Page 25 of Porcelain Grave

I try to scream, but the sound dies in my throat. It’s the most terrifying feeling in the world—the absolute silence of my own voice. I can feel my soul screaming, a high-pitched, jagged wail of pure terror, but my physical body is a traitor. I am a passenger in my own skin, watching in horror as the first man lunges forward.

He grabs my hair, yanking my head back with a violence that makes my neck snap. I feel the hot, foul breath on my cheek, smelling of stale tobacco and rot. Then comes the weight. He slams into me, crushing the air from my lungs, and I feel the sudden, brutal rip of fabric.

The pain is instantaneous and blinding.

It’s not just a dream. I can feel it. I feel the rough friction of his skin, the agonizing stretch, the sensation of being split open. I feel the blunt force of him forcing his way inside me, a violation so deep it feels like he’s tearing my very soul in half. I can feel the wetness of my own tears streaming down my temples, mixing with the grime on the pillow.

Another hand clamps over my mouth, smelling of grease and salt, stifling the whimpers I can't even produce. I feel another man’s hands on my thighs, bruising the skin, pulling me open further to make it easier for the monster above me.

I am drowning in it. The sheer, overwhelming weight of their bodies, the rhythmic, punishing thuds of their hips hitting mine, the feeling of being used, discarded, and destroyed. Every thrust is a needle of fire in my gut. I can feel the phantom sensation of my mother’s agony bleeding into mine, a generational trauma that is literally ripping me apart. I want to die. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole so I never have to feel this filth inside me again.

I’m sobbing, my chest heaving, but still, no sound. Just the wet, slapping noise of their lust and the sound of my own heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Help me. Someone fucking help me!

Through the haze of pain and terror, a sound pierces the nightmare. It’s not a scream or a laugh. It’s a voice.

"Ophelia..."

It’s distant, like he’s calling to me from the other side of a thick wall.

"Ophelia, little doll... wake up. Come back to me."

The voice is an anchor. I fight. I fight with everything I have, clawing my way through the layers of filth and violence, pushing against the weight of those men. I scream into the void one last time, and suddenly—

I snap awake.

I bolt upright with a violent gasp, my lungs burning as if I’ve been underwater for hours. I’m shaking—not just a shiver, but a full-body convulsion that makes my teeth chatter. I can feel the dampness on my cheeks; I’m sobbing, great, racking heaves that shake my entire frame.

I’m not on that mattress. I’m in the soft, dark sanctuary of Rhys’s bed.

He’s there, his strong arms already wrapped around me, pulling me tight against his chest. I can feel the heat of his skin, the steady, grounding thrum of his heart beating against my back. He’s holding me with a desperate kind of tenderness, as if he’s afraid I might shatter if he lets go.

I turn in his arms, looking up at him. His eyes are wide, filled with a raw, aching empathy that breaks my heart. He looks at me and I see it—he knows. He knows exactly where I’ve been. He knows the depths of the hell I just crawled out of.

I try to speak. I try to tell him I’m okay, or that I’m terrified, or just to tell him to hold me tighter. But nothing comes out. It feels like there is a thick, suffocating lump of charcoal lodged in my throat, a remnant of the silence from the dream. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak; I can only cry.

The sobs intensify, becoming guttural, heartbroken sounds that tear from my chest. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, clutching his shoulders so hard my nails dig into his skin, but he doesn't flinch. He just holds me, rocking me gently back and forth.

"I've got you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his lips brushing against my forehead. "I've fucking got you, Ophelia. You're safe. Those bastards will all be gone. They can't touch you. I'll kill them all over again if they even think about coming near you."

He pulls back just enough to cup my face in his large hands, his thumbs wiping away the salt and grief from my cheeks. His gaze is intense, possessive, but layered with a softness he only ever shows me.

"Shh... just breathe, my little cracked doll. Just breathe for me. Follow my heart. Listen to it. Thump. Thump. That's the only thing that matters right now. You're here. You're with me. I am your shield, your monster, your everything. I won't let the darkness take you."

He presses his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin. He doesn't tell me to stop crying. He doesn't tell me to be strong. He just lets me break. He lets me be the shattered thing I am, holding the pieces together with the sheer force of his will.

Minutes pass. The room is silent except for the sound of my fading sobs and his steady breathing. The pressure in my throat slowly begins to ease, the charcoal dissolving into a dull ache. I look into his eyes—those dark, obsessive eyes that see every fractured part of me—and I feel a surge of something so powerful it scares me.

I swallow hard, my voice coming out as a fragile, broken whisper, barely audible.

"...Rhys."

The way he reacts is instantaneous. His breath hitches, and his grip on me tightens, pulling me so close there isn't a single millimeter of air between us. A look of profound relief and fierce love crosses his face, and he closes his eyes, pressing a long, lingering kiss to my temple.

"I'm here," he murmurs, his voice trembling slightly. "I'm right fucking here, sweetheart. I'm never leaving you."

He shifts, pulling the heavy duvet up around us, cocooning us in a world where only we exist. He begins to hum a low, wordless tune, a dark lullaby that vibrates through his chest and into my bones. He kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, and finally, the corner of my mouth, each touch a promise of protection.