2. Drystan #2
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.