Page 103 of Hellebore

The hours bleed together. My shoulders ache from leaning over the screen. My eyes burn from staring at lines of code and bank statements that refuse to give me anything. I stand up so fast the chair scrapes loudly across the stone floor and I kick it hard. It crashes into the wall with a loud crack, one of the legs splintering. I pace the length of the dining room, fists clenched, chest heaving. Every lead I chase dissolves into smoke. There is nothing. No payments. No names. No trail. They left nothing behind.

I stop in front of the tall window. Rain still lashes the glass, the night outside black and merciless. Thunder rolls in the distance, shaking the old stone walls of the mansion. I press my forehead against the cold glass, breathing hard, the reflection of my own face staring back at me—hair still damp, eyes wild, blood on my hands.

She is gone. Taken right out from under me while I watched another woman bleed. And I have nothing. No name. No location. No way to reach her.

A raw sound tears from my throat, half growl, half broken sob. I turn and sweep everything off the table in one violent motion. The laptop hits the floor with a loud crack. Papers scatter. A glass shatters against the stone. I grip the edge of the table until my bandaged hands throb and fresh blood seeps through the fabric.

Nothing.

There is fucking nothing.

I have never felt this powerless. Not in prison. This is worse. This is deliberate. They knew exactly how to erase themselves, and now my Briar is in their hands while I stand here with nothing but broken glass and dead leads. The rage burns so hot it feels like it might consume me from the inside. I will find them. I have to. But right now, with every hour that passes, the silence feels like it is swallowing her whole.

I hear the door and do not even turn. The twins walk in. I see their reflections in the tall window, bags slung over their shoulders, rain still dripping from their clothes onto the stone floor. Enzo sits at the table without a word and opens his computer. He is the hacker, the artist with the quiet fingers that can pull secrets from nothing.

Easton walks toward me.

“What do you know?” He faces the window, his hoodie pulled low over most of his face.

“Nothing.” The word comes out raw as my hands curl into fists at my sides. “I have nothing⁠—”

“Any images from the cameras?” Easton asks.

“They did an override. An image of Briar sleeping was played on loop and I did not fucking notice.” My voice cracks, the rage boiling so hot in my blood that my vision narrows to the rain-streaked glass in front of me.

“You said they—” He does not finish.

“I had cameras on a closed circuit.” I nod toward the stairs. “The computer is fucked but you can get the images from the disk. It is on the desk.”

Enzo stands without a word and walks out.

“I failed her—what if he keeps…” The words die in my throat, the images from the feed flashing behind my eyes again, her small body limp under that bastard’s hands.

“Don’t do that. She needs you sharp, Drystan. If anyone can find her it’s you. Do not fucking break now.” He places his hand on my shoulder, heavy and steady, and memories of prison rush in unbidden. How the three of us came together after I defended Enzo in a cafeteria fight that ended with me in solitary. When I got out they were waiting, and from that day we became inseparable. And now here we are again, deep in shit.

Enzo walks back in and I turn. He stops with the disk in his hands. “Don’t watch the—” It comes out more as a plea than an order.

“I won’t.” Enzo does not look away. “I would never.”

I nod and walk to my shattered computer on the floor. “Fuck.” The grunt escapes me as I kick a piece of plastic across the room.

“Use mine.” Easton walks to his bag and pulls out his laptop. We both sit at the table and start searching again, the quiet of the mansion pressing in around us, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder outside.

Eight fucking hours. The sun is beginning to peek through the heavy clouds outside, casting pale, broken light across the stone floors, but we still have nothing.

The twins keep making calls and digging through every small lead on the dark web, but there is nothing we can hold on to. Every trail dissolves into smoke.

I walk upstairs to our bedroom to change my clothes and see her phone on the nightstand. The one I gave her. If only she had it with her. I had a tracker on it.

Fuck, Briar, where are you, baby?

A single tear runs down my face at the thought of what they might be doing to her right now. What if I never find her? What if they have already killed her and left her body somewhere I will never reach?

My stomach turns violently. My heart beats so hard it feels like it will burst out of my chest. I cannot do this without her.

What if she’s awake? What if she’s calling my name? What if she’s waiting for me to come…and I never do? Without her the world is nothing but shadows and decay, a tomb I have no desire to inhabit.

The bathroom still smells like her, sweet and flowery, clinging to the air like a ghost that refuses to leave. Her clothes sit in the basket and I pick them up, pressing the fabric to my face and inhaling deeply. Her scent fills my lungs, warm and familiar, but instead of comfort it carves a deeper hole in my soul, a void that threatens to swallow me whole. She is mine. She has always been mine. The thought of her out there, scared and alone, with hands that are not mine on her skin, makes the beast inside me roar louder, demanding blood and ruin until every last person who dared touch her is erased from existence.