29. Briar #2
“I know,” I say, offering him another small smile as I turn to wash my hair and body.
He stays right there beside me inside the massive double shower, the water cascading over both of us.
The rich, masculine scent of his shower gel fills the steamy air and sends a thrill racing down my spine.
His arms flex as he washes his own hair, veins cording along his forearms, and my mouth waters at the sight.
Shit.
He finishes and walks out of the shower. I linger a moment longer beneath the spray before stepping out to find him already pulling on his black sweatpants, the waistband slung low on his hips, the sharp V-line disappearing beneath the fabric.
“Briar—” His voice draws me back to the present.
His eyes hold quiet amusement, and I realize he caught me staring.
“I am going to make something to eat. Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen.” He crosses the space as I reach for the towel and wrap it around my body.
His hand slides behind my head, warm and steady, and he leans down until his lips brush my ear.
“I am the one who is obsessed, not you, my love.” The low, amused tone sends heat rushing across my cheeks.
He turns and leaves the bathroom.
Drystan is my handsome stalker. My killer. My very hot, fucks-like-a-god kind of stalker…
I take a deep breath, grab the lotion, and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing it slowly over every inch of my skin. I open one of his drawers and pull out one of his large shirts along with a pair of shorts that fit me perfectly—because of course they do. He knows my body better than I do.
I brush my teeth and make my way downstairs, repeating the path in my head so I do not get lost—one long hallway, then left.
“Still raining,” I murmur as I step into the kitchen.
He hums in response. The warm, savory scent of oregano and garlic fills the air. “What are you cooking?” I try to peek around his massive frame, but his back blocks most of the view. “Can I help?”
“No. You sit that pretty ass at the table. Five more minutes,” he replies without turning.
I shrug and slide into the chair. The table is already set with two black plates and two glasses. The silver cutlery has delicate little flowers etched at the ends.
“These are beautiful,” I say, picking one up to study the tiny flower design more closely.
“They were my mother’s.” His voice carries a quiet sadness. “She always loved flowers. Her favorite was the hellebore. The black one.”
“And now you have a beautiful garden full of them,” I say softly, even as my mind screams—flowers he uses to torture people.
I push the thought down.
He turns with the pot, and the smell is divine. He has made carbonara. He serves me a generous plate and sprinkles fresh Parmesan over the top before sitting across from me.
I take a small bite.
“Oh my God—” The words slip out as I look up at him. “How the hell did you do this?”
He smiles, that beautiful half-smile that curves more on one side as strands of hair fall across his eyes. “Well, there was an Italian man in prison who worked the kitchen where I was placed—”
“You were placed in the kitchen?” I interrupt, a small amused sound escaping me.
“Yeah. Well, I am a big guy and they thought the kitchen was a safer place for everyone,” he jokes, winking at me. I give him a real smile in return.
We eat in comfortable silence after that, the only sound the steady rain drumming against the windows.
The scene feels strangely homey—the warm light, the food he prepared for me, his quiet presence across the table.
It settles over me like something soft and dangerous I did not ask for, and something inside my chest twists with how right it feels.
How wrong it feels to let it feel right.
“Drystan,” I say when I finish my plate. Our eyes meet across the table. “I need to know. Where were you the last two days?”
“You do not want to know.” His voice drops, darker, and his gaze slides away from mine. A chill traces down my spine.
“I need to know. I want to trust you, but I need to know.” My voice cracks, pleading.
He exhales slowly and leans forward, elbows resting on the table.
“You know that even if you come to hate me, I will never let you leave, right?” His arms appear relaxed, but his eyes burn with feral possession.
“You are the air I breathe, the only light I have ever known in this rotting world. If you try to run, I will hunt you down. If you try to end your life, I will follow you into death itself and drag your soul back to mine. There is no universe where you exist without me, Briar. Not anymore.”
His words wrap around my throat like velvet chains, terrifying and intoxicating all at once. I shake my head, fear clawing higher. “Please tell me.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment before speaking. “I found out how those two men gained access to you. Who provided everything.”
“Provided? Gained access?” Confusion knots my brows. I have no idea what he means.
“Your father.” The words land blunt and heavy between us.
My heart drops like a stone into an endless well. “What?” Tears burn instantly behind my eyes. “No. You are insane.” I push back from the table so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. Drystan rises too, his massive body blocking my exit, but he does not reach for me.
“You said you needed to know, so now you will know all of it.” His voice remains calm, too calm, while my entire world fractures.
“Your father owed a fortune to dangerous men over gambling debts. They were coming for him, for the house, for everything he had left. Then someone called with an offer: a way out in exchange for you.”
Tears spill hot down my cheeks. “No! You heard wrong, Drystan!” I slam my fists against his bare chest, but he does not flinch. “He is my father!” The scream rips out of me, raw and desperate, my voice breaking apart on the words as sobs begin to tear through my body.
“He is a piece of shit. He sold you. The man on the phone demanded you be easier to access, so your father took you out of the dorm and moved you into that apartment with no cameras nearby.” He places one hand gently on my lower back.
The touch undoes what little control I have left.
I collapse forward into his chest, fingers clutching desperately at his skin as ugly, heaving cries wrench out of me.
“No. No. He is my dad. He protected me. He—”
“He confessed, Briar. And I—” He pauses. I look up at him through the blur of tears, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. “I killed him.”
I keep crying, shoulders heaving with deep, broken sobs, but beneath the shock and grief, something twisted and awful blooms inside my chest—a horrible, fragile sense of safety.
He won’t hurt me again.
“Briar—” His arms tightening around me.