23. Drystan
Chapter Twenty-Three
DRYSTAN
Twenty-three minutes have passed, and she still has not come down.
The silence of the mansion presses against my skull like a living thing.
I pull out my phone, enter the code with steady fingers, and the bedroom camera feed flickers to life.
There she is, dressed in the soft black sweater and leggings I left for her, sitting motionless on the edge of the bed, staring out the window into the dark woods beyond.
Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twisting together.
What the fuck happened that altered the entire course of her life and still makes her struggle so deeply to speak the words aloud?
She finally stands. I watch her take a slow breath and give a small, decisive nod to herself, as though steeling her courage for something she dreads. I kill the feed immediately, set the phone aside, and move toward the stairs just as I hear her soft footsteps descending.
She appears at the bottom, looking painfully nervous and afraid, her small frame wrapped in the dark clothes that only emphasize how fragile she seems right now.
At five-three, and wearing only socks, the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.
The sight tightens something savage and protective in my chest. Once she tells me what happened, I will rain hell upon whoever dared to hurt her.
“I made you apple cinnamon tea with honey,” I say, gesturing toward the hallway that leads to the living room, “and I got those chocolate chip cookies with almond that you love so much.”
She stares at me for a long second, eyes wide with surprise.
“I told you already,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and even. “I know everything there is to know about you.” Everything except this. Except the one thing that still haunts her.
“It’s weird—” she says, then walks past me.
I don’t comment, just follow her into the living room. The fireplace crackles steadily, casting warm, flickering light across the space, but her gaze immediately falls on the large painting on the wall.
“I still think this is creepy as hell,” she murmurs.
“Don’t deviate,” I warn quietly as I lower myself into the large armchair facing the couch. She sits down across from me, picks up the steaming cup of tea, and wraps her hands around it. Steam curls upward in delicate spirals. She takes a slow sip, her eyes darting everywhere except to mine.
I lean back in the chair, legs spread wide, arms resting on the carved wooden rests, forcing my body to appear calm even as tension coils tighter and tighter beneath my skin. I wait.
She draws in a deep, shaky breath. “It was five years ago,” she begins, her voice barely above a whisper. I nod once, slowly. “I—” She stops, then finally lifts her gaze to meet mine. “I need you to let me tell all of it without interrupting, or I don’t think I will be able to finish.”
“I will just listen,” I reply, my eyes locked on hers with every ounce of control I can summon.
“So, five years ago I was at the dorm in college. Everything was going great, but then my father called me. There were some issues with his bank accounts and the money was low. The dorm was too expensive for the time being, so he found me a little studio apartment thirty minutes away.” Her eyes drop to her hands cradling the warm cup, as though the heat is the only thing anchoring her.
“Two days after I moved in, I got home late. It was dark, and the stair lighting wasn’t working.
I had barely reached them when gloved hands wrapped around my mouth and waist.” Her voice cracks, splintering on the last word.
I lean forward, my hands dropping to my thighs, fingers curling into tight fists against the fabric of my pants. The rage begins to rise, dark and suffocating, pressing against the inside of my ribs.
“Briar—” I start, but the single tear that slips down her cheek stops me cold. I force my mouth shut, jaw clenched so hard it aches, every muscle in my body screaming to reach for her.
“He dragged me down to the laundry room in the basement,” she continues, her voice growing smaller, more fragile.
“It was so dark… only a small lamp lit the space. He threw me against a table, and when I tried to fight him, he slammed my head into it.” Her breath hitches.
“Everything went dizzy. I couldn’t move.
That’s when I realized he was holding my hands down on the other side of the table. Another man came from behind me.”
I feel the rage beginning to boil in my veins, thick and black and merciless. My fists clench tighter against my thighs as I force myself to remain seated, to give her the space she begged for.
“He pulled my jeans down,” she forces the words out. Her voice cracks completely and a raw sob tears from her throat. “I remember he smelled like burnt wood and whiskey. His hands were rough, calloused. I remember the sound of his zipper… and then he pressed against me…
She breaks.
The sob turns into violent, wrenching cries that shake her entire small frame. Tears stream down her face as she curls forward over the cup of tea, as if trying to disappear into herself.
I cannot stay away any longer.
I rise from the chair and move to her, dropping to my knees in front of the couch. I take the cup, and hold her trembling hands in mine, firmly, anchoring her as best I can while the storm inside me grows louder, darker, more murderous.
“I wasn’t ready,” she chokes out, the words barely intelligible through her tears. “He just… he forced himself inside me. It hurt so much. I bled. I screamed until my throat was raw, but he wouldn’t stop. I tried to fight them, Drystan. I tried—”
Her words dissolve into gasping, heartbroken sobs that rip straight through my chest.
I pull her forward into my arms, holding her tightly against me as she collapses.
Her body shakes with the force of her crying, years of buried pain pouring out of her in waves.
I wrap one arm around her back and cradle the back of her head with my other hand, pressing her face into my chest, letting her soak my shirt with her tears while I fight the overwhelming urge to destroy everything around us.
“He told me no one would believe me,” she continues between sobs, her voice muffled against my chest. “That no one would ever find him. I called my father… and he said it wasn’t that bad.
” A broken sound escapes her. “Even after I went to the hospital. Even after they made a report. That report… it just disappeared.”
Her father. Her own fucking father.
The fury in my blood turns volcanic. I have to lock every muscle in my body to keep from shaking with the violence surging through me. I want to find every single person who failed her and make them bleed for years.
“I ran,” she lets out, exhausted now. “I went to Canada. I started drinking. I was sleeping in cheap motels until Lucille found me behind a bar, throwing up on the ground. She took me in. She protected me. She got me into therapy, found me a job, helped me get my little apartment.”
Her voice grows softer, quieter, as the worst of the storm passes. I look down at her tear-streaked face and see the ghost of a small, sad smile when she mentions Lucille.
“Is that why you changed your hair?” I ask gently, brushing damp strands away from her cheek. “Your clothes?”
“Yes.” Her face contorts with disgust and old shame. “The man who raped me… he licked me and told me how sweet and innocent I tasted. How my innocence was his prize.” She shudders violently. “After that, I never wanted to be that girl again. The one who let it happen.”
“You did not let it happen,” I say, the words rough and fierce as I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. “Never blame yourself for what those worthless pieces of shit did to you. You were the victim. They are the ones I will find. The ones I will make suffer.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting in fear. “No, Drystan. You won’t do anything. He made my hospital report disappear. The police did nothing. He’s connected. He’s dangerous.” Her hands fist desperately in my shirt. “Promise me you won’t do anything. Please.”
The fuck I won’t.
“I promise,” I lie smoothly, my voice steady even as my mind begins hunting, already planning their slow, agonizing deaths.
She searches my face, trying to find the truth I have buried deep. I let her look. I have always been good at hiding the monster when I need to.
I carefully set her back on the couch and sit beside her, putting the now-cooled tea into her hands. “That man, Tom,” I say quietly. “Do you think he had anything to do with them?”
Her body trembles at the name. “I don’t know.”
I nod once, keeping my voice steady. “Well, he’s dead now. No one will ever find him. And you are safe here, Briar. With me.”
She searches my face, doubt lingering in her eyes like shadows she cannot quite banish. “If it wasn’t for me, Tom would’ve—”
I stop myself before the rest leaves my lips.
“You chained me,” she says quietly, “even when I kicked you.” There is something threaded through her tone now, something that is not purely fear or regret, and the sound of it stirs dangerous heat low in my stomach.
“I did,” I reply, holding her gaze. “And you loved it.” Her cheeks bloom with fresh color, and my cock twitches in response, but I force the hunger down. I need answers first. “I don’t want to make you relive it, Briar, but did you notice anything else about those men that night? Anything at all?”
She shakes her head slowly. “The one who… his voice sounded older. The gloves smelled like real leather.”
Real leather. Money. The type of money that could make hospital reports vanish and police investigations disappear.
“What happened after…” I press gently, though every word costs me.
She swallows hard, fresh tears glistening at the edges of her lashes. “He zipped up. The other one threw me onto the stone floor. He said, ‘It was worth it.’ And then they both left.”
It was worth it.