Page 115 of Hellebore

“I just don’t want strangers touching me,” I try to explain, but I can tell I am failing by the way his face falls even more.

He nods slowly and turns to the tub. Warm water fills it as he adds oils and salts. “These will help with the soreness and wounds,” he explains gently.

He stands and walks back to me, extending his hand and waiting. I place my trembling fingers over his. He leans down, lifts me, but this time a short grunt escapes his throat. I watch fresh blood spread across the fabric near his shoulder and chest.

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding.” I press my hand over the wound, trying to stop it.

“I’m okay. I’ll get stitches once you’re in bed, resting.” He brushes it off like it is nothing.

“Drystan—” I press but he ignores it.

He sets me near the tub and turns around. “Get undressed, and I will help you if you want.”

I place my hand on his shoulder. I feel his muscles tense under my touch.

“Please don’t do that—” It comes out broken, my voice shaking so badly I barely recognize it.

He turns slowly. “I thought, after what happened, you didn’t want me to—” His beautiful, sad green eyes meet mine. I give him a soft, fragile smile.

“Just don’t say anything,” I whisper.

I turn toward the tub and remove my shirt. I hear his breathing hitch. Lawrence hit me whenever I didn’t behave the way he wanted, whenever my body couldn’t do what he demanded. I know I have bruises blooming across my chest, my hips, my thighs. I feel dirty. Disgusting. And knowing Drystan is seeing all of it makes me feel painfully vulnerable… but also powerful in a broken way.

I survived it all.

I turn to face him. His hands curl into tight fists at his sides. His jaw pops, but he does what I asked. He doesn’t say anything.

I reach my hand toward him. He grabs it gently and helps me into the tub. The moment I slide down, I wince sharply. The warm water burns like fire on every cut and bruise, stinging viciously even inside me. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks, but I force myself to stay there, breathing through the sharp discomfort that radiates through my sore muscles and raw skin. I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead against them, trying to hide the way my body trembles.

“Briar,” Drystan whispers, voice thick.

I look up at him. A single tear slips from his eye, tracing down his cheek. “Will you ever forgive me?” His voice is so broken it forms a painful knot in my throat. “My own father… it was all because of me⁠—”

“I know. He told me.” I reply, my own voice cracking. Another tear falls from his eyes. “I will never blame you, Drystan. Your father is his own person. He did this because he is evil. Just like my father was. You kept me alive.” The words break on the way out, heavy with exhaustion and lingering fear.

He leans in, one large hand cradling the back of my head, and presses a kiss to the top of it. He stays there, not moving. I close my eyes and inhale his familiar scent mixed with the soft orange blossom from the oils. It smells like home. Like fragile, desperate hope.

He stands up and I see the way his body sways, like he is losing balance.

“Drystan!” I yell and surge up from the tub. My entire body screams in protest, sharp, burning pain ripping through every cut, bruise, and sore muscle, but I lunge for him as he falls. I manage to grab his head before it hits the hard floor.

I snatch the towel beside us to cover myself and scream at the top of my lungs. The twins burst into the bathroom moments later.

“I’m okay,” Drystan tries to move, but Enzo is already on him, pressing down firmly. I watch in horror as blood pools across the tiles, mixing with the water that spilled from the tub.

“I told you you needed stitches, asshole,” Enzo grunts, voice tight.

“Do you need anything?” Easton asks me as Enzo helps Drystan out of the bathroom.

“I need him alive.” The words come out as a desperate plea. I look straight into Easton’s eyes, my voice shaking. “I can’t lose him. Not now.”

He nods once and turns, leaving quickly. I am left alone on the cold floor, surrounded by Drystan’s blood, my body trembling with exhaustion and fresh waves of fear.

The water from the tub is cooling rapidly against my skin, but it is nothing compared to the terror gripping my chest, that after everything, I might still lose him.

My mind is still spiraling as I wash up quickly. I move slowly, my legs shaky and weak, sharp pains shooting through my hips and thighs with every step. I grab one of Drystan’s shirts and a pair of sweatpants, dress as fast as my aching body allows, and walk out of the bedroom. I follow the sound of running water and low grunts of pain to a small office down the hall.

Drystan is sitting in a chair while Easton stitches the wound on his chest, right near where my name is carved. He looks up at me and smiles.