Page 102 of Hellebore

“Briar—”

I watch as he pumps in and out of her, increasing the speed and force, his hips slamming against her with wet, obscene sounds that come through the speakers. The slapping of skin on skin fills the office, mixing with his low, animal grunts and moans of her name—“Briar… fuck, Briar”—each thrust punctuated by the wet sound of her body being used. Bile rises sharp in my throat.

“What have I done—I was not here to protect you again.” The words tear from my lips as I stare at the screen, my fists clenched so tight the blood from my knuckles drips steadily onto the desk. My chest heaves, the air in the room too thick, too heavy, the quiet mansion pressing in around me while the storm outside rages on. I cannot look away. I cannot stop it. The helplessness claws at my ribs, tearing me open from the inside as the only thing I have ever loved is violated right in front of me. My body shakes with the force of the rage and panic flooding every vein, the beast inside me roaring uselessly against the glass of the screen. I am here and she is there, and for the first time in years I feel truly powerless.

He groans louder and I watch him come inside her. His breath comes in ragged gasps as the other one laughs. “Fuck, you are such a good girl.” He jokes.

The fucker stands up, picks a tissue from his pocket and cleans himself. The other one comes forward, pulls her leggings back up and picks her up.

“We are going to have so much fun.” The one that assaulted her chuckles as the other carries her limp body.

They walk out through the kitchen door into the waiting truck and drive off into the night.

I stand there as the truck disappears into the darkness. I cannot move. I cannot think.

No. Briar. My Briar.

My phone rings and I pick it up without realizing I am doing it.

“She is out of surgery. Doctors say she was placed in a coma to help with the swelling in the brain—” Easton informs me. “Drystan?”

I do not reply. I cannot.

“Drystan! The fuck is going on?” His voice grows more urgent.

“He raped her,” I whisper.

“No. We stopped it before—” Easton’s tone shifts.

“Briar. He raped her again. They took her. I lost her.” My voice breaks. “It was a setup, Lucille⁠—”

“Fuck.” I hear Enzo’s voice in the background.

“We are on our way,” Easton says and ends the call.

I place my hands on the desk and lean forward, trying to control myself, but the pain is too much. A raw scream tears from my throat as I slam my fist into the monitor. The screen shatters with a sharp crack, glass cutting into my knuckles as sparks fly and the image of the empty apartment dies in a burst of static. I grab the computer next, ripping it from the desk and hurling it against the stone wall. It explodes on impact, pieces of plastic and metal scattering across the floor. The chair follows, flying across the room and smashing into the wall with a loud crash, wood splintering against ancient stone.

The office falls into chaos around me, but it is not enough. The rage keeps building, until I cannot see anything but her unconscious body on that couch, taken from me again while I was too far away to stop it. My hands shake as blood drips from my knuckles onto the desk, the pain barely registering through the storm inside my chest. I failed her. Again. The only thing I have ever loved, ripped away while I sat here watching like a useless shadow. The beast inside me howls, demanding blood, demanding revenge, demanding her back in my arms where she belongs.

The quiet of the mansion presses in, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant rumble of thunder outside. I stand there amid the destruction, chest heaving, and know that nothing will be the same until I have her back.

I look at the destruction around me and let out a long, ragged breath. I grab the spare computer from the duffel bag and walk out of the office, my hands dripping blood onto the stone floors as I move through the silent halls. I cannot bring myself to step into the living room, not where he touched her, not where they took her from me…

Chapter Thirty-Two

DRYSTAN

Iplace the computer on the huge wooden table in the dining room and open it. I need to find him so I can find her.

I walk to the bathroom and grab the alcohol, pouring it liberally over my hands. The burn flares, but it is nothing compared to the pain tearing through my heart and soul. I roll some bandage around my knuckles, the fabric quickly soaking through with fresh blood, and walk back to the table.

Archibald. He is the key. He has to be the key.

I sit at the table in the dining room, the spare laptop open in front of me. My bandaged hands leave faint red smears on the keys as I type. I start with Archibald’s accounts, the ones I already cracked months ago. Nothing new. I dig deeper, pulling every transaction from the last six years, every wire, every cash withdrawal. Shell companies. Offshore transfers. Fake consulting fees that lead nowhere. I chase them one by one until my vision blurs, but every trail ends in dead accounts or names that don’t exist. I slam my fist on the table. The wood cracks under the force.

I move to the men who took her. The black truck. The ski masks. The way they knew exactly how to override my system. I search traffic cameras near her apartment, then expand outward. No plates. No faces. I run the decoder signature through every database I have access to and come up empty. No purchase records. No traceable purchases of the equipment they used. It is as if they appeared out of nothing.

My breathing grows heavier. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, leaving a streak of dried blood across my skin. I open every dark forum I know, every encrypted channel, offering money, threats, anything for information on the men who took Briar Linden. Messages come back empty or with people who have never heard of her. I check her father’s old contacts again, every name I pulled from his phone before I killed him. Dead ends. Burner numbers. Accounts closed years ago.