11. Briar
Chapter Eleven
brIAR
Aparty? In the middle of the woods, in an old abandoned warehouse?
Well, this is exactly what the damn doctor ordered, if the doctor was a complete psycho. Because in reality, this is the last thing I need after those weird no-number texts and the black flowers that keep showing up.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the delete button. If it was that man… the one who’s been haunting the edges of my life… he would already be here. Waiting. Watching. I don’t even know who he could be, but if he wanted to hurt me—
I shake my head hard, pushing the thought away.
No. I’m not going back to that scared girl Lucille found. I refuse.
I’m going to that party on Friday. I’ll wear something short, black, and dangerous. I’ll find myself a tall, masked hottie and let the night swallow me whole.
My phone vibrates. Lucille’s name lights up the screen.
“Hey, girl,” I answer with a chuckle. “I was just thinking about a masked hottie—”
She laughs on the other end, warm and wicked. “One big-ass masked guy.”
“Yes! Tall as hell!” I say, slumping deeper into the couch with a smile.
“Well, you’re five-three, so most guys are tall as fuck to you.” She teases, still laughing.
“True.” I bite my bottom lip, grinning. “Should make hunting easier.”
There’s a small pause. I sit up a little straighter.
“What’s going on, Lu?”
I hear her take a deep breath. “Any more texts? Or flowers?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “It’s been quiet. And honestly… I don’t care anymore. I can’t keep living in fear. Not again.”
“I know, but still… be careful. Maybe get some mace or something.”
“I don’t think those are even legal here,” I mutter. “Anyway, if someone really wanted to hurt me, they would’ve done it already. It’s probably just Luke and some other asshole playing stupid games.”
“Yeah… I think so too.” She says, but her voice still carries that worried edge.
“Okay, no more negative, scary shit.” I cut in, forcing lightness into my tone. “Friday. Short dress. Black boots. Black lipstick.”
Lucille gives a small, nervous chuckle. “Yes! But no heels, babe. It’s the woods.”
I laugh. “Since when can I even wear heels without breaking an ankle?”
We talk for another hour, about the latest TV show we’re both obsessed with, the insane bleeding-heart cookie order I had today, and everything in between. When we finally hang up, the apartment feels a little less heavy.
I take a quick shower, letting the hot water chase away the lingering unease, then slip under my soft blankets with my book. I bite my lip as I flip to the scene I’ve been waiting for since I saw it mentioned online.
The guy has sex with her while she’s sleeping.
“I wonder if men are really into this,” I murmur to myself, a little giggle slipping out. There’s something about the not-knowing, the surrender, that sends a dark thrill down my spine.
My old therapist said I became oversexual after the assault.
That I chase power in sex so I never feel helpless again.
Maybe he was right. Because the idea of being chased…
of being taken while I’m soft and unaware…
It gives me chills in the best way. Especially when the girl in the book gives him permission.
She wants it. She trusts him with that darkness.
My hand drifts down under the blankets as I keep reading. I’m already wet and aching.
The scene ends and I can’t sleep. I reach over to my nightstand, grab my vibrator, and turn it on max. I press it over my panties, eyes fluttering shut.
I just need to come fast so I can finally rest. This week is packed with orders, including that small black cake with sugar flowers I have to finish tomorrow, but even as the vibrations roll through me, my mind keeps drifting back to the masked party.
The bakery is finally quiet after the morning rush. I usually help at the front, but today I get to disappear into the back and focus on the special order, a small, intimate cake for a couple.
“Cordelia?” I call out, wiping my hands on my apron.
She pops her head in with her usual bright smile. “Yes?”
“Can you give me all the details for the cake order?” I grab my little notebook and pencil, ready to sketch.
“It’s a small one, for a couple,” she starts. I scribble quickly. “Dark chocolate cake, filled with salted caramel and caramelized nuts.”
My pencil stops mid-stroke. I look up at her, frowning.
“Are you sure?”
She nods, checking her notes again. “Why?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
A chill runs down my spine. That’s my favorite cake. The exact one my mother used to make for every birthday. It’s on the menu, so it’s not impossible… but still.
“And for decoration,” Cordelia continues, “the client wants white buttercream with two black flowers on top.”
“Okay,” I murmur, sketching a few roses. “Black roses?”
“No, it’s a weird name. I’ve never heard of it before.” She pauses. “Hellebore?”
My hand freezes. My breathing stops.
“Hellebore?” My voice comes out shaky.
“Y-yes,” she stutters, eyes widening. “Briar, are you okay? You look way too pale.”
I don’t answer. My heart is hammering against my ribs. Cordelia rushes to get me a glass of water. I drink it in one go, the cold liquid doing nothing to chase away the ice in my veins.
“Sorry… I think my blood pressure dropped. I’m going to get some air.”
I barely make it outside before I lean against the brick wall, breathing hard. What the hell is going on? Do I have a stalker now? Whoever it is knows my favorite cake and keeps leaving those black flowers at my door.
No… There’s no way—
My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. I pull it out with trembling fingers.
Unknown number.
“Don’t be scared, I’m not here to hurt you, my love. I want to taste what your fingers touched.”
I stare at the message, caught between panic and something dangerously warmer. My cheeks flush.
Okay, I am seriously mentally fucked up if this makes me blush.
I want to taste what your fingers touched.
Shit. Why does that sound almost… sweet? Hot, even?
Also creepy. Very, very creepy.
I shake my head hard as I walk back inside but then I freeze.
Wait… how did they know I was freaking out right now?
I glance around the kitchen, eyes darting over every corner, every shelf. Looking for anything out of place.
There’s no way they have cameras here… right?
No. Why would anyone care about me this much? And the man I’m actually hiding from would never write something like that.
I force myself to move.
I gather the eggs, flour, sugar, and dark chocolate with practiced hands. The familiar rhythm of the kitchen usually grounds me, but today every sound feels too loud, every shadow too sharp.
“Cordelia?” She appears again, still looking worried. “Is the client picking this up themselves?”
“Yes, Thursday.” She answers quickly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine now. Thank you.” I give her a soft, reassuring smile that feels paper-thin. She nods and leaves me to it.
I put my headphones in. Control by Halsey starts playing.
I move with the music, letting the steady beat pull me back into myself as I start the dough.
The rich scents of chocolate and caramel wrap around me.
I sing along under my breath, trying to lose myself in the textures, the precise measurements, the control.
This is why I love this job. Creating something from nothing. Following the rules so everything falls perfectly into place.
I finish the cake layers, chill them, then prepare the buttercream, fluffy white with the tiniest hint of purple.
I do a crumb coat, let it set, then smooth the final layer until it’s flawless.
Tomorrow I’ll pipe the black hellebore flowers on top.
And when the client comes to pick it up…
I’ll face him. I’ll ask why he’s leaving these flowers.
Why does he know my favorite cake? Why was he at my mother’s funeral?
I finish cleaning up, grab my things, and head to my car. The drive home is quick. No rain today, but the fog is already rolling in, thick and heavy.
I park and practically run inside the building, heart still racing. No flowers on the doorstep this time. For some twisted reason, I feel… disappointed.
Why the hell am I disappointed that some creepy asshole didn’t leave me a toxic plant? What if he’s a seventy-year-old man?
I gag a little at the thought and lock the door behind me.
A rush of cold air hits me from the bedroom.
Shit. I left the window open.
I hurry inside to close it and freeze.
A single black hellebore rests on the windowsill, a small piece of white paper underneath it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I grab the flower with trembling fingers and set it gently on the bed. My hands shake as I pick up the note. The handwriting is elegant, almost beautiful:
“Close your windows.”
Was he inside my apartment?
I spin around, eyes darting into every corner, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. The room feels suddenly smaller, the shadows deeper. I snatch my runaway bag from the closet and bolt for the door.
“Hey girl.” Lucille answers on the first ring.
“He was inside my apartment.” I grit out, voice cracking.
“What? Hellebore flower guy?” The urgency in her voice mirrors my own panic.
“Yes. He left a flower and a note.” I’m already running down the stairs.
“I’m coming to get you!” She says immediately.
“No, I’m already leaving.” I unlock my car and slide in.
“You’re staying here!” She insists.
“Thank you.” I say, throat tight.
I hang up and start the engine. A new message lights up my phone.
“I can’t protect you if you’re with Lucille. Stay the fuck home, Briar.”
What the hell? No…this can’t be happening. How does he know who Lucille is?
My breathing is quicker now, hands shaking so much I can barely hold my phone.
I laugh through the tears blurring my vision—a shaky, broken sound.
I type back even though I know the message won’t go through.
“Fuck you. You’re stalking me and you entered my apartment.”
The message actually delivers and my heart stops.
The reply comes almost instantly.