Page 95 of Hellebore

Water falls between us in warm sheets. I reach out, tracing the raised scars of my name with trembling fingertips. He places his hand over mine, covering it completely.

“The symbol of my eternal devotion to you,” he murmurs.

I take a step closer and wrap my arms around his torso, pressing my cheek to his wet skin. His strong arms come around my back, enveloping me completely. “Briar⁠—”

“Shh. Just let me stay like this,” I say in a low voice. He does not move. His fingers trace slow, soothing paths up and down my spine while he presses a kiss to the top of my head. The simple tenderness of it hits me hard. I have not felt this safe with anyone since my mother died.

A tear slips down my cheek, warm against the cooling water. I miss her. I miss who I was when she was still alive.

She died of cardiac arrest. She never told me about her heart problems, and our family life had always seemed so calm on the surface. But my father… he turned out to be a very different man than the one I thought I knew.

“Baby, we need to leave the shower. Your skin is turning red,” he says quietly.

I pull back reluctantly and force my brightest smile, the one I have perfected for moments when the thoughts in my head grow too dark for anyone else to see. Drystan stares down at me, his thumb brushing the tear from my cheek with surprising gentleness.

“You can cry with me.”

My heart cracks open at his words, then pieces itself back together under the softness in his dark eyes. Drystan has such a mean face to the rest of the world, yet I have seen this side of him more than once now. I wonder if anyone else has ever witnessed it.

“I know,” I say, offering him another small smile as I turn to wash my hair and body. He stays right there beside me inside the massive double shower, the water cascading over both of us. The rich, masculine scent of his shower gel fills the steamy air and sends a thrill racing down my spine. His arms flex as he washes his own hair, veins cording along his forearms, and my mouth waters at the sight.

Shit.

He finishes and walks out of the shower. I linger a moment longer beneath the spray before stepping out to find him already pulling on his black sweatpants, the waistband slung low on his hips, the sharp V-line disappearing beneath the fabric.

“Briar—” His voice draws me back to the present. His eyes hold quiet amusement, and I realize he caught me staring. “I am going to make something to eat. Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen.” He crosses the space as I reach for the towel and wrap it around my body. His hand slides behind my head, warm and steady, and he leans down until his lips brush my ear. “I am the one who is obsessed, not you, my love.” The low, amused tone sends heat rushing across my cheeks.

He turns and leaves the bathroom.

Drystan is my handsome stalker. My killer. My very hot, fucks-like-a-god kind of stalker…

I take a deep breath, grab the lotion, and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing it slowly over every inch of my skin. I open one of his drawers and pull out one of his large shirts along with a pair of shorts that fit me perfectly—because of course they do. He knows my body better than I do.

I brush my teeth and make my way downstairs, repeating the path in my head so I do not get lost—one long hallway, then left.

“Still raining,” I murmur as I step into the kitchen.

He hums in response. The warm, savory scent of oregano and garlic fills the air. “What are you cooking?” I try to peek around his massive frame, but his back blocks most of the view. “Can I help?”

“No. You sit that pretty ass at the table. Five more minutes,” he replies without turning.

I shrug and slide into the chair. The table is already set with two black plates and two glasses. The silver cutlery has delicate little flowers etched at the ends.

“These are beautiful,” I say, picking one up to study the tiny flower design more closely.

“They were my mother’s.” His voice carries a quiet sadness. “She always loved flowers. Her favorite was the hellebore. The black one.”

“And now you have a beautiful garden full of them,” I say softly, even as my mind screams—flowers he uses to torture people.

I push the thought down.

He turns with the pot, and the smell is divine. He has made carbonara. He serves me a generous plate and sprinkles fresh Parmesan over the top before sitting across from me.

I take a small bite.

“Oh my God—” The words slip out as I look up at him. “How the hell did you do this?”

He smiles, that beautiful half-smile that curves more on one side as strands of hair fall across his eyes. “Well, there was an Italian man in prison who worked the kitchen where I was placed⁠—”