Page 21 of Hellebore

I slide the scalpel between his teeth and press the flat of the blade against his tongue. The metal is cold against the warm flesh. His eyes bulge wide, veins standing out in his neck as he tries to pull away.

“Hold still,” I whisper close to his ear. “This part is delicate.”

One slow, deliberate cut.

The blade parts the muscle cleanly. Blood floods his mouth instantly, thick and dark, spilling over his lips and down his chin in a hot, pulsing rush. Jacke screams with a raw, gurgling howl that echoes off the damp stone walls before it collapses into wet choking sounds. I keep the pressure steady, slicing deeper until the muscle gives completely under the edge.

I pull the scalpel free and hold the severed piece of his tongue in my gloved hand, warm and slick with blood. It twitches once before going still.

Blood pours freely now. It runs in heavy streams down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt and dripping onto the oak table in glossy, rhythmic drops that patter against the wood and stone below. The smell rises thick around us turning the entire basement into a slaughterhouse dressed in flowers.

I step back and watch him struggle. Chains rattle violently as he thrashes, blood bubbling and spraying between his lips with every attempt to scream. His eyes roll with pure animal terror, whites showing as tears cut clean tracks through the mess on his face.

I tilt my head, studying him the way one might study a broken toy finally smashed beyond repair.

“See? That was not so bad,” I murmur, wiping the scalpel clean on his jacket. “Now you will never kiss anyone again. Seems fair, does it not?”

He makes a wet, gurgling noise that might once have been words. Blood keeps pouring, steady and relentless, pooling beneath his head on the table.

I set the scalpel down neatly beside the pouch and place the tongue on a steel plate. I remove my gloves slowly, then wash my hands and arms in the basin in the corner, scrubbing away every trace of this fucker until the water runs clear.

“I will leave you to think about your choices, Jacke,” I say softly as I dry my hands. “Try not to bleed out too fast. I still have plans for the rest of you later.”

I turn away from the table, boots scraping against the stone floor, and climb the narrow stairs without looking back. His screams follow me upward, growing fainter and wetter with every step until the heavy basement door seals them away behind thick wood and stone.

The mansion is silent when I reach the main floor. Rain drums steadily against the old windows. Long shadows stretch across the stone walls and the paintings of bleeding flowers and watching crows.

I walk straight to the office.

The laptop waits on the console, screens already glowing soft blue. I drop into the leather chair, pull the mask down from my face, and open the feeds.

There she is.

Twelve perfect angles of her small apartment, five long hours away. Briar lies asleep in her bed, exactly where I left her—black hair fanned across the pillow, purple lips slightly parted, the blanket rising and falling with each slow, peaceful breath. Untouched by anyone but me.

I lean back and exhale, letting the sight of her wash over me like cool water on raw skin.

I watch her sleep for a long minute, the hunger and the yearning twisting together deep in my chest.

Soon, my love.

Soon I will not have to watch you through a screen.

Soon the only place you will sleep is in the bed I made for you here, wrapped in purple silk and the scent of hellebore, with my hands on you whenever I want.

I glance once at the feed showing the basement. He is not moving anymore.

What a weak piece of shit.

I walk back down the narrow stone stairs, spread a heavy plastic sheet on the floor, and roll his limp body onto it. I lift him, one arm hooked under his knees, the other wrapped around his bloody torso, and carry him up the stairs. His blood soaks warm through my shirt and drips down my arms with every step.

The mansion is quiet, but the wind whistles through the old stones outside. I push through the side door into the hellebore garden.

The night air hits cold and wet against my skin. Black petals gleam wetly in the thousands, stretching out in perfect rows under the rain. The huge stone walls rise at the far end, ivy crawling over them like fingers trying to pull the whole world inside.

I walk to the very back of the garden, boots sinking into the soft, rain-soaked earth with every step, and set his body down. Then I pick up the shovel I left leaning against the stone wall earlier tonight and begin to dig.

Each strike of the blade bites deep into the ground. Mud flies in heavy clumps, splattering my boots and pants. The hole grows fast, wide and deep, large enough that nothing will ever surface again. Rain fills the bottom almost as quickly as I dig, turning the soil into thick black sludge that clings to the shovel. My arms burn. My back burns. I welcome the pain. This is honest work. This is what it means to protect what is mine.