Page 75 of Cracked Doll

"We told you once," the fifth murmurs.

"Your stalker is your remedy," they say together, and something in those words repeated to me makes the hair on my arms rise. "He had given you your first stitch. You need his needle now."

Rhys's hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the silk.

"I'm here to talk about how to get revenge on my dad," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's what this is about."

"All that is already," they answer as one. "But before then... this is not about Thomas. Not this part. This part is about the fate of Ophelia."

"What exactly are you saying?" I ask, feeling Rhys's fingers trace slow circles on my spine.

They begin to speak, one at a time.

"It is a ritual-binding," the first says.

"Our power runs on blood, breath, and pleasure as currency," the second continues.

"Older folk-magic traditions use bodily offerings to seal a pact," the third adds.

"When a woman comes to us wanting vengeance," the fourth murmurs, "we don't offer this to them."

"But you are not just a random woman seeking vengeance," the fifth says.

"You belong to Rhys," they finish together. "So we are not going to listen to your troubles then take the message to him. We want to perform a ritual between you."

"What ritual?" I ask.

"The consummation," they say as one.

My eyes go wide. Do they want me to fuck them?

As though reading my mind, they say in perfect chilling unison, "The sex is not between you and the coven—it is between you and Rhys, on our table, in our space, with us casting a spell—because we need to witness and consume the moment your desire crystallizes into intent. Pleasure and vow become the same act."

"We will bind your souls in dark magic," they continue. "And the sex is the ritual for the magic to work."

My eyes go wide. I look up at Rhys, and he seems very ready—his gaze dark, hungry, like he's been waiting for this moment all night.

I stand and turn to him. "Did you know they were going to say this?"

Rhys's smile is slow, dangerous. "I knew they would see what we are, love. What we could be." He steps closer, his voice dropping to that obsessive, gothic tone that makes my stomach flip. "You think this is about them? It's about us. About claiming what was always meant to be mine. Your pain, your pleasure, your vengeance—they all belong to me now. And I will give you everything in return. Your father's blood on my hands. Your body beneath mine. Your soul bound to mine in ways that will make the dead turn with envy."

He suddenly grabs me by my waist and thrusts me onto the table. The low surface presses against my back as he begins to undress me, his fingers working the black velvet ribbons at the back of my dress with practiced efficiency. The crimson silk parts like a wound, sliding down my shoulders, over my breasts, pooling at my waist before he pulls it completely off. I'm not wearing anything underneath, and the cool air hits my bare skin as I lie completely naked on the wooden surface.

Rhys watches me with those dark eyes, drinking in every inch of exposed flesh. Then he begins to undress himself, starting with the silver buttons of his frock coat, shrugging it off to reveal the burgundy waistcoat beneath. He removes that too, then the black shirt, revealing the muscular chest I've felt against me so many times. His trousers follow, and then he's completely naked, standing before me like some dark god of vengeance and desire.

"Are you ready to become mine completely?" he asks, his voice rough with possession.

My cunt clenches the second I see him, that huge cock swelling from half-mast to rock-hard while his hands claim every inch of me. He squeezes my tits hard enough to bruise, then leans down and crushes his mouth to mine. His tongue pushes past my lips as his palms slide down my ribs, over my hips, gripping like he owns every fucking bone beneath my skin.

He spreads my thighs wide, lines that thick cock up with my dripping entrance, and slams into me with one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs. My back arches off the table, eyes rolling back as he fills me completely.

The witches rise and move to the wall, grabbing black stone mortars and pestles among other things that I don't recognize or see. They return to their seats, each one crushing something in their bowls—dried nightshade berries that crack and split, releasing dark purple juice that stains the stone like old blood. The pestles grind in rhythmic circles, crushing the shrivelled fruit into a thick paste that smells of rot and something sweeter underneath.

Rhys grabs my waist with both hands. "Look at me," he growls. I force my eyes to focus on his face as he starts pounding into me—hard, vicious thrusts that make the table creak beneath us. His eyes are black with obsession, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched tight as he watches every reaction ripple across my face. Sweat beads on his forehead, his lips parted in something between a snarl and a smile.

Three of the witches mix whatever they made in one big mortar, while the other mixes it in another.

My hands grip the edge of the table above my head, knuckles white. They place all the candles around my body. My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back as he fucks me mercilessly.