Page 4 of Hellebore

When I took the blame for my father six years ago, he swore he would give me anything I wanted. This was the first thing I demanded—an old estate hidden deep in the middle of the woods where no road signs point the way and no one drives for miles in any direction. Just me, the ancient trees pressing close on every side, and the hellebore garden that blooms like poison even in the depths of winter, beautiful and deadly and resilient. The kind of flower that thrives in darkness and cold, feeding on the shadows.

The gate is what first caught my eye the day I got lost out here, searching for a place that could swallow me whole until I was ready for her again. Old steel, forged heavy and tall, with a delicate flower etched into each side of the bars. Black walls rise behind it, impenetrable, hiding everything inside from any prying eyes that might wander this far. I stop the car, climb out into the damp air heavy with the scent of wet earth and pine, and push the gates open with a low, protesting groan of metal. The sound echoes out into the trees and slowly dies away. I drive through, then stop again to close them behind me, locking the world out with a solid click. No one comes here. No one ever will.

The tires roll slowly over the old cobblestone road, each uneven stone slick with rain and moss, jolting the car in a steady rhythm that travels up through the seat and into my bones. Tall trees line both sides of the drive, their branches interlocking overhead and blocking what little gray light remains from the sky. Shadows pool thick between the trunks, swallowing the undergrowth in layers of black. It is beautiful in its desolation, peaceful in the way only forgotten places can be.

Hellebore Mansion rises at the end of the long drive, three stories of stone darkened by decades of rain and time. Ivy and creeping plants claw their way up the walls as if trying to drag the entire structure back into the earth. A huge door of dark, heavy wood stands in the center, waiting. I park at the foot of the wide stone stairs leading up to it and kill the engine. The sudden silence presses in from all sides, broken only by the soft dripping of rain from the leaves overhead.

I step out, boots scraping against the wet stone, and climb the stairs one by one. The moment I push the heavy door open, the scent of aged wood, candle wax, and faint stone dust wraps around me like a welcome I have waited years to claim. I feel at home here, even though I only stepped inside once before they locked me away. I had people working in secret, paid well to prepare every room exactly as she would need it. And even though she has changed, I will bring her sunshine back. Whether she likes it or not.

The entrance hall greets me with cold stone walls that seem to breathe in the quiet. A double staircase curves upward on either side, dark wood banisters gleaming faintly in the low light, leading to the upstairs floor where the bedrooms wait. Where our bedroom waits. My footsteps echo too loudly as I cross the threshold, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the space around me, the air thick and still with the weight of years.

I walk up the stairs, my fingers trailing along the smooth, dark wood of the banister, the surface cool and polished under my touch. The paintings lining the walls are the ones I chose myself during that single visit years ago—brooding crows perched on twisted branches, endless shadowed forests, dark flowers bleeding ink across canvas. Their unblinking eyes seem to follow me as I pass, silent witnesses to every step I take deeper into Hellebore.

But it is the one waiting in the living room that matters most, the piece commissioned especially for her. I will show her that one soon enough. She will understand what it means.

I turn left at the top of the stairs and move down the wide corridor toward the master bedroom. The double doors stand black as midnight, carved with subtle hellebore motifs that echo the ones on the front gate. They swing open under my hand with a soft, familiar creak that echoes faintly down the hall.

The scent of fresh candles greets me first, vanilla laced with something almost smoky, filling my lungs as I step inside. The room is exactly as I demanded it be: heavy black furniture, ornate and solid, paired with rich purple fabrics that drape across the bed and windows. A huge fireplace dominates one wall, cold and dark for now but ready to roar to life and cast flickering light across every surface. Through the adjoining door, the bathroom gleams in black marble veined with gold, waiting in perfect stillness.

A castle for my queen.

I stand in the center of the room, breathing it all in—the solid weight of the stone walls around me, the deep hush of isolation that wraps the entire estate, the perfection of this space prepared to be filled with her presence. She does not know this place exists. She does not know me. But she will. Soon I will bring her sunshine back, even if I have to lock the gates and keep the entire world out forever.

I close the bedroom door behind me with a soft click and continue down the corridor to the office, the one room I had modernized to serve exactly what I need. The rest of Hellebore Mansion can rot beautifully in its gothic decay, but this space is my direct vein into her world.

I press my eye to the scanner. A soft red beam sweeps across my retina and the lock disengages with a heavy metallic thunk. The door swings open and automatic lights flicker on in cool, sterile blue that slices through the gloom. The air inside feels cool and dry, carrying the faint ozone tang of electronics and the constant low whir of servers hidden behind black panels.

I step in and the door seals shut behind me, locking the stone-and-ivy world outside. Twelve large screens dominate the far wall, dark and lifeless for now. I move to the sleek black console and power them on, one by one. They glow to life with soft static, waiting for signal, but no feeds appear yet.

My gaze drops to the long steel table beneath the screens. Three heavy black duffel bags sit there, zipped tight and waiting exactly as I instructed during those long prison calls on a hidden phone. I unzip the nearest one. Inside, neatly organized in foam cutouts, lie miniature cameras no bigger than coat buttons, GPS trackers thin as credit cards, listening devices disguised as everyday objects, signal jammers, and encrypted drives. Everything required to crawl back inside her life and relearn every detail I lost during those rotting years.

A slim, matte-black laptop rests beside the bags, lightweight, untraceable, loaded with custom software that can pull feeds from every device I plant. I will keep it in the car with me, parked in the shadows across from her bakery or that apartment, windows tinted black. I will watch her move through her days in real time while the rain drums against the roof. Every shift of her body, every forced smile she gives to strangers, every moment she believes she is alone.

I will learn her again.

Her new favorite color. The songs she plays when no one is watching. The books she reaches for when sleep refuses to come. The food she craves on the days sadness weighs her down. The specific coffee she orders each morning. The scented candles stacked beside her bed. The perfume that clings to her skin.

Every piece of the girl I lost.

Every piece of the woman she has become without me.

And when I know her better than she knows herself, I will bring her here. I will drag her through those hellebore gates and lock the world out forever.

A low laugh scrapes up my throat, raw and unsteady, the sound echoing faintly off the sterile walls before the hush swallows it. My fingers trail slowly over the smooth edge of one of the trackers, the metal cool against my skin as I imagine pressing it firmly beneath the driver’s seat of her car, feeling it click into place like another heartbeat syncing to mine. Every shadow in her life will carry my eyes. Every silence will carry my breath.

This place is ready. The thick stone walls, the paintings bleeding dark flowers across canvas, the rich purple silk waiting in our bed upstairs—it is all prepared, every detail shaped by years of starvation and planning.

I zip the duffel bags shut with sharp, decisive pulls, sling one heavy strap over my shoulder, and pick up the slim laptop. Its weight feels solid and right in my hand.

The screens remain glowing behind me as I kill the lights with a flick of my finger. I step back into the gothic hush of the mansion proper, the cool blue glow fading at my back, swallowed once more by shadow and ancient stone as the door seals with a heavy metallic click.

Chapter Three

DRYSTAN

Eight in the morning and she’s already leaving for work. Still punctual. That much hasn’t changed. She used to bounce out the door for practice wearing soft blouses that catch the light. Now she steps into the gray drizzle wearing a high, tight bun of black hair, a faded black-and-grey hoodie, and cargo pants that swallow her frame. My heart beats harder, faster. If I blink, I’m terrified she’ll disappear again.

The moment she turns the corner, I move.