Page 72 of Cracked Doll

He doesn’t let up, fingers stroking my clit while his cock pistons in and out, relentless. I come again, harder this time, vision going black at the edges, body convulsing as I scream his name. He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me, hot pulses of cum marking me deep inside.

“Fuck, Ophelia,” he pants, voice rough with possession. “You’re going to carry my children. I’m going to fill you up until your belly swells with them.”

He licks my lips, then kisses me slow and deep, tongue claiming every inch of my mouth. “I love you,” he says, the words heavy, obsessive, like a curse and a promise. “I love you so fucking much it’s rotting me from the inside. I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to you still beating. You’re mine, Ophelia. Every scream, every tear, every drop of blood—mine. And I’ll never let you go.”

I wake up and the first thing I feel is the raw ache between my thighs, a deep, throbbing soreness that makes me wince the moment I try to sit up. My body's marked, used, claimed, and it protests every movement. I'm back in his chambers, sprawled across those black velvet sheets, naked beneath a heavy cover that's been draped over me with care. I push it away only to spot dried dark blood on the sheet. I freeze in my movements. I stare at the evidence. A reminder of what I gave to my stalker last night.

My virginity.

I remember exactly how it was, the dream in my head that turned out to be real, and I bite my lower lip, close my eyes, and smile.

The room's quiet, empty. I turn my head toward the enormous French windows and see the first pale light of dawn bleeding across the sky.

I push myself up, legs shaky, and limp across the floor to the window. Below, The Midnight Menagerie is winding down. The dark gothic carnival looks like it's exhaling after a long, bloody night. Stragglers in torn lace and smeared makeup file toward the iron gates, their faces pale in the grey light. Amber lanterns flicker and gutter as the last of the night's excess drains away. Performers strip off their masks, vendors pack up their stalls, and the whole place feels like it's shedding its skin, revealing something colder, quieter underneath.

Then I feel it—something soft and warm wrapping around my shoulders from behind. Velvet. Heavy. His scent clings to it. Rhys's arms follow, sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His chin rests on top of my head.

"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," he murmurs, voice low against my hair.

I stare down at the emptying carnival, the truth of last night settling into my bones like cold water. My father's face. The knife. The blood. Seven years of pretending I didn't see what I saw.

"Then let's cut the rot out together, shall we," he says, voice rough.

He kisses my hair, slow and deliberate. "Denmark fell because no one was willing to finish what needed finishing. I don't have that problem."

I pull the velvet tighter around me, still warm from wherever he kept it. "You've read Hamlet, then."

"Cover to cover. More than once." His voice stays low, unhurried. "Required reading, growing up in a house that liked its tragedies old and English."

"Then you know how it ends for her," I say, eyes fixed on the last lanterns winking out below. "Ophelia. The Shakespeare one."

"I do."

"She drowns." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Goes mad from grief, and no one saves her, and she drowns."

He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, there's no comfort in it. "She drowns," he agrees. His hand settles at my waist, possessive. "She was never given a knife of her own, Ophelia. Only ever handed someone else's."

I turn my head slightly, still not quite able to look at him properly. "And what would you have handed her?"

"The blade." No hesitation. "And I'd have stood exactly where I'm standing now, and let her decide who to use it on."

A shiver runs through me. "You're not going to tell me I'm not her. That I won't end up the same way."

"No," he says simply. "I'm going to make sure you never have to find out." A pause, his voice dropping lower, darker. "But make no mistake, love—if this story insists on ending the way that one did, I intend to burn Denmark to the ground long before I ever let the water take you."

A tear slips down my cheek. He feels it, I know he does. His arms tighten around me.

"How do you want me to kill Thomas Sorrell?" he asks, voice quiet but steady.

I go still in his arms. I knew he'd ask. He swore it to me. The question hangs there between us, heavy as the velvet draped over my shoulders.

I lean my head back against his chest, the velvet slipping a bit as I reach up and run my fingers along his forearms. His arms tighten around me, and I feel the hard press of his cock against my arse through his trousers. The ache between my legs throbs harder at the reminder of what he did to me last night.

"Fuckin' hell, you're already hard again," I mutter, half a laugh, half a groan. "You're a right greedy bastard, aren't you?"

Rhys chuckles low against my hair, but his voice is rough when he answers. "Can't help it when you're stood here naked under my covers, love."

I stroke his arms slowly, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric. My mind's racing, turning over what he asked me. How do I want him to kill my father? The thought of watching Thomas Sorrell bleed out makes something dark and satisfied twist in my gut. But I want more than that. I want the whole fucking process.