Page 104 of Porcelain Grave

As the climax begins to crest, it doesn't hit like a crash; it washes over us like a tide. I feel my internal muscles clench around him, milking him, as a wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy shatters me. I cry out his name, my head tossing back against the pillows, my entire body vibrating with the force of it.

Rhys lets out a guttural groan, his muscles locking as he spills himself deep inside me, his body shuddering with the intensity of his own release. He collapses against me, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps.

We stay like that for a long time, entwined and sweating, the silence of the room filled only by the sound of our recovering breath. There is no rush to move, no need for words. I feel completely safe. I feel whole.

He shifts slightly, kissing my temple, his arm draped protectively over my waist.

"I've got you, Ophelia," he whispers. "I've always got you."

I close my eyes, drifting in the afterglow, knowing that no matter how dark the world gets, I have this. I have him. And fuck, I wouldn't trade this madness for anything in the world.

Epilogue

SIX MONTHS LATER

Six months. Fucking six months since everything shifted, and honestly? I’m still pinching myself to make sure I haven't just fallen into some elaborate, gothic fever dream.

I shut the front door behind me, the heavy oak clicking shut with a satisfying thud. I’ve just seen Amara off; she’d popped by to say hello and spend some time with Shadow. It’s still a bit mental to think that when she first met, Shadow looked like he wanted to rip her throat out the second she breathed in his direction. Now? The big, moody bastard actually lets her get close, leaning into her touch like a giant, overgrown kitten. He’s still a menace to everyone else though, but for Amara, he’s got a soft spot since I let her babysit when Rhys and I are on some little sex adventures.

"Come on, sweetheart," I mutter, giving Shadow a pat on his flank as I lead him inside.

As I walk through the hallway, I pass the vanity where the three dolls sit. Cordelia, Rosalind, and the third. I stop for a second, leaning in to give them a small, knowing smile. They don't move—not while I'm just passing by—but I can feel them watching. I can feel the humming energy of my sisters, tucked safely into their porcelain shells.

"Miss him, don't you?" I whisper to them.

God, I fucking miss Rhys. He’s been gone for three days on some work madness, and the house feels too quiet without his oppressive, possessive energy filling every corner. It sucks. I love my space, but when it comes to him, I want him draped over me twenty-four fucking seven.

The last half year has been a whirlwind. I’ve been painting like a woman possessed. I put a new collection up for auction a few months back, and the posh tossers went absolutely mental for them. Every single piece sold for a staggering amount of money. I’ve got a bank account now that would make most people weep, though I’m almost unsure if I even need it. Rhys is a total prat about it—he barely lets me touch my own money, insisting I just use his card for whatever the fuck I want. It’s obsessive and controlling, and naturally, I fucking love it.

But the paintings I’ve kept for the house... those are the ones that actually matter.

Our home has gradually filled with them. We didn't bother with expensive, tasteless art from galleries. Instead, our walls have become a visual history of us—a map of my healing and our shared descent into madness. It’s a home built not just with furniture, but with the memories we chose to keep.

I reckon these would be the most valuable pieces in the world if anyone ever saw them. Not because they're erotic—though plenty are—but because they are so fucking intimate.

I walk past the one of Rhys standing beneath hundreds of black moths, his hand reaching toward me like he’s trying to pull me into his soul. Then there’s the one of us kissing inside the House of Mirrors, our reflections fractured into a thousand jagged pieces, showing every angle of our desperation. I linger on the painting of him carrying me through Whitby Cemetery under a blood-red moon, my dress trailing in the dirt, his grip bruising and absolute.

There’s the one of us dancing alone inside the empty Midnight Menagerie, the carousel turning by itself in the background, a ghostly waltz in a dead park. The one where he’s laying black roses over my sleeping body, treating me like a sacred relic. The piece of us sitting together while Morpheus, the panther, sleeps at our feet, a picture of predatory peace. And my favorite: us embracing in front of Whitby Abbey, surrounded by a cloud of ravens, looking like the king and queen of some ruined, haunted empire.

They’re hauntingly romantic. They make my chest ache.

Then, there are the darker ones. The ones I paint to keep the ghosts at bay. By putting the trauma on canvas, I take the power back. I’ve painted the rusted box. The three porcelain dolls lying together in the dust. A little girl surrounded by broken mirrors, her face a mask of confusion. My mother’s white gloves, stained and cold. The Six Who Speak As One beneath the flicker of red candlelight. The black tent. The necklace. The halo. The carnival at night, dripping in shadow.

They aren't just paintings; they're chapters of my life. A diary written in oil and acrylic.

And then... then there are the filthiest ones. The ones that make my pussy ache just looking at them. I’ve painted us naked, captured in the raw, ugly beauty of our lust. One shows him bent over me, his muscles strained, his face a mask of pure, obsessive hunger as he hammers into me. Another is a close-up of his hand gripping my throat, my eyes rolled back, my mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. There’s one of me draped over his lap, my legs wrapped tight around his waist, our skin slick with sweat and cum, the background a blur of dark velvet and candlelight. They are explicit, unapologetic, and utterly obscene.

I smile, thinking of the Tin Heart toy shop. It’s been completely transformed now that it’s a formal part of the Midnight Menagerie. It’s no longer just a dusty old shop; it’s an immersive experience. We’ve kept the nostalgia but added a layer of curated horror. The dolls are arranged in eerie, lifelike tableaux, and the lighting is dim and atmospheric, making the toys seem to breathe when you aren't looking. It’s a masterpiece of the macabre, and it’s all mine. And people are buying tickets for the home of the girl they used to call a freak where the tragedy of the two little girls happened years ago.

Life has a rhythm now. My mother’s family—the ones who actually give a toss—check on me constantly. They invite me to dinner every single weekend. I always make Rhys go with me, even though he acts like it's a chore. I just lean in and whisper a promise of a world-class blowjob the second we get through the front door, and suddenly he’s the most eager man in England.

We visit Meredith, too. She’s been a godsend. We’ve even had dinner at the Hansburg manor with her accompanying us a few times, which is still a bit surreal given she is my man’s mom, but we make it work.

As for Angelika and the coven, I see them every time I visit the carnival. I still love that place—the lights, the screams, the smell of popcorn and ozone. Amara still has a massive thing for Angelika, though I suspect she’s just being a total fangirl. Whether it’ll ever go anywhere is a toss-up, especially since Rhys is currently planning to send Angelika after Lucien. Kidnapping me was a huge mistake, and Rhys doesn't do forgiveness. He does retribution. Angelika’s going to be a bit too busy playing the assassin to worry about Amara’s crushes.

And my mum... I still visit her grave. I carry the dolls of Cordelia and Rosalind with me every time. I don't feel a shred of shame.

People stare when I walk with them out the road.