12. Briar
Chapter Twelve
brIAR
“You don’t have to stay.” I tell Lucille, but she’s already shaking her head as we walk to her car.
“Yeah, I don’t care. I’m driving you to work, then I’ll go to the store and pick you up later.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.
“Yes, ma’am.” I joke. She gives me the look before cracking a small laugh.
“Sorry… I just want to make sure you’re safe,” she says softly. I can see the fear lingering in her eyes.
“Well, if I’m not safe, then you’re putting yourself in danger too.” I try to smile. She just shrugs.
“Whoever it is can’t take both of us.” The confidence in her voice is comforting, even if I know it’s partly for show. Lucille is tall, strong, and has a mean right hook. Still, the idea of her getting hurt because of me makes my stomach twist.
We arrive at the bakery and today is the day the stalker is supposed to pick up his cake. If he shows.
“Don’t leave until I come get you, you hear me?” Lucille calls as I step out of the car.
“Girl, you’re gonna make an amazing mom someday,” I laugh. She rolls her eyes and drives off.
I step inside. Only two regulars are at the counter. I wave at the girls working the front and slip into the kitchen, my safe little corner.
I’ve always loved baking, but I never imagined I’d be good enough to work here.
The bakery isn’t big, but the clients are loyal and the orders are always interesting.
When Lucille got me this job, I was too scared to face customers, so Christine, the owner and Lucille’s mom’s best friend, let me hide in the back.
I spent a whole year learning from her. Now I mostly work on special orders, especially the darker ones.
My black cakes with bleeding hearts went viral on social media, and suddenly that became my signature.
I love it here. It feels like control in a world that keeps trying to take it from me.
I check the time and pull the cake from the fridge. It’s almost done. I just need to finish the hellebore flowers.
I put my headphones in and the music starts playing. My hips sway as I carefully pipe delicate sugar leaves around the large black hellebore in the center.
The song ends just as Cordelia walks in.
“Hey, what time is the client coming for this?” I ask, nodding toward the cake.
“Around five,” she replies with her usual soft smile.
I nod and keep working, trying to stay focused.
The day drags on. I replace sold items, make pink and pastel cake pops for a birthday, and lose myself in the rhythm of sugar and buttercream. When I finally look at the clock again, it’s ten past five.
No one has come for the cake.
It starts to get dark outside. We’re closing soon when, suddenly, every light in the bakery cuts out.
The world plunges into darkness.
My heart slams against my ribs. A second later the fire alarm explodes through the building, shrill and deafening.
I freeze.
“Briar!” Christine’s voice cuts through the chaos. Her hand grabs my arm, tight and urgent. “Let’s get out. Now!”
She pulls me toward the front with Cordelia and the few remaining customers. My legs feel numb. Panic claws up my throat as we stumble outside into the cool evening air. People are already gathering, staring, murmuring.
No smoke. No fire. But the alarm keeps screaming.
The firetruck arrives quickly. Two firefighters rush inside while we stand huddled on the sidewalk. My hands won’t stop shaking. For one terrifying moment I thought the whole place was going to burn down with me inside.
After what feels like forever, one of the firefighters comes back out.
“Everything’s clear,” he tells Christine. “Looks like a fuse blew. Set the alarm off.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing heart as Christine walks with him to check the panel.
“Let’s get our stuff and go home,” she says when she returns.
We file back inside. The emergency lights cast everything in an eerie red glow. I head straight to my station to grab my phone and bag.
That’s when I see it.
A small stack of bills sitting neatly on my work table.
My stomach drops.
I pick up the money with trembling fingers. Then the realization hits me and I run to the fridge and yank it open.
The cake is gone.
In its place, a small white note.
“Thanks, my love.”
Oh shit.
He did this. He caused the power outage just to take the damn cake without anyone seeing him.
Who the hell is this person?
I walk outside, gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles ache. No new texts from the private number. Just silence.
Lucille pulls up and I practically dive into her car.
“Shit, you need to call the cops!” she says the second I close the door. I’d already texted her everything while I waited.
I just shake my head and stay quiet, staring out the window as my mind spirals. The texts. The flowers. The note on the windowsill. And now this.
“He could be some old pervert that smells like stale beer and piss!” Lucille grunts.
“Ewww, Lu!” I snap, the image making my stomach turn.
“Seriously. You have no idea what this person looks like,” she insists.
“I know…” I let out, voice low.
We reach my apartment and Lucille insists on coming up with me. She disables and resets the new alarm in seconds.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I tell her, heading to the bathroom feeling numb.
The moment I step into my bedroom I freeze.
Something is on my bed.
I quickly close the door behind me so Lucille won’t see. A single perfect slice of the black cake sits on an ornate silver dish, heavy, antique-looking, engraved with delicate flowers. Black rose petals are scattered around it—it’s beautiful.
He came inside again. Even with the alarm.
My phone vibrates. I jump so hard I almost drop it.
“The cake is perfect. Just like you, my love.”
I stare at the screen, heart hammering, cheeks burning with a mix of terror and something I don’t want to name. Another text appears immediately.
“This piece is special. When you eat it, you will sleep.”
I bite my lip hard. Did he drug the cake? Why the hell is he telling me that?
“Look on the desk.”
I turn slowly. On my small drawing desk sits the book I was reading a couple nights ago. A black hellebore marks the page. I open it with trembling fingers, it’s the somnophilia scene. I gasp and drop the book.
“Briar, is everything okay?” Lucille calls from the living room.
I snatch the flower, shove it into a drawer, grab the slice of cake, and dart into the closet just as she opens the bedroom door.
“Yes, sorry! I just dropped a book.” I laugh, shoving the cake onto the back shelf.
“Okay. Sorry, I’m jumpy,” she says with a weak smile.
“Same.” I wave my hand dramatically, trying to look normal.
“Pizza?” she asks.
I nod with the biggest smile I can fake.
The second she leaves and closes the door, I pick the book back up. Another text vibrates.
“If you want to try it, eat the cake.”
I gasp, air burning in my lungs.
No. Of course I don’t want that. He’s insane. I would never let a stranger fuck me while I’m unconscious. I might be losing my mind, but I still have some limits.
I type back anyway, hoping the message goes through.
“I don’t know you. You could be an old fart smelling like stale beer.”
It delivers.
I stare at the screen, barely breathing.
A picture appears.
A man in a black shirt and black cargo pants, standing in front of a mirror. Black messy hair that looks damp. The phone covers his face. Tall. Broad. Dangerous.
Shit. No. This is probably catfish bullshit.
“Catfish,” I reply.
“Friday.”
That’s all it says.
“Friday? What do you mean?” I text back, but it’s blocked again.
Damn it.
Is he coming to the party? Or does he mean he’s going to make me eat the cake?
My heart slams so hard I feel dizzy.
I should call the cops. Lucille is right. This is dangerous. I could get her hurt too.
I grab my clothes, turn the shower on, and call the local police station while Lucille orders pizza. I explain everything in a shaky tone. The man on the other end sounds bored as he asks if he hurt me, if there was any direct threat to my life.
“No,” I shake my head.
“Until there’s a real threat or clear proof someone was inside your house, we can’t do much,” he says. An officer could come take a statement, but the exhaustion in his voice tells me they won’t do shit.
Proof he was inside. What about the cake? The flower? The book marked at that exact scene? Apparently that could’ve been a friend or family member. Or maybe I just forgot.
I hang up and snarl at the phone.
Useless. They’re all useless. Just like they were after my assault.
I step under the warm water, trying to wash the fear away. But my mind keeps drifting back to the picture. Why does he look so… hot? So dangerously beautiful?
Why the hell am I imagining him fucking me while I’m passed out?
There is something seriously wrong with me.
I finish showering, slip into my pajamas, and spend the rest of the night eating pizza and watching movies with Lucille. We double-check every window, make sure the alarm is armed, then crawl into bed.
Lucille falls asleep quickly beside me.
I don’t.
I open my phone and zoom in on the picture again. Strong arms with visible veins. A ring on his finger. Dark shadows swallowing most of him, the light hitting only one side of his face, covered by the phone.
I run it through an image search. Similar photos pop up, but not this one. Not him.
“I would let him do things to me,” I whisper into the dark.
Lucille mumbles something in her sleep. I smile softly and set the phone on the nightstand.
Friday.
Tomorrow.
It’s almost nine at night and my anxiety is crawling under my skin like spiders.
I spent the whole day at work with shaking hands, blaming it on yesterday’s events. Christine was ridiculously apologetic, as if the power outage and the missing cake were somehow her fault. Lucille picked me up at seven and we came straight back to get ready.