie to you. I will never hurt you unless it is to make you scream in pleasure. I will never let anyone touch what is mine again. I will love you for all eternity and whatever darkness comes after.”

His eyes—those deep green eyes—look so devastatingly sincere. I have never been looked at like this. Like I am the beginning and the end of someone’s entire existence.

“You will never kill anyone else,” I beg, my voice barely audible.

“I can’t promise that, my love.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, then to my temple. “If anyone tries to hurt you, they will end up beneath our hellebore. I will destroy this world and whatever waits beyond it for you.”

A broken breath leaves me. “I need time.”

“You have all the time you need,” he murmurs, standing. His wet hair falls over his eyes as he looks down at me, beautiful and terrifying. “Here. At Hellebore.”

He turns and leaves the room.

My body is sore, every muscle aching, the space between my thighs throbbing with the memory of him. My heart aches for Luke and Jacke—it should be heavier, it should condemn him. But there is a dangerous, traitorous part of me that feels… complete. His love is violent. All-consuming, terrifying, and some dark corner of my soul is starting to crave it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

DRYSTAN

Isit at the kitchen table, phone in hand, watching the camera feed as she moves through the bedroom. She dresses slowly, pulling on the soft black leggings and shirt I left for her, but her eyes keep darting to the door, to the windows, to every possible exit. She is at war with herself. Part of her still yearns to run, to fight, perhaps even to kill me if she could. But another part, the darker, more beautiful part, wants to stay. Wants to surrender to the very monster who has claimed her.

Instead of coming downstairs, she turns away from the door, lifts the covers, and slips back into bed. I release a slow breath, push to my feet, and prepare food for her. I make a simple sandwich with fresh bread, boiled egg, crisp lettuce, and mayonnaise, exactly how she prefers it, then pour a glass of cold milk and arrange everything on a tray.

When I enter the bedroom, I set the tray quietly on the nightstand.

“You need to eat, Briar,” I say, my voice low with warning.

She hums softly from beneath the covers but does not move.

Fine. For now, I will let her hide.