28. Drystan
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DRYSTAN
Igrab the small glass vial of hellebore serum from the duffel bag, the cool surface pressing against my palm as I turn back to face Archibald.
The bedroom air hangs heavy with the thick metallic scent of his blood, the floorboards slick beneath my boots where it has pooled and spread in a widening stain.
I lean down, pressing my boot harder into his chest until his ribs strain under the weight, and I force his mouth open with my free hand, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his jaw.
Blood flows freely now, warm and sticky, coating my skin and dripping onto the hardwood as I pour the entire contents of the vial down his throat.
He coughs and chokes, his body convulsing in violent spasms beneath me, legs kicking weakly against the floor in a desperate attempt to wiggle free, but my boot holds him pinned in place with no escape.
“While we wait for that to take hold,” I say, my voice low and rough with the feral edge that sharpens every word, “I think it is only fair to make you suffer the way she suffered.” I reach back into the bag and pull out two sets of heavy iron chains, the metal cold and solid in my grip.
I wrap the first length around the thick wooden bedpost at the foot of the bed, the links clinking loudly in the enclosed space, then yank his right arm up and secure it tight.
I do the same with the left arm, the chains pulling his body into a kneeling position on the floor, arms stretched taut toward the bed, his weight shifting awkwardly as the restraints bite into his wrists.
The fucker keeps crying out Briar’s name between sobs, as if speaking it could somehow soften the violence radiating from me.
It only feeds the unhinged hunger twisting deeper in my chest, the years of starvation for her making every sound of his a fresh insult.
He remains there on his knees, arms chained securely to the bed, helpless in the center of the room where the shadows from the single lamp stretch long across the walls and the heavy velvet curtains block out the night beyond the windows.
I grab the waistband of his pants and rip them down in one brutal motion, the fabric tearing loudly under my strength as he screams. The sound grates against my nerves, sharp and persistent in the quiet bedroom.
I snatch the roll of tape from the bag, wrap it tightly around his mouth and the back of his head in multiple layers until his cries are muffled into nothing but wet, pathetic whimpers.
Finally, some silence falls over the room, broken only by the rattle of the chains and the wet sounds of his breathing through the tape.
I can concentrate now. I select one of the hellebore stems from the bag, thick and sturdy with the small deliberate cuts I made along its length earlier to sharpen the edges.
I kneel behind his naked back, the floor hard against my knee, the air close and warm with the stench of fear and fresh blood.
“You know they did not just take her virginity,” I tell him, my tone dropping into something darker, more obsessive, the words pouring out as I press the thick stem against him.
“The one who touched her took her beautiful ass too. She cried. She tried to fight them.”
I push hard, the resistance of his body giving way inch by inch as the sharpened stem forces inside.
He screams into the tape, the sound vibrating through his body, blood trickling down the length of the stem in warm rivulets that coat my fingers.
I shove the entire thing deep until only the base rests outside, the cuts along the stem tearing into the delicate skin with every fraction of movement.
“You are lucky this one is not thicker,” I say, the feral satisfaction rising in me as I watch him shudder, “but you might have enjoyed it if it was.”
The serum begins to take effect. His eyes start to shake and roll wildly, pupils dilating as the hellebore floods his system with nightmares.
Gurgling sounds escape from behind the tape, his body jerking against the chains in uncontrollable spasms, eyes bulging wide with the horror unfolding inside his mind.
I stand up slowly, and take in the full sight of my work—his chained body kneeling there in the growing pool of blood on the bedroom floor, the house around us silent except for the distant patter of rain against the windows.
He deserved far more, but I have already lingered here too long.
I leave him to the private hell the hellebore will bring, his body twitching in the chains as I gather the last of my things from the duffel.
I move through the house to the garage, the hallways dim and lined with portraits that stare down in silent judgment, and retrieve the cans of gasoline stored there.
The liquid sloshes heavily as I carry them back inside, pouring it over every surface—carpets, furniture, curtains, and walls—until the sharp chemical smell saturates the air and soaks into the floors.
I exit through the back door, the cool night air hitting my bloodstained skin as I step onto the damp grass.
I pull a cigar from my pocket, light it with steady hands, and cut off the tip that carries any trace of my DNA before slipping the piece safely into my cargo pants.
I drop the lit cigar onto the gasoline-soaked threshold and watch as the flames catch and spread rapidly, licking up the doorframe and racing through the rooms with hungry intensity.
I walk back into the woods behind the house, the trees closing around me with their thick undergrowth and the scent of wet earth underfoot, and stand there as the fire builds.
The house erupts in flames, windows shattering from the heat, and then the explosion tears through the night, a deep roar that shakes the ground and lights the sky in orange fury.
A slow smile spreads across my face, the heat from the distant blaze warming my skin even at this distance.
Now it is time to return to my Briar. I will find the two men from that night and make them pay in ways that will make this seem merciful.
I have been driving for half a day straight, the afternoon light pressing heavy through the windshield as the miles blur beneath the tires.
My phone sits secured on the dashboard mount, the screen alive with the mansion’s camera feeds, and I keep glancing at it while my hands grip the steering wheel.
Briar moves through the rooms on the live feed, a restless presence in the vast spaces of Hellebore.
She opens every door she can reach, her fingers testing handles and pushing wood aside.
She pulls out drawers in the study and bedroom, sorting through their contents with careful hands.
She steps into my closet, running her touch along the hanging clothes, and lifts bottles of my perfumes and creams one by one, pressing them to her nose to inhale their scents.
A slow smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth as I watch her. She is finally home. She is finally inside Hellebore with me, where she belongs, and she will never leave this place again. Not until I am dead and buried beneath its foundations.
The other phone rings from the center console, cutting through the low hum of the engine. “Great,” I grunt, reaching for it while my foot presses harder on the accelerator.
“Yes,” I answer, voice flat and cold.
“Son,” my father says on the other end.
“What do you want?” I ask, the words sharp as I push the car faster along the winding road, the need to reach Briar clawing deeper under my skin with every passing second.
“Just wanted to check how you have been. Are you at the mansion?” His voice carries that practiced calm he always fakes so well, the sound of it grating against my nerves and flooding my veins with fresh irritation.
“No. I am taking care of some things. Why?” The engine growls louder as I take a sharp curve, trees flashing past the windows in a green haze.
“I want to see you. We should talk in person. I have not seen you since—”
“Since I was placed in jail? Since I pled guilty at trial?” I growl, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel until the leather creaks under the pressure, knuckles whitening with the force.
“Son—I told you I did not know that guy committed suicide. If I had known—” Fake concern drips from every syllable, and it ignites the unhinged rage that always simmers just below the surface when he speaks.
“Right. Just do not fucking call me again and we will call it even.” I hang up without waiting for more, tossing the phone back into the console as the road stretches ahead.
For years inside that cell I wished one of his many victims would track him down and end him.
But no one ever did. The thought still burns.
The tall iron gates of Hellebore finally come into view as the sun begins its slow descent, painting the stone walls and surrounding woods in deepening oranges and reds.
I drive through them, stopping only long enough to activate the lock behind me, the heavy mechanisms rumbling shut with solid finality.
I pull around to the side entrance, kill the engine, and step out into the cooling evening air, my boots crunching on the gravel as the massive structure looms above me, its windows dark and watchful.
A message vibrates on my phone. “Glad to see you are still alive,” it reads, from Easton.
“Thanks.” I reply quickly, knowing they would have kept careful watch over her while I was gone. We share certain twisted instincts, after all.