Page 11 of Porcelain Grave

Thomas blinks, his instinct to lie kicking in even now. "No... no, Marguerite loved me. She adored me, she—"

CLICK.

Rhys doesn't even look at me. He just shifts the gun, pressing the cold muzzle firmly against Thomas's temple. The movement is fluid, effortless, and utterly terrifying.

"No! No, wait! I take it back!" Thomas screams, his voice hitting a pathetic, high pitch. "She didn't love me! She didn't love me, I swear to God!"

BANG.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. Thomas lets out a blood-curdling scream, his body jerking violently. I flinch, but I don't look away. A small piece of flesh—the very tip of his ear—has been blasted away. Blood begins to spill, hot and crimson.

Thomas lets out a blood-curdling scream, the sound echoing off the damp stone walls like some dying animal. He’s shaking violently, his whole body convulsing in a pathetic heap of terror. Blood spills from the side of his head, hot and crimson, splashing across his cheek and soaking into his collar. It’s a fucking mess, and for the first time in my life, seeing him in pain doesn't make me feel sick—it makes me feel a twisted sense of peace.

Before he can get another sob out, Rhys moves. In one fluid, brutal motion, he shoves the gag into Thomas's open mouth, gagging him effectively. The screams turn into muffled, wet whimpers, his eyes bulging with panic as he stares up at the man who holds his life in a single finger.

Rhys looks down at him with a cold, detached expression, as if he’s looking at a particularly repulsive insect.

"Don't think for a second that I spared you because you 'took it back', you pathetic piece of shit," Rhys says, his voice low and dangerous. "I didn't kill you just now because I know exactly how delusional you were about Marguerite. That lie you just spat out? It's a fucking fantasy. A lie you actually believed for a while, didn't you? You convinced yourself she loved you, you delusional cunt, right up until the day you let her fucking die."

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. Thomas is sobbing behind the gag, his chest heaving, the reality of his own failure and madness laid bare by the man who has spent years studying every dark corner of our lives.

Rhys turns to me. The coldness in his eyes vanishes, replaced by that intense, possessive hunger that always makes my skin prickle. He doesn't touch me, but I can feel his presence enveloping me, pulling me back from the edge of my rage.

"Any other questions, my little cracked doll?" he asks softly.

I look at the bloody, shaking wreck of the man who fathered me. I feel empty. Drained. The anger is still there, simmering under the surface, but I can't face any more of this right now. Not while the smell of gunpowder, ammonia, and blood is filling my lungs.

I shake my head slowly, my voice barely a whisper. "Not now. Later."

"As you wish," Rhys murmurs.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pristine white handkerchief. With a methodical, almost meditative slowness, he begins to clean the barrel of the gun, wiping away the residue of the shot. He doesn't look at Thomas as he speaks, his tone returning to that terrifyingly calm authority.

"We'll be back," Rhys tells the gagged man, his voice echoing with a promise of more pain. "And when we return, you'd best have your fucking story straight. No more omissions. No more 'misremembering'. None of your delusions are allowed in this room. If I hear one more lie, I won't stop at the ear."

He folds the handkerchief neatly, tucks the gun away, and reaches for my hand. His grip is firm, possessive, pulling me away from the horror and back into his dark, suffocating embrace. As we walk out of the cell, I don't look back. I just let him lead me, the black halo resting heavy on my head, binding me to the only monster I can actually stomach.

Chapter 4

I stare out the window, the world a blurred smudge of charcoal and bruised purple. It’s five in the morning, that dead hour where the night hasn't quite given up and the day is too fucking tired to start. We’re heading back to The Tin Heart, the engine of the car humming a low, predatory vibration beneath us.

I see my father's friend from long ago, Luke, being a creep and watching some women walk by him. It's been a while since I last saw him. Maybe because I don't interact with anyone.

Rhys is driving, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other resting heavily on my lap. His palm is warm, his grip possessive, a constant reminder that I belong to him—body, soul, and every shattered piece of my mind. Outside, Whitby is still crawling with the remnants of the Goth Weekend; a few stray figures in velvet and lace haunt the street corners like misplaced spirits, but the town feels empty, hollowed out by the gray drizzle.

He parks the car with a sharp jerk and gets out, moving with that effortless, lethal grace. He opens my door, his eyes searching mine for a second before he leads me toward the toy shop. As we approach, I spot his men. They’re stationed outside, silent and stony-faced, guarding the place as if it were a fucking fortress. It’s still pitch black, and Rhys clicks on a flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom like a blade.

Using my keys that he has now, he lets us in.

Once inside, the silence of the shop is suffocating. He doesn't linger on the ground floor; he leads me straight upstairs, the floorboards groaning under our weight. When we reach the hallway, he stops abruptly and turns to me.

"We're going into your and your sisters' bedroom," he says, his voice low.

The air leaves my lungs in a sudden, violent rush. I recoil, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Why? Why the fuck would we go in there?"

"Because he hid something there nineteen years ago," he explains, his expression unreadable. "VHS tapes. There’s no electricity in this shithole to play them, so we’re just retrieving them and taking them back to my office. But Ophelia..." He steps closer, his voice dropping an octave, warning. "You need to brace yourself for what you'll find on those tapes."

I swallow hard, my throat feeling like it's filled with glass. "What's in them?"