Page 102 of Porcelain Grave

To my son, it reads in elegant script. Time is the only thing we cannot buy, yet you spend yours so wisely on the things you love. May this watch remind you that every second spent in obsession is a second well-lived. Happy Birthday, Rhys. Love, Mother.

Rhys stares at the watch for a long moment, his thumb tracing the silver vines. He doesn't say anything, but the look in his eyes softens. He looks up at me, the predatory glint returning as he tosses the watch onto the bedside table and grabs my waist, pulling me hard against him.

"Right," he growls, his voice dropping an octave. "I've had my breakfast. Now, give me my real present.”

"Wait," I laugh, pressing my palms against his chest to hold him back. "I've actually got a proper gift for you."

I reach down and snag the breakfast tray from his lap, sliding it onto the nightstand with a clatter. Rhys doesn't let go of me; instead, his grip tightens on my waist, pulling me flush against his hard chest. He lets out a low, hungry growl, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of my throat.

"I think I'd prefer some morning sex for my birthday, love," he murmurs, his voice thick and demanding. His hands slide up, kneading my breasts through my clothes with a possessive force that makes my breath hitch.

"Patience, Rhys," I gasp, squirming in his hold. "You're getting it, I promise. Just let me give you your gift first."

He nips at my earlobe, his hand sliding down to squeeze my arse. "The best gift you could give me is yourself, stripped bare and screaming my name."

I let out a shaky laugh and manage to wrench myself away from him, stepping back just out of reach. "You're getting all of me, you toss. Just give me one fucking second."

I turn and walk toward the closet, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’ve spent so many days on this, sneaking away, hiding it behind other paintings, and lying through my teeth to keep him from finding it. I reach into the depths of the wardrobe and pull out the massive canvas, keeping the face of it pressed against my body so he can't see a thing.

I walk back to the edge of the bed, standing right in front of him. He’s watching me with those predatory eyes, leaning back against the pillows, looking like a king waiting for his tribute.

"I did my best to paint this without you finding it and spoiling the surprise," I tell him, my voice softening. "You're a man who has everything, Rhys. There isn't a fucking thing in this world I could buy you that you don't already own or know about. So... I decided to give you my soul instead."

With a sudden, fluid motion, I whirl the canvas around.

The painting is a masterpiece of darkness. The Black Rose Garden.

It’s a moonless midnight sky, a void of ink and shadow where endless black roses climb over twisted stone pillars and iron gates. The roses are beautiful but lethal, their long, wicked thorns curling around the edges of the frame as if they're trying to bleed into the real world.

At the center are the two of us. We're naked, our bodies entwined in a way that screams possession. He is behind me, his massive frame shielding me from the dark, one arm wrapped firmly around my waist, his fingers intertwined with mine. I'm leaning back into him, my head resting on his shoulder, looking hauntingly peaceful—like I've finally found the only place in this godforsaken world where I don't have to pretend I'm not broken.

I've painted every detail. The delicate thorn marks from the garden are etched across my porcelain skin like jewelry. My skull-and-roses necklace rests against my collarbone, and a black halo floats above my head, marking me as his dark saint.

Rhys is painted with a raw, terrifying devotion. His own thorn marks mirror the ones he got, and the scorpion on his shoulder stands out in sharp, dark relief. Most importantly, I painted the scratch—the tattoo of my mark on his skin—a permanent reminder that he carries my pain as his own.

The symbolism is everywhere. A small, cracked porcelain doll hides among the roots; a black scorpion lurks in the shadows; and tiny blue flowers—his "blue tears"—bloom amidst the black roses. I even painted hairline cracks into the canvas around my figure, as if the world itself is shattering just to keep us together.

The room goes dead silent.

Rhys doesn't move for a long time. He just stares at the canvas, his expression shifting from curiosity to something so intense it feels like he's stripping me naked with his eyes. He reaches out, his large hand trembling slightly as he touches the edge of the obsidian frame.

He pulls the painting closer, his gaze scanning every inch—the thorns, the tattoos, the way I've captured the look in his eyes. It's not the cold, distant mask he wears for the world; it's the look of a monster who has found his only sanctuary.

"Fuck," he whispers, his voice cracking.

He looks up at me, and for a second, the possessive predator is gone, replaced by a man who looks completely undone. He reaches out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me hard onto the bed, the painting sliding to the bed as he pins me beneath next to the painting.

"You've captured it," he growls, his eyes burning with a mixture of worship and lust. "The madness, the blood... everything. You really are my little doll, aren't you?"

He kisses me then, a brutal, starving thing that tastes of desperation and obsession. He isn't just kissing me; he's claiming me, as if the painting has awakened a hunger in him that only my body can sate.

I break the kiss, breathless and flushed, my lips swollen from the way he’s been devouring them. I stay pinned beneath him, my chest heaving, looking up into those dark, predatory eyes that are currently swirling with something far more tender than lust.

"Well?" I pant, a small, teasing smirk playing on my lips. "Do you actually like it, or was that just a way to get me into bed faster?"

Rhys doesn't answer immediately. He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look back at the canvas lying on the bed, then back to me. His expression is raw, completely stripped of the cold arrogance he shows the rest of the world. He looks... undone.

"Like it?" he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through my skin. "Ophelia, it’s fucking magnificent. I’ve never seen anything so hauntingly beautiful in my entire life that could come so close to you."