Page 67 of Hellebore

From me.

“Goddamn it, Briar,” I growl, voice hoarse as I tear into the woods, knife gripped tight in my hand. Branches whip at my arms and face. Every shadow feels like it could swallow her.

I will find her. I have to find her.

She will never leave Hellebore.

I stop in the middle of the trees, the damp earth sucking at my boots, my chest tight as I scan the shadows between the trunks. The wind moves through the branches above, low and restless, carrying nothing but the rustle of leaves. No footsteps. No voice. Only silence pressing down like a weight I cannot shake.

“Where are you, Briar,” I mutter, the words scraping raw from my throat.

A scream cuts through the trees to my left. I bolt toward it, boots slamming into the uneven ground, every muscle coiled and burning. My heart slams against my ribs with violent force. If anyone has touched her, I will carve them open and leave them for the roots to claim.

I crash through the undergrowth and skid to a stop, breath ragged, knuckles white around the knife still gripped in my hand.

“Drystan. I was about to call you.” He smirks.

“Fuck.” A harsh breath of relief leaves my lips. The fucking twins.

Briar sits on the cold forest floor, Enzo standing over her with that familiar smirk, while Easton leans against a thick tree trunk nearby. Both of them tower at six-six, bodies built for violence, dressed in dark combat gear with their skull masks pushed down. Identical black hair, identical grey eyes. They train out here often, moving through these woods like predators who know every root and shadow.

“So, you brought her to Hellebore already,” Easton says. I nod once. His grey eyes slide over her. “He prepared all of it for you⁠—”

“Did you like the painting?” Enzo cuts in, his voice low.

Briar’s eyes snap to him, wide with fear.

“The painting?” Her voice shakes.

Enzo and Easton stand motionless, waiting. I trust them with her life. We met in jail, bonded over the rot of our shared pasts and worthless parents. When they were released, they came here to watch over Hellebore and over her until I could return. They are still breathing for that reason alone.

“The bloody one?” Briar asks softly, her fear thick in the air between us.

Enzo nods. He rarely speaks, but when he does, the words land heavy. His fingers were made for painting in blood and darkness.

“It’s creepy—” she says quietly.

“It was made with your blood and Drystan’s.” Enzo says, calm and low.

Her eyes widen, lips parting in shock. “What? How did you get my blood?”

Easton’s mouth curves into a faint smirk, his stare never leaving her face.

“Enough.” I step forward and grab Briar by the arm, pulling her up hard against my chest. Her body is warm and trembling, and the contact sends a dark pulse of possession through my veins.

“My blood?” she asks me, voice breaking.

“Yeah. Your blood, mixed with mine.” I state, my grip tightening as I look at the twins. They both nod. I pull her with me, away from them.

She starts to scream. Easton laughs behind us. “Sweetheart, no one will hear you. No one will ever find you here.”

Briar lets out a small whimper but stops fighting, her body going tense and rigid against mine. I can feel her pulse racing under my fingers.

“You were lucky they were the ones who found you,” I grunt, my jaw clenched.

“Two other perverts?” she cries out. “How did they get my blood, Drystan?”

“Enzo stole it from the blood bank after one of your donations.”