Page 22 of Hellebore

as he pressed a thumb into my artery, my head swimming. His watch scraped against my skin as I writhed and squirmed, panic heating my nerves.

“You’re hurting me,” I whispered, tears beginning to prick in the corner of my eyes.

“Pain is the price of pleasure, Rabbit,” Cole purred in my ear, the hand around my throat tightening, his other tearing at my clothes as the moon watched us in disappointment.

And I knew then; he had been watching us. Francesca and me.

That was the last time I saw him alone, the final time his hands grazed my skin, his sweat laced my tongue. I fled the woods that night, torn blouse in hand, Cole’s hooded coat now protecting me from the frost as I ran. I clenched it over my bare chest as sobs rattled my ribcage. Regret twisting with every breath. The rough weave of his stolen coat scraped at my skin as a searing reminder of what I had volunteered, what I had offered without thought. And now I felt stripped bare, flayed and bleeding as the tears began to sting my cracked lips.

I knew that night he was not what he had promised. Not my protector, not my savior, and assuredly not my hope. But I let him have me, clinging to the belief that if I could convince myself to want him in return, it might quiet the sin that stirred whenever I thought of her.

Bruises trail my shins – blooms of deep purple and mottled greens that string together like constellations. I have no recollection of their cause, of their arrival, and yet they’re there, marring my legs as memories washed away in sorrow.

My fingertips brush against the aged brick of our home, silt slipping away beneath my touch as my gaze draws to a figure approaching across the drive. He saunters with determination, gentle smile breaking across his face as he stops ahead of Isabel. She lowers her broom, halting her chore as she takes him in.

“Good morning, I picked these for you,” he says, holding out a lackluster offering of pale pink hellebores, their petals wilted, stems bending in the wind. Not in season, their previously beautiful blooms now washed of vibrancy.

“What do you want, Cole?” Isabel questions, eyes narrowed. The sun shimmers on her jaw, a new hollowness of her cheeks startling.

“I came to pay my respects,” he says, dropping his hand, petals dancing to the earth as they fall from the flowers.

“Why bother?”

“I’m trying to be kind, Isabel,” he soothes, false sincerity dripping from his voice. The rough, dominating rasp is there, but he’s layered it with honey – smoothing the edges as he sets his trap.

Isabel exhales sharply, swallowing as she draws her eyes from the flowers to his face.

“Well, thank you, I suppose,” she says wearily, drinking him in.

“Is there any news?” He steps toward her, loosening more petals from the posy at his side.

“The police have arranged to come and talk to us tomorrow,” she replies, eyes cast to the ground, hands clenched around the broom handle as her knuckles blanch.

“What about?” he questions, brows drawn.

“Just following up, I suppose. Why does it matter?” She narrows her eyes, fixing him with a stern glare. Theres a hesitant edge to her voice, uncertainty as he stands before her.

“It doesn’t. I just like to be informed,” he says with a shrug, eyes lingering on her lips.

I step forward, intending to alert him to my presence, but it’s as though they’re locked in a vacuum – nothing else penetrating their interlocked gazes.

He reaches for the disheveled length of her wavy hair, rubbing a thumb across the end with a slowness that makes my skin crawl.

The fox in a trap. The forest sings to me, making dread creep up my spine.

“I like your bow and arrow,” Isabel purrs, nodding to the bow strung across his shoulder. I realise as my eyes linger on its carved riser, that it’s her bow. Her bow, she used to practice with in the forest all those months ago.

“Thank you, I found it in the woods,” he says with a wolfish grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, betraying his age. “It needed mending but she came up good as new.”

Isabel’s eyebrow rises as her lips tighten, a knowing evident in the sharpness of her gaze.

“Lucky find,” she mutters plainly, devoid of emotion.

I inch closer, unsure whether to intervene. This man, this wolf, is a predator. The knowledge of it settles in my chest like a smouldering stone. He doesn’t move like other men – there’s a calculated patience to him, the terrible slowness of something that knows it will be fed, eventually. I see it in the calm assurance of his voice; in the way he doesn’t bother with who might be watching.

“Indeed,” he agrees, thumb brushing Isabel’s lip.

He leans closer, her neck tilting to allow him space at her throat.