Page 19 of Hellebore

The leather-jacket fucker is still passed out in the back seat.

“Now it’s just the two of us.”

Chapter Seven

DRYSTAN

“Wake up.”

I slap his face hard enough that the crack echoes through the basement like breaking bone. He grunts, eyelids fluttering, but still refuses to open them.

Fucker is taking forever. I need to get back to Briar. I do not have all night to waste on this worthless piece of shit.

I slap him again, sharper, my palm connecting with a wet smack that snaps his head sideways.

“W-what?” He pulls desperately against the chains, metal rattling loud in the cold space. “W-where am I?”

“My home.” I circle the heavy oak table slowly, boots scraping against the stone floor. “My basement, to be more exact.”

The torches flicker low along the walls, throwing long shadows that crawl across the damp stone like living things. The air hangs cold and thick with the sweet-rot scent of hellebore petals scattered across the floor. Thick chains wrap around his wrists, ankles, and torso, bolted directly into the table I sealed to the floor months ago. He is not going anywhere.

“What the fuck?” He yanks harder, the chains singing against the steel rings. The table does not even shift.

I stop at the foot of the table and look down at him. His leather jacket is still on, stained with rain and sweat. Pathetic.

“I told you to leave her alone,” I say quietly, almost gently. “I warned you. Leave. She is taken.”

He stares up at me, eyes wide and bloodshot. “She was not taken! I asked her; she is single, asshole!”

I shrug.

“She is single,” I murmur. “but taken.”

I reach into his jacket pocket and pull out his wallet. Leather, worn, nothing special. I flip it open. Driver’s license. Jacke Harlan. Thirty-one years old. No family listed. No emergency contact. Just a sad little life that no one will miss.

Perfect.

I hold the license up so he can see it, letting the torchlight catch the plastic.

“Jacke, with an e.” I shake my head. “No wife. No kids. No one is waiting for you to come home tonight. That makes this easier.”

His breathing picks up, fast and shallow. The chains rattle again as panic begins to creep in.

I tuck the wallet back into his pocket, almost politely, then lean over him until my masked face is inches from his.

“You touched her, Jacke. You kissed her.”

I straighten and circle the table again, my shadow stretching long and monstrous across the walls.

“I gave you one chance to walk away. You did not take it.”

The basement is quiet except for the distant drip of water somewhere on the stone and the ragged sound of his breathing. I stop behind his head, looking down at the fear already blooming in his eyes.

“You are going to feel everything tonight. No pretty dreams. No escape. Just you, me, and six years of waiting to finally get what I want.”

I smile behind the mask and pick up the small leather pouch, the one filled with knives, pliers, and the thin silver scalpel that catches the torchlight like a promise.

“But first,” I say, almost tender. “I want you to understand exactly why this is happening.”