Page 91 of Cracked Doll

"I'm obsessed," he corrects, his lips brushing mine.

He holds the rose out without a word. I take it, smell it, and the scent feels like a secret I’m not ready to keep.

‎

‎“Every petal is a promise,” he says softly, “that if you ever try to leave, I’ll press you between glass and hang you on the wall like art.”

‎

We crash together, the kiss violent and hungry. I grind my pelvis against him, feeling the hard, thick ridge of his cock pressing through his trousers into my heat. I moan into his mouth, desperate for him to just rip the shirt off and fuck me right there on the mahogany.

Knock. Knock.

I jump, breaking the kiss, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I start to scramble off his lap, but his arm locks around my waist like a vice, pinning me to him.

"What?" he snaps, his voice returning to that cold, commanding tone.

"Sir," a staff member calls from behind the door. "Mrs. Castellan is here to see you."

My eyes go wide. Mrs. Castellan? I freeze, my mind racing. Who the fuck is this? I didn't even know he had a family. Before I can even process the thought, the door opens.

A woman walks in. She’s tall—strikingly so—and looks to be in her fifties. Her dark hair with strands of gray is pulled back into a severe, elegant bun, and she’s dressed in a tailored charcoal grey suit with a silk cream blouse and pointed black heels that click sharply on the floor. She radiates power and a sort of cold, aristocratic grace.

"Good evening, son," she says, her voice smooth and poised.

I scramble off his lap as quickly as possible, standing there in nothing but a shirt and socks, feeling suddenly very small and very exposed. I look at her, and she looks back at me, her gaze sweeping up and down my body with a clinical, judging intensity. I immediately look away, my face flushing a deep red.

Rhys stands up, his expression softening in a way I’ve never seen. He walks over to her, and she pulls him into a hug. He kisses her cheek, then turns back to me.

"Mother, this is Ophelia Sorrell," he says, his voice possessive. He reaches out, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward them. "The girl I told you about. My obsession. My everything in one being."

“Ophelia, this is my mother. Meredith Castellan. The woman who raised me.”

Meredith Castellan looks at me again, then steps forward. Before I can react, she pulls me into a hug. She’s so tall in those heels that I feel like a child. I nervously hug her back, smelling a scent of expensive lilies and old money.

"You are absolutely beautiful, dear," Meredith says, pulling back to smile at me. "Finally, my son has found a girl he can actually settle down with."

I just offer a weak, awkward smile, my brain screaming. Settle down? With a man who watches me sleep on a CCTV monitor?

"I should probably give you two some privacy," I say as I watch her eyes twinkling with something I can't quite read.

As I turn to leave, I try to bolt for the door, wanting to get the fuck out of there, but Rhys catches me. He yanks me back against his chest, his hand gripping my waist, and plants a hard, claiming kiss on my lips.

"Wait for me in the bedroom," he whispers against my mouth, his voice a warning. "Don't move an inch."

I don't need telling twice. I rush out of the office and sprint back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I lean against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Rhys has a mother.

I mean, obviously, everyone has someone who gave birth to them, but this is different. He’s been such a complete mystery—a ghost, a monster, a god—that finding out he has a human connection, someone who isn't part of his dark web or the horrors of The Midnight Menagerie, completely throws me. It’s terrifying. Because if he’s this psychotic and he came from her, then would the madness run in the blood, or is it uniquely his?

I stay in the bedroom like he told me, pacing the floor for what feels like hours. The sheets are still rumpled from this morning and his scent clings to everything. I try waiting up, but my eyes keep drifting shut. Eventually I crawl into bed wearing nothing but his black shirt, the fabric riding up my thighs as I curl onto my side. Sleep takes me before I can stop it.

“Ophelia.” A low, guttural groan drags me back to consciousness. Something hot and hard is sliding between my legs, rubbing against my pussy with slow, sleepy thrusts. The room is pitch black. I have no idea what time it is. I blink, trying to make sense of the weight behind me, the arm draped over my waist.

Rhys.

His eyes are closed. He’s still asleep, but his hips keep rocking forward, pushing his cock between my thighs like he’s searching for something. My cunt is already soaked, slick coating the head of him every time he drags forward. I didn’t even realise I was this wet.