Page 26 of Porcelain Grave

"Go back to sleep, Ophelia," he whispers, his hand stroking my hair in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. "I'll stay awake. I'll guard the door. I'll fight every ghost and every monster in your head until the sun comes up. Just close your eyes. I've got you."

Exhausted, drained of everything but the feeling of his warmth, I let my eyes flutter shut. For the first time tonight, the darkness doesn't feel like a void. It feels like him. And as I drift back into a dreamless sleep, the last thing I feel is Rhys kissing my forehead, whispering that I am his, and that he will burn the world to ashes before he lets me hurt again.

Chapter 7

The car glides into the bowels of a sterile, concrete beast—the underground garage of a towering business complex. It’s all grey pillars, humming fluorescent lights, and that oppressive smell of exhaust and expensive wax. It’s the kind of place where people with too much money and not enough soul hide their dirty secrets behind glass walls and mahogany desks.

Rhys kills the engine, kills the Danse Macabre song on the stereo, the silence that follows feeling heavy, like a guillotine blade held up by a thin thread.

I step out of the car, and I feel like a fucking nightmare manifested in the middle of a corporate dream. I’m wearing my Victorian gothic dress, the black lace trailing slightly, the fabric hugging my curves but giving me enough room to move, to kill. My halo is perched perfectly, and the necklace feels like a cold promise against my skin. Then there’s the mask—the eyes and the mouth glowing with a sinister, neon light. I look like a doll from hell, and I fucking love it.

Rhys is a stark contrast, yet perfectly matched. He’s got his mask on, that porcelain masquerade face with the melting neon LEDs dripping down the cheeks. He’s got his gun tucked firmly under his belt, his movements fluid and predatory. He doesn't just walk; he stalks.

As he leads me toward the executive private elevator—a sleek, gold-trimmed cage that smells of ozone and arrogance—I lean closer to him.

"How the fuck did Luke Adam even become an executive?" I ask, my voice muffled and distorted by the mask.

Rhys lets out a low, dark chuckle. "Money, sweetheart. Blood money. He didn't just help your father; he used the connections and the 'favours' from those circles to climb the corporate ladder. He built his empire on the backs of people he broke. Your father and the others didn't seem to have the same brain."

I frown, looking at the biometric scanner on the elevator. "And how the hell do you have access to this? This is a private lift."

"I have my ways, Ophelia," he murmurs, his voice a smooth caress of danger. "A few hacked servers, a couple of terrified IT boys, and a bit of leverage. I’ve spent weeks carving a path for us." He glances at me, his eyes glinting behind the mask. "And I made sure Mr. Adam had a very urgent reason to work late tonight. A fake audit that required his personal attention. He’s practically waiting for us."

I feel a surge of adrenaline, a hot prickle under my skin. I hoist the axe up, resting the heavy handle across my shoulders, my arms draped over it with a casual, deadly grace. I can feel the weight of the steel, the hunger of the blade.

The elevator dings—a cheerful, polite sound that feels obscene given what I’m about to do. The doors slide open to the executive floor.

Rhys steps out first, his presence instantly dominating the space. I follow right behind him, the click of my heels echoing on the polished marble. The first thing we see is the secretary. She’s a blonde, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks painful, wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a white blouse that’s pressed to perfection.

The moment she sees us, she jumps, nearly knocking over a vase of lilies. She doesn't dare look Rhys in the eye; her gaze is fixed on the floor, her entire body shaking like a leaf in a storm.

"H-he's in!" she stammers, her voice thin and terrified. "Mr. Adam is just as you commanded, sir!"

Rhys stops in front of her, his masked face tilting slightly. "Good. You did good," he says, his tone almost playful, though it sends a chill down the spine of anyone who knows him. "No need to be so nervous, Lucy. You’re just a witness to a very necessary cleaning."

I watch her. She’s petrified, a little corporate puppet frozen in fear. She doesn't even look at me, probably terrified of the glowing X's on my face and the massive axe on my shoulders.

Rhys turns to me, stepping aside with a mock-gallant gesture. "After you, my doll."

I walk past him, my heart drumming a war beat against my ribs. I head straight for the only door with the name Luke Adam etched in gold. Through the heavy glass wall, I see him. He’s sitting behind a massive obsidian desk, leaning over some papers, looking every bit the successful, untouchable prick.

I don't knock. I don't announce myself.

I grip the hammer in my hand and slam it into the glass with every ounce of hatred I’ve carried.

CRASH.

The glass shatters into a million glittering diamonds, the sound exploding through the quiet office like a bomb. Adam screams, leaping back from his chair, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. He looks so old now compared to the tapes. And, wealthier. He looks at the shards, then at me—this neon-masked creature in a black dress stepping through the wreckage.

"What the fuck?!" he shrieks, his voice cracking. "What is the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you? What is the meaning of this? How did you get in here?"

I step into the room, the axe now gripped firmly in my hand, the blade catching the office lights. "Hello, Luke," I say, my voice cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins.

"Get out! Get the fuck out right now!" he bellows, trying to regain some semblance of authority despite the fact that he's shaking. "I'll have you thrown out! I'll have you arrested! Do you have any idea who I am?"

I stop a few feet from his desk, tilting my head. "I know exactly who you are. I'm Marguerite Hansburg's daughter. The woman you raped nineteen years ago in Thomas Sorrell's basement."

The color drains from his face instantly. It’s like I’ve slapped him. The arrogance vanishes, replaced by a hollow, wide-eyed terror. He looks at me—really looks at me—and I can see him recognizing the ghost of his victim in my eyes.