Page 19 of Porcelain Grave

I feel a sob building in my throat, a raw, jagged thing. I turn to look at Rhys, but as the light shifts, I see something.

Someone.

A figure is standing right behind him, shimmering in the dim light.

"Ophelia."

I jump, nearly dropping the phone, a sharp gasp escaping my lips. Rhys whips around, his eyes narrowing, his body instantly shielding me.

It’s her. Marguerite.

“Mom!”

She’s wearing the clothes she was kidnapped in—the ones she was stripped of for nine months and eventually stuffed into that box in the attic. She looks... fuck, she looks exactly like me. It’s like looking into a mirror that reflects a ghost. The same eyes, the same curve of the lip, the same haunted expression.

She looks at Rhys first, her voice a ghostly echo. "Rhys."

Then she turns to me, and her voice breaks, sounding like wind through dead leaves. "My girl. My Ophelia. Look at what you've grown up to be."

I stare at her, tears blurring my vision, my voice trembling. "I... I grew up to look exactly like you."

A sad, ethereal smile touches her lips. "I am glad," she whispers. "I will get to live through you."

"You saved us," I sob, the tears finally spilling over. "You saved us when you decided to keep living... just to have us."

She drifts closer. I reach out, desperate to touch her, to feel the warmth of a mother I never knew, but as she reaches for me, all I feel is a cold, chilling wind brushing against my cheek. It’s a kiss made of ice and sorrow.

Marguerite begins to cry, though no tears fall. "I watched over you," she whispers. "After you lost your sisters... I watched over all of you. Even Cordelia and Rosalind, trapped in that attic. I saw how you were hurting, Ophelia. I saw the pain you carried."

She turns her gaze to Rhys, and for a moment, the air feels softer. "Thank you. For protecting my daughter."

I look at her, my heart breaking into a million pieces. "You didn't deserve any of this," I wail, the unfairness of it all crashing down on me. "None of this fucking horror!"

I step toward her, desperate. "How can I free you? How do I take you to peace, or heaven, or wherever the fuck you're supposed to go?"

Marguerite smiles through her ghostly tears. "All I need to move on... is for Harry to know I still love him. For my brothers and parents to know what happened to me. And for them to know you... to take care of you. That is all. That is all my soul needs to rest."

As she speaks, she begins to drift backward, fading into the wall that is still stained with the blood of her final moments.

"No! Don't go!" I scream, reaching out, but she vanishes into the stone, leaving nothing but the freezing air and the silence of the grave. “Mommy, please don't go.”

I collapse, my legs giving out, and Rhys is there instantly. He catches me, pulling me hard against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a vice. He holds me with a possessive, fierce intensity, burying his face in my hair.

The air in his chambers is thick, suffocating, and smells of old incense and Rhys’s oppressive, masculine scent. I’m fucking losing it. The image of my mother’s ghost, the blood-soaked mattress, the sheer wrongness of my existence—it’s all swirling in my head like a goddamn storm. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and I sure as fuck can’t stay still.

I’m fighting him, scratching at his arms, trying to wrench myself away from his grip. "Let me go! Just fucking let me go, Rhys!" I scream, my voice raw and jagged.

He doesn't. He never fucking does.

His grip is like iron, his eyes dark and blown out, reflecting a madness that mirrors my own. With one sudden, violent movement, he shoves me back. I hit the mattress with a thud that knocks the wind out of me, and before I can even scramble away, he’s on top of me, his heavy weight pinning me down.

"You're not going anywhere, Ophelia," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You're mine. In this life, the next, and every fucking nightmare in between."

We struggle, a chaotic mess of limbs and desperation. I’m kicking, twisting, trying to buck him off, but he’s too strong. He starts ripping at my clothes, his movements frantic and aggressive. Fabric tears—the sound of it like a gunshot in the quiet room. He strips me bare, tossing my clothes aside like they're nothing, his hands bruising my skin as he forces my legs apart.

He leaves the black halo resting on my head and the necklace tight around my throat—the only things he deems worthy of staying. As I fight him, my nails dig deep into his chest, dragging across his skin in a blind, panicked reflex. I feel the skin give way, a sharp scratch carving a red line across his pectoral.

Rhys freezes. He seizes my wrists in one hand, pinning them violently above my head, his grip crushing. He looks down at the mark I left, a dark smear of blood beginning to bead on his skin. A slow, psychotic smile spreads across his face.