Page 38 of Cracked Doll

I can't bring myself to look him in the eye. I fucking can't. It’s not just the fear; it’s the way his eyes are like two bottomless pits of ink. They're so dark, so damn reflective, that if I dare to peek, I’ll see that fractured, broken version of myself staring back, and I’m not in the mood to have a mental collapse right here in the middle of this circus.

Without a word, I turn my back on him and start walking toward the graveyard. The mist is thick as wool, clinging to my skin and swallowing the neon lights of the Menagerie. It’s a proper nightmare—grey, suffocating fog that swirls around ancient, leaning headstones and rusted iron gates. And then there are the things.

Corpses. Or people dressed as corpses. I can't even tell anymore. They shuffle through the gloom, skin a sickly, pallid grey, limbs hanging at unnatural angles. Some are just moaning, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest, while others are staring with milky, dead eyes. I can feel Rhys right behind me, his presence like a heatwave in the cold damp air, but I keep my pace, my boots clicking against the wet earth.

My hand slips into my pocket, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the necklace he gave me. I won't use it. Not yet. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of knowing I need his trinkets to survive this madhouse. I want to uncover exactly what the fuck Rhys Castellan is and why the universe thinks he’s my 'remedy' before I surrender a single thing to him.

Suddenly, a grey, rotting hand bursts from the soil, clamping tight around my ankle. I gasp, nearly losing my balance, as a half-human torso—just a ribcage and a shredded face—crawls out of the dirt, dragging itself toward me with a wet, slapping sound. Around me, the other 'guests' are screaming and laughing, absolutely loving the terror of these undead things rushing at them. I even see a severed hand, fingers twitching and scratching, scurrying across the grass like some oversized spider.

Then, I feel his breath, hot and smelling of tobacco, right against my ear.

"Wouldn't it be a fucking delight, love?" he purrs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "To take your virginity right here in the dirt, while the rotting dead watch us fuck?"

I don't turn around. I just stiffen, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Go fuck yourself, Rhys," I snap, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

He lets out a dark, amused chuckle, and suddenly his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard chest. "Feisty little thing, aren't you?"

Just as he says it, that crawling hand reaches up, trying to snatch at my dress to scare me. I don't even flinch. I just watch it with a numb sort of detachment. The hand, sensing my lack of fear, simply slides past me and grabs the leg of some poor bastard behind me, who lets out a blood-curdling shriek.

"Did that coven break you, or something?" Rhys asks, his grip tightening on my waist. "Normally you're screaming your head off. Or perhaps..." he pauses, his voice dropping an octave, "...you only scream for me."

I'm so distracted by the sheer arrogance of him that I don't see the other one. A zombie, its mouth dripping with thick, black blood and its face covered in weeping, yellow boils, leaps from behind a tombstone right at me.

"AHHH!" I scream, jumping back and clutching my chest, my heart nearly leaping out of my throat.

"I fucking hate you!" I yell at Rhys.

Rhys just smirks, that possessive, knowing look in his eyes. "The look you gave me while I was giving you immense pleasure told me a very different story, doll."

I roll my eyes, finally turning to face him, though I keep my gaze firmly fixed on his chin. "You know you own this place. And I know your name," I mutter.

He isn't surprised. He leans in, his lips almost brushing my earlobe. "I would have rather told you my name while I was buried deep inside you," he whispers, "so you knew exactly which name to scream while I ruined you."

A jolt of pure electricity shoots straight down my spine, hitting me right in the pussy. My thighs tighten instinctively, and a traitorous heat pools between my legs. I shiver, my breath hitching.

"You... you won't ever touch me again," I breathe, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.

He doesn't listen. His hand slides up my arm, then drops back down to my waist, caressing the fabric of my Victorian dress. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the narrow curve of my hips. "Look at you," he murmurs. "Such a tiny, delicate waist. So fragile. You're breathtaking, Ophelia... like a beautiful, cracked doll that only I know how to put back together."

Before I can respond, he suddenly pushes me, forcing me to walk backward. I stumble, my heels catching on the uneven ground, until my back slams hard against a cold, granite gravestone.

He crowds into my space, pressing his body firmly against mine, trapping me between the stone and his heat. I can feel his eyes searching mine, but I refuse to look. Instead, I look at his lips. In the pale, ghostly moonlight, they look inviting—dark, plush, and promising a kind of ruin I can't resist. They're beckoning me to make a terrible, wonderful decision.

He takes that as an invitation.

Rhys slams his lips into mine with a violence that steals the air from my lungs. He tastes like sin and expensive cigarettes, like the cold kiss of death that somehow brings me screaming back to life. I've never been kissed before—not like this, not with this kind of hunger, not ever. Around us, the graveyard is a chaos of screaming tourists and growling corpses, but all I can feel is him.

My hands fly to his neck, my fingers digging into his skin as I start kissing him back aggressively, pouring all my confusion, fear, and longing into it. He groans into my mouth, matching my energy and pulling me closer. He hooks an arm under my thigh, hoisting my leg up and pinning me against the grave so my crotch is pressed directly against his hardness.

He begins to grind slowly, his cock rubbing against my clit through the layers of my dress. I let out a muffled moan into his mouth, my head spinning, my body humming with a desperate need.

"Ophelia! Ophelia, where are you?"

Amara's voice echoes from outside the graveyard gates, shattering the moment.

I gasp, shoving Rhys away with all my strength. I don't look back; I just turn and start sprinting toward the exit, my dress fluttering around my legs. But he's faster. He catches my arm in one swift motion, yanking me back and leaning into my ear.

"I'll come find you tonight, love," he whispers, before tagging my earlobe with his teeth in a sharp, possessive nip.