Page 64 of Hellebore

Silence falls again.

“Will you kill me?” I ask quietly, clutching the blanket.

“Only if you make me,” he answers, the words are rough and slow, laced with something dangerously tender. “And if that happens… I’ll put a bullet through my own brain and follow you into whatever hell waits beyond this one.”

I should be more terrified. I should be screaming.

Instead, the weight of his words settles deep in my chest, warm and dark and terrifying in an entirely different way. The thought that someone could want me so completely, so violently, so eternally, makes something inside me tremble, but I don’t know if it’s from fear or something else.

The night presses against the stone walls again, heavy and unrelenting. My body aches from the unforgiving slab that serves as my bed, every muscle tight with cold and exhaustion. Hunger gnaws deeper, but it is nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.

I wave my hands toward the camera, hoping he is still watching. “I’m hungry!” I yell into the emptiness. No reply comes. Nothing but the steady drum of rain beyond the thick walls. I climb onto the bed and strain to peer through the small square window cut high in the stone. Rain lashes the darkness outside. This winter has brought nothing but rain and low, brooding clouds. I ache for the sun, for its warmth on my skin, for the simple freedom I took for granted.

What if I never feel it again? What if this cold rain is the last thing I will ever know? The thought settles over me like a weight pressing tears into my eyes that I refuse to let fall.

The lock turns.

I flinch hard at the sharp metallic sound, my heart lurching violently in my chest. My body jolts with sudden fear even though I knew he would come eventually. Still that lock clicks, a part of me wonders if this is the moment everything changes, for better or worse.

Drystan steps inside.

He wears black sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie that shadows his frame. His hair is damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead, carrying the sharp, clean scent of his shampoo into the stale air of the cell. He tosses another blanket and a pillow onto the bed without a word. “It’s going to be colder tonight.” His voice is a low grunt. His eyes refuse to meet mine.

He turns back to the door and pulls in a small cart. The smell of warm food hits me first—seared steak, rice, boiled vegetables. A glass of deep red juice. And there, at the edge, sits the cake.

“I’m not going to eat that.” I point at the cake.

His gaze finally lifts to mine. A slow smirk curves his mouth. “It’s just cake.”

He wheels the cart closer, stopping it right in front of the bed. The rich aroma of meat and spiced rice makes my mouth flood with saliva. My stomach growls, loud in the quiet stone chamber. I snatch up the fork and knife—the knife’s point sharp and gleaming.

“Don’t even think about it, Briar.” His voice drops, rough as gravel.

I glance up. He leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, but my eyes drift lower, drawn to the unmistakable outline beneath his sweatpants. The fabric clings, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Is he already hard, or is he simply that big?

“Eat,” he commands.

I nod quickly and look back at my plate. The first bite of steak is hot, savory, perfectly seasoned. He watches me the entire time, silent, unblinking.

“This is very uncomfortable,” I mutter between bites. I lift my eyes to him again. “Are you going to watch me eat?”

He nods once. “I’ve been watching you do all these things through a camera. Now I will watch it live. In front of me.”

Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks. I keep eating, faster now, acutely aware of his stare tracing every movement of my mouth, my throat.

Finally I reach for the cake. I frown, poking it with the spoon. “You really didn’t put anything in here?”

“No.” His voice sinks deeper. The sound drags across my skin like a slow caress, raising goosebumps along my arms.

I scoop a piece onto the spoon and slide it between my lips. The rich chocolate melts on my tongue. I hum softly in pleasure, licking the spoon clean slowly. This has always been my favorite and he knows it.

When I open my eyes, his jaw is tight, a muscle ticking. My gaze drops lower. The bulge in his sweatpants has grown heavier, thicker, straining hard against the fabric.

A small smirk tugs at my lips. I take another bite, slower this time, letting my tongue linger on the spoon, tracing its edge with lazy, suggestive strokes.

“Fuck, Briar.” The words tear from his throat, low and strained. “You shouldn’t be teasing me.”

“Why?” I ask, voice light and teasing even as my pulse thunders. The truth burns through me: I wouldn’t stop him if he grabbed me right now. I want his hands on me. I want him to finish what he started.