Page 105 of Porcelain Grave

I don’t give a flying fuck what people think when I visit our mum’s grave. I walk through the Manor's gates with the dolls of Cordelia and Rosalind tucked under my arm, feeling the weight of them, the strange, humming presence of my sisters. The family knows my sisters' spirits are in there. And when one doubted me, Cordelia's doll moved completely on its own to prove them wrong.

Some posh prick might look at me and think I’ve completely lost the plot, carrying porcelain dolls to a headstone, but they don’t know a thing. They don't know that my sisters are right here, watching the world through glass eyes, safe and sound. I whisper to them, tell them about the house, about the art, and about the man who saved us from the filth of our father’s legacy. There’s no shame in it—only a dark, twisted kind of peace.

And my fear of reflections is completely gone. Like it had never been there to begin with. I don't forget what happened, but the darkness has changed from the one that consumes me, to the one I own as it embraces me.

And as for me and Rhys? God, it’s been fucking mental. We haven’t slowed down one bit. If anything, the sex has gotten scarier, more obsessive, more unhinged. We’re both completely gone for each other, two psychos orbiting the same dark sun. Sometimes we go back to the carnival, not for the rides or the games, but because the atmosphere of that place—the shadows, the screams, the hidden corners—triggers something in him. And in me. He loves to give me that cocktail of fear and pleasure, pinning me against a cold wall in some forgotten alleyway while the music of the carousel wails in the distance, reminding me that I belong to him, body and soul.

I’m back home now, the silence of the house pressing in on me. I check my phone and a smirk tugs at my lips. A text from him.

💬 Almost home, love.

My stomach flips. My pussy practically throbs just reading those words. I can’t fucking wait. I’m too far gone, too desperate for him. I quickly toss some food to Shadow, the big bastard barely looking up from his bowl as I practically sprint toward the stairs.

I fly into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes in a blur of desperation. I take a shower, but it’s not about getting clean—it’s about the anticipation. I scrub my skin, imagining his rough palms replacing the water, his teeth grazing my shoulder. I dry off quickly and walk into the bedroom, completely naked, my skin still humming.

I lay back on the bed, staring up at the painting I made for his birthday. The Black Rose Garden. Just looking at it—the symbolism, the darkness, the way I captured his possessive gaze—makes me instantly soaking wet. I remember the feel of his hands, the sheer size of his cock filling me, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth owning. I slide a hand down, rubbing my clit through the air, my breath hitching.

Then, I hear it. The heavy thud of the front door. The familiar stride of his boots on the hardwood.

I don’t move. I don’t even look toward the door. I just lay there, heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for the predator to find his prey.

I feel the mattress sink behind me before I hear him. Suddenly, his strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. His lips crash into the sensitive skin of my neck, biting and sucking, marking me before he’s even said a word.

"I fucking missed you, little doll," he growls, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against my skin.

I twist in his arms, looking up at him with eyes full of hunger. "I missed you more, Rhys," I gasp, my hands already flying to his neck.

I don't give him a second to breathe. I start ripping at his tie, tugging it loose with a feral intensity, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his coat. I want him out of these clothes; I want the barrier gone. He lets out a dark, guttural laugh and kisses me—hard, bruising, a collision of teeth and tongue that tastes like desperation and ownership.

We strip each other with equal fervor, clothes being tossed haphazardly across the room. The second his trousers are gone, his cock springs free, thick and pulsing, and I practically moan at the sight of it. He doesn't waste a moment. He flips me onto my back, his eyes dark with a psychotic level of lust.

He dives between my legs, his mouth landing on my clit with a precision that makes my entire body arch off the bed. He sucks me hard, his tongue swirling and flicking, driving me toward the edge in seconds. While his mouth is working me into a frenzy, he slides a long, rough finger deep into my ass. I gasp, my fingers clutching the sheets, the sensation of being opened up from both ends sending sparks of electricity through my spine. He doesn't stop, fingering my backside with a possessive rhythm while his tongue continues to devour me. I scream, my orgasm hitting me like a freight train, my pussy clamping down on his face as I shake violently.

But he isn't done. He never is.

He lunges upward, grabbing my thighs and shoving them back toward my shoulders. He doesn't use lube; he doesn't need to. I'm dripping, practically begging for him. He slams into me in one brutal, fast motion, his cock burying itself deep in my cunt with a wet, heavy thud.

"Fuck, you're so tight for me," he snarls, his pace immediate and feral.

It’s not slow. It’s not romantic. It’s a fucking assault of pleasure. He hammers into me, his hips colliding with mine with a rhythmic, violent force that rattles the bed. I’m sobbing, my head tossing back and forth, completely lost in the sensation of him claiming me. As he pumps, he reaches down with his free hand, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing it frantically, while his other hand slides back into my ass, fingering me deep and hard while he fucks me.

The multiple stimulation is too much. I feel another orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat. He feels it too, his movements becoming more erratic, more insane. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated possession, as he drives himself into me one last time, his cock hitting my cervix as I scream, my body convulsing around him in a blinding, white-hot climax.

He doesn't pull out. He stays buried deep, breathing hard, his chest heaving against mine. But then, his grip shifts. He grabs my hips and violently flips me over onto my stomach, shoving my face into the pillow and hoisting my ass high in the air.

I’m panting, my skin slick with sweat and cum, feeling completely exposed and vulnerable. I hear the shift in his voice—the tone that tells me he’s moving past simple lust into something much darker.

"Tonight," he whispers, his voice dripping with a terrifying, obsessive promise, "I'm claiming you fully."

My heart stops for a beat, then starts racing. I know exactly what he means. I know the boundary he's about to cross, the final seal of ownership he wants to place on me. And as I feel him press against my entrance, I don't pull away. I push back against him, desperate for every inch of his madness.

"Do it," I whimper into the pillow. "Fuck me. Claim me. Make me yours.”

I can feel the shift in him, the way his breathing turns from a ragged pant to something more focused, more predatory. Slowly, agonizingly, he slides his cock out of my pussy. The wet, sliding sound of him leaving me makes me whimper, a sudden void opening up where he just was. I’m still shaking from the orgasms, my skin hypersensitive, and I can feel the cool air hit my drenched thighs for only a second before he shifts his weight.

He’s hovering over my arse now. I can feel the blunt, hot head of his cock pressing against my tight little hole, probing the entrance. For weeks, he’s been preparing me for this—fingers, toys, slow stretching during our more manic sessions—but knowing it’s coming and actually feeling him there is a completely different fucking story.

"You're ready for me, aren't you, little doll?" he whispers, his voice a dark, velvet caress against my ear. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me inside every single part of you."