Page 81 of Cracked Doll

I did it. I fucking did it. I looked at myself, and I didn't break.

I stand up, feeling the weight of the dress and the darkness of the lipstick, and I realize I'm ready. Now, I just have to survive whatever the fuck Rhys has planned for me at nine o'clock.

The clock hits nine, the chime echoing through the silent chambers like a funeral knell. My heart is already doing a frantic dance against my ribs. I don't hesitate; I head downstairs, the heavy silk of the dress rustling against my legs, the sharp click of my heels sounding like gunshots in the oppressive quiet of the castle.

As I step outside and begin the trek down the long, winding driveway path, the night air hits me—cold, damp, and smelling of ozone and decay. But as I walk, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I’m used to Rhys’s gaze; his eyes are like a physical weight, a possessive brand that tells me exactly where he is. This is different. This feels oily. Cold. Like something foul is sliding across my skin.

I push through the gates and enter the non-VIP section of the carnival. It’s a fucking madhouse. Neon lights clash with gothic architecture, and the air is thick with the smell of fried dough and sulfur. The feeling of being watched grows, intensifying until it’s a screaming alarm in my head.

I glance to my left.

There, standing on the periphery of a crowd gathered at the graveyard attraction, is a woman. The crowd is losing their minds, screaming and laughing as animatronic zombies and costumed corpses lunged at them, but she’s stone-still. She isn't laughing. She isn't screaming. She’s just staring at me through the swirling grey mist, her eyes wide and vacant, a long, serrated knife gripped tight in her hand.

My blood turns to ice. It’s her. The same fucking psycho who tried to gut me before the succubus stepped in. She looks like a ghost, a vengeful spirit carved out of the fog, and the way she looks at me... it's not just hate. It's a hunger to see me bleed.

Before I can even scream, before I can even think to turn and bolt, I feel it. That familiar, suffocating heat. Rhys.

I whip my head around and find him standing directly behind me. He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on the shell of my ear. His eyes are terrifying—dark, dilated, and shimmering with a predatory glee. He isn't looking at the woman with the knife with fear; he's looking at me with a hunger that makes my knees weak. He looks like he’s watching a beautiful piece of art about to be shattered.

I snap my gaze back forward, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. I'm trapped between a murderer and a monster.

Then, his voice drops—a low, sinful rasp that vibrates through my entire spine. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a command wrapped in a haunting, psychotic promise.

"Run, my sweet, cracked doll," he whispers, the words dripping with a dark, erotic cruelty. "Run until your lungs burn and your heart screams for me. Run as if the devil himself is snapping at your heels... because I'm the only one who can save you from the dark."

I don't need to be told twice. I bolt.

I sprint into the crowd, my heavy skirts bunching up, my breath coming in ragged gasps. But as I run, it becomes clear that this isn't a random flight. It's a curated hunt. Every time I try to veer toward the exit or a crowded plaza, something is in my way. A sudden surge of laughing patrons blocks my path; a heavy velvet curtain drops across an alleyway; a group of performers in grotesque masks step directly into my stride, forcing me to pivot.

He’s herding me. He’s playing with me like a fucking cat with a mouse, guiding my panic with surgical precision.

I'm sobbing now, the adrenaline turning my vision blurry, and before I can even realize where I am, I burst through a heavy oak door and slam into a wall of glass.

I've entered the Hall of Fractures.

It’s a fucking nightmare of a mirror maze. The air is stagnant, smelling of old dust and silver polish. It’s a gothic labyrinth where the mirrors are warped and twisted—some make me look eight feet tall and skeletal, others squash me down like a fucking pancake, distorting my body into something unrecognizable.

But the worst part is the cobwebs. Real, thick, grey webs drape across the glass in heavy sheets, clinging to the corners and veiling the reflections. I catch glimpses of myself—a flash of black lipstick here, the curve of a pale shoulder there—but I can't see my whole reflection. The webs break me apart, fracturing my image into a thousand jagged, incomplete pieces.

Panic surges, a cold wave that crashes over me. I'm lost in a house of lies, unable to see myself, unable to see the way out. I spin around, my heels clicking frantically, the sound echoing a dozen times over.

And then, in the reflection of a mirror draped in silk-like webs, I see him.

He isn't running. He's strolling. He's just behind me, his silhouette tall and imposing, his eyes locked onto my reflection with a terrifying, obsessive intensity. He looks like the king of this distorted world, and I am just a frightened little bird trapped in his cage of glass.

I scramble backward, my heels clicking frantically against the cold floor, the sound echoing a thousand times over in this glass hell. Every time I glance at a mirror, I see a fractured, distorted version of myself—pale, trembling, and broken—peeking through the thick, grey curtains of cobwebs. The webs are the only thing saving me from the full sight of my own reflection, but they aren't enough. I can still see my wide, terrified eyes staring back at me from a dozen different angles.

Rhys doesn't rush. He doesn't need to. He moves with a slow, predatory grace, his boots thudding rhythmically, closing the distance. He looks absolutely fucking mental—his eyes are blown wide, shimmering with a manic, obsessive light that tells me he’s completely lost the plot.

"I turned the maze like this tonight for a reason, love," he purrs, his voice a low, vibrating threat that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "For you. I wanted to throw you in with the sharks... but first," he pauses, a dark, twisted smile curling his lips, "I have to charm the water."

My breath hitches. I know exactly what he means. He knows my fear of mirrors—the way they make me feel like I'm splitting apart, the way my own reflection feels like a ghost of my sisters waiting to swallow me whole. He’s not just trapping me in a maze; he’s trapping me inside my own fucking head.

"Get away from me," I whisper, my voice shaking. "Rhys, please, just... get away."

He lets out a short, sharp laugh that sounds more like a bark. In a blur of motion, he lunges. Before I can even scream, his hand slams into the mirror behind me. The glass doesn't break, but the sound is like a gunshot in the silence. He pins me against the cold surface, his body a wall of hard muscle crushing me into the glass.

He grabs my jaw, his fingers digging into my skin with a bruising force, forcing my head up so I have no choice but to look. He doesn't make me look at him. He forces my gaze into the mirror, right into the eyes of my reflection.