7. Drystan
Chapter Seven
DRYSTAN
“Wake up.”
I slap his face hard enough that the crack echoes through the basement like breaking bone. He grunts, eyelids fluttering, but still refuses to open them.
Fucker is taking forever. I need to get back to Briar. I do not have all night to waste on this worthless piece of shit.
I slap him again, sharper, my palm connecting with a wet smack that snaps his head sideways.
“W-what?” He pulls desperately against the chains, metal rattling loud in the cold space. “W-where am I?”
“My home.” I circle the heavy oak table slowly, boots scraping against the stone floor. “My basement, to be more exact.”
The torches flicker low along the walls, throwing long shadows that crawl across the damp stone like living things.
The air hangs cold and thick with the sweet-rot scent of hellebore petals scattered across the floor.
Thick chains wrap around his wrists, ankles, and torso, bolted directly into the table I sealed to the floor months ago. He is not going anywhere.
“What the fuck?” He yanks harder, the chains singing against the steel rings. The table does not even shift.
I stop at the foot of the table and look down at him. His leather jacket is still on, stained with rain and sweat. Pathetic.
“I told you to leave her alone,” I say quietly, almost gently. “I warned you. Leave. She is taken.”
He stares up at me, eyes wide and bloodshot. “She was not taken! I asked her; she is single, asshole!”
I shrug.
“She is single,” I murmur. “but taken.”
I reach into his jacket pocket and pull out his wallet. Leather, worn, nothing special. I flip it open. Driver’s license. Jacke Harlan. Thirty-one years old. No family listed. No emergency contact. Just a sad little life that no one will miss.
Perfect.
I hold the license up so he can see it, letting the torchlight catch the plastic.
“Jacke, with an e.” I shake my head. “No wife. No kids. No one is waiting for you to come home tonight. That makes this easier.”
His breathing picks up, fast and shallow. The chains rattle again as panic begins to creep in.
I tuck the wallet back into his pocket, almost politely, then lean over him until my masked face is inches from his.
“You touched her, Jacke. You kissed her.”
I straighten and circle the table again, my shadow stretching long and monstrous across the walls.
“I gave you one chance to walk away. You did not take it.”
The basement is quiet except for the distant drip of water somewhere on the stone and the ragged sound of his breathing. I stop behind his head, looking down at the fear already blooming in his eyes.
“You are going to feel everything tonight. No pretty dreams. No escape. Just you, me, and six years of waiting to finally get what I want.”
I smile behind the mask and pick up the small leather pouch, the one filled with knives, pliers, and the thin silver scalpel that catches the torchlight like a promise.
“But first,” I say, almost tender. “I want you to understand exactly why this is happening.”
I lean down again so he can see my eyes through the mask.
“Because she is mine. And you… you are just the next thing I have to remove from her life.”
I place the leather pouch on the small steel table beside the oak slab and unzip it slowly, the sound loud and deliberate in the quiet basement. The scalpel gleams, thin and razor-sharp, perfect for delicate work.
Jacke’s eyes follow the metal. His breathing turns ragged.
I start with the fingers. Because those are the ones that touched her first.
I take his left hand, the one he used to grab her waist, and spread his fingers flat against the oak, pressing down until the knuckles whiten under the pressure. The chain around his wrist rattles but holds firm.
I press the scalpel just below the first knuckle of his index finger and slice.
A thin red line opens instantly. Blood wells up bright and glossy, then spills in a slow, thick rivulet down the side of his hand and onto the table. Jacke sucks in a sharp breath that explodes into a strangled scream.
“Fuuuck—what the hell are you—”
I cut the next finger in the exact same place, the scalpel sliding through skin and flesh with a soft, wet resistance. A thin red ribbon wells up immediately and spills over the side of his hand.
“Shh,” I murmur softly, almost kindly, as I hold his hand pinned flat against the oak. “Do not waste your voice yet. We have only just started.”
He thrashes against the chains. Metal clanks hard against wood, the heavy links biting into his wrists, but the table does not shift even an inch. My grip stays steady on his hand while I work.
“You know what is funny?” I ask, moving the blade to his middle finger.
The edge sinks in again, smooth and precise.
Blood drips faster now, pattering onto the stone floor in warm, steady drops that I can hear over the distant drum of rain far above us.
“I spent years in a cage dreaming about the first time I would touch her, imagining how soft her skin would feel under my fingers. And you… you got to put your dirty fucking hands on her like it was nothing.”
I slice the ring finger deeper this time.
Jacke screams, the sound raw and broken, bouncing off the damp stone walls until it fills the entire basement.
It is beautiful. The scream mixes with the low crackle of the torches and the faint metallic rattle of the chains as he pulls uselessly against them.
“Stop—Jesus Christ, stop! I didn’t know, man, I swear I didn’t know she was yours—”
I laugh. The sound rolls out of me low and dark, foreign even to my own ears. “That is the best part, Jacke. She does not know she is mine either. But she will.”
I move to his pinky and make one clean cut.
Blood flows freely now, pooling in the hollow of his palm before spilling over the edge of the table in thick, glossy drops that hit the stone with a soft, rhythmic sound.
The smell rises thick in the air—warm copper layered over the sweet-rot of crushed hellebore petals scattered across the floor.
I step back for a moment, tilting my head as I admire the four neat, parallel cuts across the fingers that dared touch what belongs to me. Blood runs in slow rivulets down his wrist and soaks into the sleeve of his leather jacket.
“You see,” I tell him, my voice calm and almost pleasant in the freezing air. “I could have used the hellebore again. Let your mind break first while your body follows. But you do not deserve the mercy of madness. You get to feel every single second. You get to stay right here with me.”
Jacke pants hard, sweat pouring down his face and mixing with the blood already streaking his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils blown huge with pain and terror.
I wipe the scalpel clean on the edge of his leather jacket, leaving a dark, wet smear across the faded logo on his shirt.
“Next hand,” I say softly, already reaching for his right wrist. “Then maybe we will talk about the lips that kissed her. And after that… well. We will see how much of you is left when I am finished.”
The torchlight flickers. Shadows dance across the stone walls.
I press the blade to the first finger of his other hand and begin again.
Four neat cuts on each hand. Blood drips steadily from his fingertips onto the stone floor, a soft, rhythmic patter that blends with the rain hammering the mansion far above us.
Good.
Now for the mouth that kissed her.
I move to the head of the table and grip his jaw hard, fingers digging into the bone as I force it open.
Jacke tries to thrash, but the chains around his torso and neck hold him tight against the oak.
His eyes bulge, panicked and glassy with pain, tears mixing with sweat as they run down his temples.
“You kissed her,” I say quietly, almost conversational, leaning close enough that he can feel my breath through the mask. “You tasted lips that were never yours to touch.”
He makes a wet, choking sound. “Please—no—”
I slide the scalpel between his teeth and press the flat of the blade against his tongue. The metal is cold against the warm flesh. His eyes bulge wide, veins standing out in his neck as he tries to pull away.
“Hold still,” I whisper close to his ear. “This part is delicate.”
One slow, deliberate cut.
The blade parts the muscle cleanly. Blood floods his mouth instantly, thick and dark, spilling over his lips and down his chin in a hot, pulsing rush.
Jacke screams with a raw, gurgling howl that echoes off the damp stone walls before it collapses into wet choking sounds.
I keep the pressure steady, slicing deeper until the muscle gives completely under the edge.
I pull the scalpel free and hold the severed piece of his tongue in my gloved hand, warm and slick with blood. It twitches once before going still.
Blood pours freely now. It runs in heavy streams down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt and dripping onto the oak table in glossy, rhythmic drops that patter against the wood and stone below.
The smell rises thick around us turning the entire basement into a slaughterhouse dressed in flowers.
I step back and watch him struggle. Chains rattle violently as he thrashes, blood bubbling and spraying between his lips with every attempt to scream. His eyes roll with pure animal terror, whites showing as tears cut clean tracks through the mess on his face.
I tilt my head, studying him the way one might study a broken toy finally smashed beyond repair.
“See? That was not so bad,” I murmur, wiping the scalpel clean on his jacket. “Now you will never kiss anyone again. Seems fair, does it not?”
He makes a wet, gurgling noise that might once have been words. Blood keeps pouring, steady and relentless, pooling beneath his head on the table.
I set the scalpel down neatly beside the pouch and place the tongue on a steel plate. I remove my gloves slowly, then wash my hands and arms in the basin in the corner, scrubbing away every trace of this fucker until the water runs clear.