9. Drystan
Chapter Nine
DRYSTAN
Iwatch her expression shift as she reads my text, and the corner of my mouth curls slowly. My beautiful blue-eyed girl still does not know how deeply she is loved, but she will. Soon.
I keep my eyes fixed on the phone screen, studying the way she paces the living room with the phone clutched tight in her hand. She is wondering who sent it. Good. I want the question to settle deep under her skin, to take root there and bloom in the quiet moments.
I saw how she spiraled at the thought that the blond prick had touched her while she was unconscious.
I already had his phone. I used it to message his family and friends that he was moving countries and in some deep shit.
Then I texted her myself, just to set her mind at ease that he had not touched her. Only I had.
My other phone vibrates on the passenger seat. Only one person has this number.
I pick it up and answer, voice flat. “What do you want?”
“Is that the way to answer your father?” His raspy voice slithers through the line. I close my eyes and draw in a slow breath, forcing the sudden spike of rage back down where it belongs.
“Father,” I say coldly. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to know how everything is going. I have not heard from you since you were let out.”
I release the breath through my teeth, gripping the phone so tightly the casing creaks. “I am fine.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
“I have not heard from—”
“You will not,” I cut him off, voice low and controlled. “And do not ever send anyone else. Ever again.”
He chuckles, the sound dry and amused. “So I guess you are still after Briar Linden.”
My blood ignites.
“Do not fucking say her name.” I warn.
He tsks. “Drystan, she is just a woman. One of millions. She does not even know you. She does not care. Stop being a psychopath. Go to fucking therapy. Leave her alone before you are sent back to jail.”
I laugh, a dark, low sound that scrapes up from deep in my chest. I try not to shout, but the rage claws at the edges of my control.
“Let me remind you, Father, that you were the one who put me in jail. Not her. Not something I did. You.”
He tries to speak, but I keep going, voice dropping lower.
“You said I would get probation. Maybe community service. Or, if the judge was rough, maybe six months to a year.” I lean closer to the phone, teeth grinding. “I got six fucking years.”
“Son—”
“Do not.” I growl and slam my fist against the steering wheel once. The impact echoes loud inside the quiet car. “You did not even visit. You sent your fucking dog to ask what I wanted. But in reality all you wanted was to pay me off. Well, you did. Now fuck off.”
I do not wait for his reply. I end the call and slam the phone onto the car floor. It bounces once and lies still.
Motherfucker.
The silence that follows presses in heavy, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the glowing screen that still shows Briar pacing in her living room, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
I close my eyes and force the rage back into its cage, smoothing my expression until the mask of control slips back into place. The beast is still there, pacing behind my ribs, but it will wait. It always waits.
I turn the car on. The phone rests in its stand on the dashboard, feeding me every move she makes as I drive toward the bakery. The rain has eased into a steady drizzle, turning the streets into slick mirrors that reflect the bruised sky.
I park in the narrow alley behind the shop. It is after five, the bakery closed for the day, the perfect quiet window to start placing the last cameras and microphones. I reach for the small black bag on the passenger seat when movement on the screen stops me cold.
She walks into her bedroom.
I click on the feed and enlarge it until she fills the entire screen.
She removes her clothes slowly, piece by piece, until she stands in nothing but a light purple bra and matching cotton panties. The soft fabric clings to her skin, the delicate lace edges tracing the gentle curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts in the warm lamplight of the bedroom.
I lean closer to the screen, my breath fogging the glass.
What the hell is that?
I zoom in.
On her left hip, inked in delicate lines of purple and black, sits a butterfly.
“She has a tattoo?” I murmur, voice low in the quiet of the car.
Why? She hated those. That is why I kept my own skin clean, because she once told her friends she saw no appeal in them. They were not for her. The old Briar would never have done this.
Yet here she is, a beautiful creature with ink on her skin and darkness in her eyes.
“Briar, my love.” The words slip out like a prayer and a curse woven together.
My hand moves to my zipper almost without thought.
My cock is already hard, straining painfully against the fabric, throbbing with six long years of starvation.
She moves slowly around the room, stress-cleaning, bending to organize a drawer.
The purple lace stretches taut across her ass as she leans forward.
Her full breasts shift with every motion, her skin glowing softly under the lamp.
She is fucking cleaning in her underwear.
The Bluetooth speaker on her nightstand crackles to life. A song starts—heavy, industrial, dark. I do not recognize it, so I open the app on my phone and let it identify the track.
Terrible Lie by Nine Inch Nails.
The beat is raw and angry, perfect. She moves to it, hips swaying, long black hair brushing the small of her back. Every step, every bend, every subtle shift of her body sends another pulse of heat straight to my groin.
My mind drifts back to last night. She felt so good beneath my fingers, so soft, warm and wet. The memory alone makes my cock twitch violently in my hand.
I pull myself free. The cool air of the car contrasts sharply with the burning heat of my skin.
The silver piercings along my shaft glint as I wrap my fist around the thick length and stroke once, slow.
Precum beads at the head, slicking my palm as I rub over the sensitive metal.
The friction pulls a low groan from my throat.
I zoom in closer on the screen, eyes devouring every inch of her.
Those full breasts move with every breath, nipples faintly visible through the thin lace. The butterfly tattoo on her hip shifts as she changes weight. My hand tightens around my cock, stroking faster now. The wet sound of skin on skin fills the confined space of the car.
“Briar…” I groan, low and broken, hips bucking up into my fist. “Look at you. My perfect girl, all changed but still so perfect.”
I imagine pinning her down, spreading her thighs, burying my face between them until she wakes moaning my name. I imagine the way her cunt would clench around my fingers again, the soft sounds she made even in her drugged sleep.
My strokes turn rougher, almost punishing. The piercings drag against my palm with every upward thrust. Precum drips down my shaft, making everything slick and obscene.
“She is mine.” I growl through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the screen as she bends again, ass presented like an offering in the lamplight. “That tattoo. That body. That fucking smile she gave that prick. All mine.”
The pressure builds fast, coiling tight at the base of my spine. I stroke harder, faster, thumb pressing over the head on every pass, smearing the slickness.
A broken sound tears from my throat as I come, thick, hot ropes spilling over my fist and onto the steering wheel. I keep stroking through it, milking every last pulse, hips jerking, breath ragged in the quiet car.
When it finally ebbs, I sit there panting, cum cooling on my skin, eyes still glued to her.
She has no idea what she does to me.
She has no idea how close I am to breaking every rule I set for myself.
I wipe my hand on a black cloth from the glove compartment, tuck myself away, and stare at the screen one last time.
Soon, my love.
Soon I will not have to watch you through a screen.
Soon, I'll have you where you belong, and there will be nothing and no one left between us.
I place the last camera.
The entire bakery now rests under my surveillance. The small space feels almost intimate in the quiet dark.
She works in the back, surrounded by trays of fresh muffins and half-decorated cakes.
I pick up the black notebook lying on her station.
Her name is written on the cover in her neat, careful handwriting.
Inside are delicate sketches of cake pops, towering birthday tiers, and elegant wedding designs, filled with meticulous notes about colors, textures, and sugar flowers.
She was always good with her hands. That is why she wanted to be a doctor, a surgeon. Steady fingers. Precise. Apparently those same hands now create beauty out of sugar and buttercream.
Briar is a perfectionist. Whatever she sets her mind to, she does not stop until it is flawless. That is why her leaving college without finishing feels so wrong. So out of character.
I close the notebook and set it back exactly where I found it. Outside the window, night has fully claimed the alley. No rain now, only thick fog that swallows the streetlights until they glow faint and distant.
Time to leave—
A soft thud echoes from the front of the shop.
I move instantly, silent and fast, slipping behind one of the large counters and dropping into a crouch. I pull my mask up and tug the hoodie lower, hiding every inch of my face. My breathing slows until it is almost nothing. The beast inside me stirs, alert and hungry, pressing against my ribs.
A shadow enters the bakery, dressed entirely in black.
Is he robbing the place?
I stay low, watching. He is skinny, no taller than five-eleven. I could break him in half if I wanted. For now I let him move, let him take whatever he thinks he needs. I will put it all back later so no one knows he was here. The last thing I need is cops crawling around and finding my cameras.
He stops at Briar’s workstation.