Page 50 of Hellebore

My phone vibrates again.

“Briar. I won’t ask again.”

I bite my lip. Why should I obey him? He doesn’t own me. He doesn’t get to control who I talk to.

I keep chatting with Tom. When he offers to walk me out, I accept.

“I’ll wait until you get a cab or something,” he says, holding the door open for me. “It’s dangerous to walk alone this late.”

The night air is colder now. Fog curls thick through the streets, glowing under the streetlights. My cheeks burn from the sudden chill.

I pull out my phone to order a ride. Tom stands close beside me.

When I look up to thank him, something in his eyes shifts. His entire face changes, the friendly smile gone, replaced by something cold and sharp.

Oh no.

I try to scream as he slams into me, shoving me hard into the dark alley. His hand clamps brutally over my mouth and nose, cutting off my air.

“He didn’t say you were this hot,” he growls against my ear, licking a wet stripe up my cheek. “Maybe I’ll take you for myself first.”

“Please—” I cry into his palm, the word muffled and broken.

“Hmm, I love when they beg.” He presses me harder against the cold, wet stone wall, his body heavy and suffocating. His knee forces its way between my thighs, grinding painfully against me. “Just a little taste before I hand you over.”

Tears stream down my face. I thrash, trying to knee him, trying to bite his hand, but he’s stronger. His free hand gropes my breast roughly, squeezing hard enough to bruise. The fog swirls thick around us, muffling everything except the sound of my panicked breathing and his low, excited grunts.

My mind fractures.

Suddenly I’m back there, years ago, cold hands pinning me down, laughter echoing in a dark stairwell, the smell of cheap alcohol and sweat. The same helpless terror floods me. My body locks up. I stop fighting. I close my eyes and go somewhere far away, the way I learned to back then. Just let it happen. Just survive.

His hand slides lower, roughly yanking at the waistband of my jeans.

Then, a feral, inhuman roar splits the night.

Tom is suddenly ripped off me with terrifying force. He flies across the alley and crashes into the opposite wall with a sickening thud.

A tall, massive figure is on him instantly.

Fists rain down, fast, brutal, merciless. The sound of bone meeting flesh echoes wetly in the fog. Blood sprays across the dirty ground as he pounds into Tom’s face again and again. The green eyes I recognize flash with pure, unfiltered rage in the dim light.

He doesn’t stop.

Blood coats his gloved knuckles. Tom’s head lolls, limp and broken.

Then the stalker turns toward me.

“Go home! Now, Briar!” He snarls, voice low and dangerous, chest heaving.

I can’t move. My legs won’t work. I’m still pressed against the cold wall, tears streaming down my face, mind caught between past and present.

He moves fast, grabbing my shoulders with blood-warm hands.

“I need you to move,” he says, shaking me gently but urgently. “Go home. Run. Don’t fucking stop!”

The command breaks through the fog in my head. A loud, broken cry tears from my throat. I look up at those forest-green eyes, the only thing visible through the mask and shadows, and something snaps.

I shove him off me and run.