34. Drystan
Chapter Thirty-Four
DRYSTAN
Two days have passed since the warehouse, and I no longer remembered what it felt like to breathe without pain.
“You can’t go alone!” Easton yells, slamming his fist on the table with a crack that echoes through the grand hall. “We go with you!”
“No. This is my battle. Not yours.” My voice comes out flat, hollow, as if the words themselves are already mourning.
I turn around and walk towards the door of Hellebore, maybe for the last time. Each step feels heavier than the last, my boots scraping against the ancient stone floors.
In the hallway, I pause. My gaze falls on the painting in the living room. Enzo has been restoring it after that fucker ruined it, careful strokes trying to heal what was torn. There she is. My bleeding heart cradled in her hands. The crimson seems too vivid, too alive against her pale fingers.
The painting stares back like an omen now, a prophecy written in oil and blood—our blood. I will bleed for her. I will give her my heart… every last drop. I just need her to be alive.
Please, God, let her still be breathing.
“Drystan—” Easton calls out one last time, his voice cracking with raw desperation as I slam the heavy door of the mansion shut behind me. The sound reverberates through the night, final as a coffin lid.
I stop on the steps, the cold wind cutting through my coat. I look back at the gothic silhouette that should’ve been our haven. The towering spires, the shadowed arches, the dark beauty that promised forever. Where we would live wrapped in each other, obsession and worship and ruin made eternal.
I built every room for a future that might already be buried.
Our Hellebore.
Tears sting my eyes, blurring the only home I had ever wanted to share with her. If she is gone… there is nothing left for me here. Only the dark road ahead, and whatever hell I must walk to find her or avenge her.
It takes Enzo only two days to find my ass of a father. Lawrence thinks he is being slick hiding in my mother’s parents’ old home—a forgotten house in the countryside,with no one for miles.
The drive is slower than I want, every second carving deeper into my chest. My mind keeps circling back to her. To the painting. To the bleeding heart I have already promised her. I don’t care how many men Lawrence has. I need to know if she is there. I cannot wait another day.
I arrive at sundown, the sky bleeding orange and purple across the fields like an open wound.
I park under a cluster of trees at the far end of the property.
The house is bigger than I remember—two stories, bedrooms upstairs, living room and kitchen below, and a basement I pray holds her, alive and waiting.
I slip on the black mask, pull the hood up over my hair, and check my gear.
All black. Two guns: one at my waist, one strapped to my thigh.
The backpack holds water, bandages, and the henbane the twins brewed.
It worked on Nicholas. If Briar is not here, it will make Lawrence tell me exactly what he has done to her.
I move low through the tall grass, the dry stalks whispering against my clothes like secrets.
My heart hammers with a single, feral rhythm: Briar.
Briar. Briar. The half-open window on the ground floor glows faintly with lamplight.
I crawl the last stretch on my belly, muscles burning, then pull myself up and slip inside.
The moment my boots hit the floorboards, a guard rounds the corner.
His eyes widen. “Intr—”
I am already moving. My fist slams into his throat, crushing the shout before it can fully form. He staggers, gasping. I twist the gun from his hand and fire once—muffled, close range—dropping him before he can raise the alarm.
Shouts erupt from deeper in the house. Boots thunder.
I move like a shadow, heart roaring. Another guard bursts through the doorway. I fire twice, catching him in the chest. He goes down hard, but not before squeezing off a shot that splinters the wall beside my head. The noise brings them all.
A third man comes at me from the kitchen, swinging a rifle like a club. I duck, drive my elbow into his face with a wet crunch, then wrench his arm behind his back until it snaps. He screams. I silence him with a knee to the temple.
Three down. Blood on my hands, breath sawing in my lungs. Where is she?
Heavy footsteps pound down the stairs. Lawrence’s right-hand man—the same bastard who was there the day they took her—emerges with two more guards flanking him. His eyes narrow in recognition behind the gun he raises.
“You,” he snarls.
Rage ignites, pure and blinding. I charge before he can fire cleanly.
We collide hard. I am taller, heavier, and the years of barely-contained violence pour out of me.
I slam him against the wall, my forearm crushing his windpipe.
His gun clatters away. He claws at me, landing a punch to my ribs that steals my breath, but I don’t let go.
I grab his arm—the same one that helped drag my Briar away—and twist with everything I have. The bone snaps with a sharp, sickening crack. He howls, face contorting in agony.
The remaining guards open fire.
Pain explodes in my side as a bullet grazes me.
Another slams into my shoulder, burning like fire.
I roar, returning fire, dropping one more, but they are too many.
Hands seize me from behind. A boot connects with the back of my knee.
I fight like a cornered animal—elbows, headbutts, teeth—trying to reach the basement door, trying to see if she’s there.
“Briar!” The name tears from me, raw and desperate.
A heavy blow crashes into the side of my head. Stars burst behind my eyes. Another hit follows, then another. The world tilts. My knees buckle. Blood fills my mouth as they drag me down, fists and boots raining until the darkness swallows everything.
The last thought before unconsciousness claims me is of her—blue eyes, bleeding heart, the only light I have ever needed.
Hold on, my black hellebore. I’m coming.
“Fuck…” I groan as a sharp pain stings in my shoulder. I try to open my eyes but everything blurs. My head feels like lead, and a dark red stain spreads across the floor in front of me. My blood.
“I knew you were coming, son.” Lawrence’s voice cuts through the haze. I don’t look up yet. I need to steady my breathing first. “You think you’re smarter than you really are—just like your mother.”
Fucking bastard.
No. Calm down. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
I hear him moving. My duffel bag drops to the floor with a heavy thud right in front of me. “You came prepared.” Lawrence chuckles, low and satisfied. “And you took out three of my men. I’m a little impressed.”
He starts pulling out the things I brought and pauses when he reaches the black box. The clink of it opening echoes off the stone walls.
“Is this that serum I heard about? Hellebore?” He snarls. “You’re just like that crazy mother of yours. That fucking flower was everywhere. I knew she would’ve end up using it on me—”
“So you killed her.” I finally speak, my vision sharpening as I lean back against the steel chair I am chained to.
Heavy manacles bite into my wrists behind my back and around my ankles, the metal cold and unforgiving.
This is the basement—no windows, just the damp smell of dew and musk hanging thick in the air.
The floor is packed dirt and old wood. Rough stone walls close in.
Two bare lamps cast harsh white light that makes the shadows deeper.
“Well, it was an accident, remember?” He winks. The clean, pressed suit he wears looks ridiculous down here, not a wrinkle on it, like he is still playing the part of the respectable man. He is trying to make me lose control, but he won’t, because she is not here. I can see the entire basement.
Where the hell is she?
“You were planning on using this on me?” He raises the vial, the dark liquid catching the light. My heart slams harder against my ribs.
I don’t answer.
He starts pacing in front of me while playing with the vial.
My father stands six-five, still strong in build, but his once-blond hair is now streaked with gray and his eyes are a flat, dark brown.
My black hair and green eyes come from my mother, and part of me knows he hates how much I look like her.
“Briar—” He says her name and my whole body tenses. I follow his every movement. My hands curl into fists against the heavy chains. “I get what you see in her—pretty girl. Innocent. I don’t like the black hair, though. She looked better with that lighter color.”
I stay silent. It makes him stop and face me directly.
“You would really die for her? A woman. One in a million.” He shakes his head, disapproval thick in his voice. “I don’t understand. You have money, power—you could have anything you’ve ever dreamed of—but you got stuck on that girl for ten years.”
He steps closer and grips my chin hard, forcing my head up. “And Hellebore mansion? When I bought it for you, I never imagined you would call it that. That you would build that fucking garden!” He releases my chin and slaps me, the force snapping my head to the side. Pain blooms across my cheek.
“You—you never understood what needed to be done, and now you come here to kill me over some pussy because you’re sick. Obsessed! You’re a psychopath!” He yells, spittle flying.
I smirk through the ache, tasting blood. “Takes one to know one.”
He starts to circle around the chair. “You think we’re the same?
I do what needs to be done to survive, to keep our name where it matters.
But you—” He stops behind me and grips my hair, forcing my head back hard.
The chains bite deeper into my wrists as I meet his eyes.
Pure hate and rage burn there, cold and ugly. “—you lose it all over nothing.”
“Over love?” I ask, already knowing he will lose it.