Page 101 of Porcelain Grave

As the first wave of the orgasm hits, I turn my head and catch his eye in the reflection of a dusty mirror on the wall I used to always cover. I have no idea where that cover went, until I see it on the ground, must have fallen during the days I wasn't here. I look unhinged, my makeup smeared, my eyes wide and glazed. I reach back, grabbing his face and pulling him into a bruising, desperate kiss just as I come.

I scream into his mouth, my pussy clamping down on his cock in tight, rhythmic spasms that make him groan and dump his own load deep inside me, filling me up with his heat.

I slump against the shelf, breathless and shaking, my heart racing. I pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, my voice raw.

"I'm so fucking obsessed with you, Rhys. It's sickening. I can't even breathe without wanting you."

Rhys doesn't let go. He presses his forehead against mine, his breath hot and heavy, a predatory glint in his eyes.

"Good," he purrs, his voice sounding like a promise and a threat all in one. "Because I'm never letting you go. I'm even more obsessed with you, little doll. You're the only thing in this world worth owning, love.”

Chapter 34

The first snow of the year falls over Whitby on Rhys Castellan's birthday. It isn't enough to bury the world, just a thin, ghostly dusting that makes the abbey ruins look like something forgotten and haunted. Outside the window, thin snowflakes drift over the cliffs, and a layer of frost coats the castle stones in a shimmering, cold skin. The sea wind is biting, carrying a mixture of snow and salt-heavy mist that clings to the graveyard surrounding the abbey. It’s poetic, really—dark and cold, just like him.

I wake up early, the chill in the air making me curl tighter into the sheets for a moment before I remember what today is. November 21st.

I head downstairs, my bare feet hitting the cold floors, and find the kitchen already buzzing. I’ve got the staff working like a well-oiled machine. I love these people; they’re always there to help, making sure everything is fucking perfect, though I can't wait until we move into the new house. Once we're settled there, we'll have all the privacy in the world, and I can cook for him without a dozen chefs hovering over my shoulder like I'm some sort of amateur.

I spend the next hour meticulously arranging the breakfast tray. I want it to be indulgent, the kind of meal that feels like a reward. Once it's ready, I start making my way up the grand staircase, the tray balanced carefully in my hands.

"Keep him distracted," I whisper to the head steward, my eyes on Shadow. "Feed him enough of his favorite food to keep him in the lounge. Don't let him come looking for me until I ask for him."

Just as I'm nearing the bedroom wing, one of the maids intercepts me, holding a sleek, elegantly wrapped box.

"This arrived for Mr. Castellan, Miss Ophelia," she says softly. "A gift from Mrs. Castellan."

"Cheers," I mutter, taking the box and tucking it under my arm.

I reach the bedroom door and take a deep breath, a smirk playing on my lips. I push the door open and find Rhys just waking up. He’s sprawled across the bed, half-buried in charcoal sheets, his dark hair a mess and his eyes heavy with sleep. He looks devastatingly handsome when he's drowsy—less like a predator and more like a king who knows exactly how much power he holds.

"Happy birthday, love," I chirp, stepping into the room.

Rhys doesn't move at first. He just watches me, his gaze sliding from my face down to my body and back up again. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face. He is still naked under those sheets from last night.

"What did I say I wanted for my birthday, Ophelia?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates right through me.

I kick the door shut behind me with my heel, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. "You said you wanted birthday sex," I tease, walking toward him. "And you're fucking getting it. But first, you have to eat. I'm not having you pass out from hunger while you're ruining me."

I lean over and place the tray right on his lap. It’s a feast: thick-cut smoked salmon on toasted sourdough with capers and cream cheese, a stack of fluffy pancakes dripping in maple syrup and fresh berries, two perfectly poached eggs with runny yolks, and a pot of strong, black coffee that smells like heaven.

Rhys looks at the food, then at me, and takes a bite of the salmon. He closes his eyes, savoring it.

"Fuck," he mutters, swallowing. "This is incredible. Why the hell haven't you cooked for me before?"

I let out a little laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. "Because it wasn't your birthday, you greedy bastard."

He chuckles, his hand coming up to grip the back of my neck, pulling me closer until our noses are touching. "I'm a greedy man, darling. I want everything you have to offer, every single day."

"Keep talking like that and I might just make you wait until dinner," I banter, though we both know I'm lying.

“Like I would let you.” His eyes flicker to the box I've set on the nightstand. "Is that from you?"

I shake my head, pulling back slightly. "Nah, this one's from Meredith."

Rhys sighs, a flicker of something complex crossing his face—affection mixed with his usual guardedness. He reaches for the box and pulls the ribbon away with a sharp tug. Inside, nestled in black velvet, is a stunning, antique pocket watch made of blackened silver, engraved with intricate, gothic vines and a small, hidden compartment in the back.

He opens the small note tucked inside.