Page 23 of Porcelain Grave

The change in his expression is instantaneous. The arrogance vanishes, replaced by a sudden, stark pallor. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost.

I giggle, the sound manic and high. "It's time to pay, you cunt."

The man starts backing away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I don't rush; I just move closer, slow and steady. I slide the axe off my shoulders, the steel catching the faint light. Panicked, he turns to bolt, but he’s so fucking clumsy he trips over his own feet and slams hard onto the pavement.

I stop a few feet from him, tilting my head curiously. "Run," I whisper.

He doesn't need telling twice. He scrambles onto all fours, scratching at the asphalt like a frightened animal, before finding his footing and sprinting away. He doesn't get far. He stops dead in his tracks, a strangled scream dying in his throat as he sees Rhys.

Rhys is standing there, blocking the exit, his porcelain mask glowing blue with those neon drips, the handgun leveled straight at Griffin's head.

Griffin spins around, seeing me closing the gap behind him. He’s trapped. "It was a long time ago!" he wails, his voice cracking. "I thought... I thought she was consenting! Thomas invited me! I thought she wanted it!"

I can see the lie in the way he trembles. He helped kidnap my mother. He knew she was a prisoner, a broken thing in a basement, and he didn't give a flying fuck. And I know he’s spent the last two decades hurting other women just because he could.

"Please!" he begs, sinking to his knees. "Please, just let me go! I'll give you money, I'll do anything!"

Rhys’s voice is a low, dangerous snarl. "The only thing you're giving us, you piece of filth, is the satisfaction of watching you bleed."

BANG.

Rhys fires a shot straight into Griffin's leg. The man screams—a raw, guttural sound that echoes through the empty street—as he collapses back onto his knees. Rhys steps forward and delivers a brutal kick to his ribs, sending him sprawling. He presses the hot muzzle of the gun against the back of Griffin's neck, pinning him to the dirty ground.

I stand over him, looking down at the sobbing wreck of a man. "You're going to die remembering Marguerite Hansburg," I tell him, my voice dripping with venom. "And you're going to spend your last breath wishing you'd never once laid a fucking finger on her."

I swing.

The axe comes down with a sickening thwack, burying itself deep into his shoulder. Griffin lets out a scream that rips through the night, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. I don't stop. I yank the blade out with a wet schlick and swing again, this time catching him in the ribs.

Blood sprays everywhere—hot, metallic, and thick. It splashes across my dress, my boots, and my mask. I lose myself in it. I hack at him, over and over, the axe splitting skin, crushing bone, and tearing through muscle. He tries to scream, but it turns into a gurgling choke as I bring the blade down across his throat, carving a deep, jagged ruin into his neck.

I keep going long after he stops screaming, long after his eyes go dull and his body stops twitching. I beat him into a pulp of red meat and shattered bone until my arms ache and the street is stained a deep, glistening crimson.

When it's finally quiet, I stop. I stand there, chest heaving, the axe dripping blood onto the pavement. I can feel the warmth of the spray on my skin. I look over at Rhys; he’s got droplets of red splattered across his white porcelain mask, matching the stains on mine.

"My little doll's first murder," Rhys murmurs, his voice thick with pride. "I'm fucking impressed, Ophelia."

I look up at him, the adrenaline still humming in my blood. "He didn't even taste as good as I thought he would," I reply, a dark smirk under my mask. "Too much cowardice in the meat."

Rhys chuckles, a dark, possessive sound. "You're a natural, sweetheart. A fucking masterpiece."

I drop the axe and pull him into a tight hug with my free hand, leaning into his chest. "Does the body stay here, or do you have people to come scrub the street?" I ask.

"Don't worry your pretty head about it," he whispers, his hand gripping my waist. "I've got cleaners who make things vanish like they never existed. This street will be spotless by dawn."

He reaches up and pulls his mask off, tossing it aside. I follow suit, stripping the neon mask from my face. I look at him—his eyes burning with that psychotic, obsessive love—and I lean in. We kiss, sealing the night in blood and madness.

I step out of the shower, the steam clinging to my skin like a damp shroud. I’m dripping wet, the water trailing down my thighs, and for the first time in my fucking life, I don't immediately recoil from the mirror.

I stand there, staring. It’s not comfortable—not by a long shot—but the panic isn't a screaming siren in my head anymore. I can tolerate it. I look at my ice-blue eyes, wide and shimmering with a lingering, dark electricity. I look at my hair, plastered to my neck, and I think about tonight.

I killed a man.

The memory hits me in a rush of heat: the wet thwack of the axe splitting Griffin’s shoulder, his heart, his head, the way he shrieked like a stuck pig, the spray of hot, metallic blood painting my mask and my skin. I can still feel the vibration of the blade hitting bone, the sheer, visceral power of erasing a monster from the earth. He raped my mother. He helped destroy everything. And I fucking butchered him.

A slow, jagged smile creeps onto my face. I feel... clean. Cleaner than the soap could ever make me.

I dry off quickly and wander back into the bedroom, the air smelling of expensive cologne and something sharp, chemical. I stop dead. Rhys is sprawled across the bed, shirtless, wearing nothing but his trousers. But he’s not alone.