Page 95 of Cracked Doll

I thrash wildly, kicking out with my platform boots. I manage to plant a hard kick into her ribs, and her grip slackens for a split second. It has been so long since I last swam. I do my best to remember. I scramble upward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, coughing up salty, dirty water.

I start to float on my back, treading water, and that's when I see it. The reflection.

The water is dark, but the moonlight hits it just right. I see my own face staring back at me—pale, terrified, eyes wide. For a heartbeat, I freeze. The mirror effect hits me like a physical blow. I'm back in the living room with the butcher. I'm back in the dark. The panic attack surges, locking my muscles, making my limbs feel heavy and useless. I stop fighting. I just stare at the reflection of a broken girl, sinking. But it force myself to fight it. I cannot let my reflection be the reason why I drown. I cannot. Not after everything with Rhys. I start to think about him. Remember his touch, his words. And slowly, I start floating again.

Then, the water erupts.

The woman is back, screaming a muffled curse as she grabs my hair and drags me under with her again. I fight, but I'm exhausted, my lungs screaming. I swallow a mouthful of river water, choking, the world turning grey at the edges. I'm slipping.

Then, a sudden, violent splash.

A strong, familiar arm wraps around my waist, yanking me upward with bruising force. I see a flash of charcoal fabric and then—BANG.

The sound of the gunshot is muffled by the water, but I feel the vibration. The woman lets go with a shriek, a red cloud blossoming in the water around her shoulder as she sinks away, disappearing into the dark current.

Rhys has me. He hauls me against his chest, his grip almost painful, his breathing ragged. My eyes flutter shut as the adrenaline crashes, and the world goes black.

I wake up coughing, hacking up river water onto a rough surface. I lay back down and I realize I'm on the ground, Rhys next to who looks like he has been giving me CPR, staring at me in relief. I'm shivering violently, my skin blue-cold. I feel a warm, heavy weight draped over me—Rhys’s long coat, smelling of expensive cologne and gunpowder. I close my eyes as I feel his arms wrap around me.

I'm in his office at the castle. I'm lying on the leather couch, my wet clothes stripped away and replaced by a thick robe. A doctor—one of Rhys's private men—is finishing up a check-up. He's checking my pupils with a light and listening to my lungs with a stethoscope.

Rhys is standing right there, his face a mask of cold, simmering fury. He hasn't moved from my side, his hand gripping my ankle so hard it's almost bruising.

The doctor steps back, packing his kit. "She's stable, sir. A bit of aspiration, but her lungs are clear. She's mostly just in shock and suffering from mild hypothermia. Keep her warm and let her rest. She'll be fine."

As soon as the doctor leaves the room, the silence becomes heavy. Rhys leans over me, his shadow engulfing me. He doesn't say a word at first, but the look in his eyes is psychotic—a mixture of absolute relief and a murderous promise to whoever touched what belongs to him.

The silence in the office is thick, suffocating. Rhys is still looming over me, his eyes like two black holes ready to swallow me whole. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of gunpowder and rain still clinging to his skin. I shiver, but not from the cold this time.

I push myself up, sitting straight on the leather couch, the heavy fabric of his coat sliding slightly off my shoulder. I look him dead in the eye, my voice trembling just a fraction.

"Right. Enough of the brooding," I snap, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "Are you finally going to tell me who that fucking woman is? Who the hell was that?"

Rhys doesn't blink. His expression is stony, his jaw tight. "Her name is Mary Wells."

The name doesn't mean anything to me, but the way he says it—like he's spitting out a piece of rotten meat—makes my skin crawl. "And what the fuck does she want with me? Why is she trying to drown me in a river?"

Rhys lets out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping just an inch. He looks at me, and for a second, the psychotic intensity softens into something that looks almost like regret, though it's still twisted. "She wants to kill you, Ophelia. Because of me."

I go completely still. The air leaves my lungs in one sharp hiss. I stare at him, waiting for the punchline, but there isn't one. The reality of it sinks in—this woman isn't just some random lunatic; she's a predator, and I'm the prey because I'm with him. I look away, staring at the dark mahogany of his desk, my mind racing.

"Why?" I whisper. "Why in the name of god would she do that?"

Rhys moves closer, his hand coming up to grip the back of the couch, effectively pinning me in place. "Mary was... a casual arrangement. Years ago. It was right when I was sketching the designs and building the Menagerie. Before I met the coven, before I met the succubus and I built this place. I had many women back then. Distractions."

He pauses, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, dangerous rumble. "She became obsessed. Jealousy turned into something foul. She didn't just want me; she wanted to own every breath I took. It spiraled. She eventually snapped and murdered one of my one-night stands in a fit of rage."

I gasp, my eyes snapping back to his. "She killed someone?"

"She did," he says coldly. "But the courts didn't send her to a cell. They found her legally insane and shipped her off to a psych ward. She's been rotting in there for the last five years, and she hasn't gotten any better. If anything, the walls just made her more focused."

I feel a cold sweat break out on my neck. "And now she's out."

"She escaped recently," Rhys confirms, his eyes darkening. "And she's been on a mission. She's been hunting down every single woman I've ever been involved with. That blonde girl you saw her shoot? Just another name on her list. Antoinette Smith was also a woman I once had a night with. She's been pruning my past, Ophelia. And you... you were the last target."

He leans in, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my lips. "Because you aren't just some girl I slept with. You're the only one I actually want. The only one I love. In her twisted mind, you're the one who stole my heart before she could, and she thinks if she kills you, she can simply step into your place. She wants to be the queen of my world by erasing you from it."

I stare at him, completely floored. The sheer, psychotic scale of it is overwhelming. I'm not just dealing with a stalker; I'm dealing with a serial killer who thinks my death is a ticket to a relationship with a man who is just as unhinged as she is.