Page 29 of Porcelain Grave

Chapter 8

We’re lying on the bed, facing each other, the soft fabric of our bathrobes rubbing together. The room is quiet, the kind of heavy silence that usually precedes something intense, but for now, it’s almost peaceful. I’m tracing the tattoo on his chest—those three jagged lines that mirror the scratches I left in a fit of desperation and desire. My fingertip lingers on the ink, feeling the slight ridge of the skin.

"How the fuck did that halo even work, Rhys?" I ask, my voice still a bit scratchy from the rain and the screaming.

He doesn't even blink, his eyes locked on mine with that terrifying, possessive intensity. "It worked exactly as I told you, little doll."

I pause, my finger stopping mid-stroke. I close my eyes for a second and shake my head, a huff of frustration escaping me. "No. I mean how exactly does it work? Like, the mechanics of it. The magic, the science, whatever the fuck it is. I hold a piece of metal, think of your smug face, and suddenly you’re there? That’s not how things work."

He just gives me that small, dark smile—the one that tells me he knows something I don't and he's enjoying every second of my confusion. "Just like I said, Ophelia. You thought of me, and I found you."

I sigh loudly and glare at him, my brows furrowing. "Really? You’re just not going to tell me? You’re just going to leave it at 'magic'?"

Instead of answering, he reaches up, his hand cupping my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, pulling it down slightly. His gaze softens, but there's still that predatory edge beneath the surface.

"Does it matter how the lock works when the door is already open?" he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "All that matters is that you called, and I came. That you needed me, and I was the only one who could answer."

I pull back slightly, though I don't move out of his reach. "That’s not even an answer, Rhys! You’re doing that thing again where you sound poetic to avoid actually saying anything." I let out a frustrated groan. "I realize nothing about you. Absolutely nothing. You know every dark, dirty secret I’ve got, you know my family history, you know exactly how to break me and put me back together... but I’m completely in the dark here. It’s not fucking fair."

He doesn't seem bothered by my outburst. If anything, he looks amused. He continues to caress my face, his touch light but commanding, as if he's marking me even without the ink. "And what is it you want to know, then? Ask me anything, Ophelia. I'm an open book for you."

I shift, propping myself up on one elbow. "For starters, how were you able to build a place like The Midnight Menagerie? That thing is massive. The detail, the costumes, the land... how did you afford it? Is running a gothic carnival your only job, or do you actually do something else with your time besides stalking me and playing god?"

He chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates in his chest beneath my hand. "I don't 'have a job' in the way you're thinking, love. The Castellans are an old English family. Our wealth goes back centuries—estates, land, trusts, investments. My father inherited a fucking empire of art collections and assets, and when he died, it all came to me. I just... expanded the portfolio."

I blink, processing this. "So you're just... old money?"

"Very old," he confirms. "That's why no one asks where the money for the Menagerie came from. It's just another asset. The VIP castle we're in right now? It was one of the family's historic properties. I spent years restoring it, converting it into what it is now. I've always had a taste for architecture, restoration, and the Victorian aesthetic. It’s in the blood."

He shifts closer, his scent enveloping me. "And it's not just buildings. The family owns a shipping and trade company. Being in a port town like Whitby, shipping was how the Castellans built the foundation of their fortune generations ago. I still own the company. It gives me the international connections I need—it's how I was able to move so freely when I traveled to Romania."

"Romania," I repeat, the word feeling heavy. “What did you do in Romania?”

“I went to find what I needed to build The Midnight Menagerie. Romania was one of my stops.”

"And then there are the auction houses," he adds, his eyes gleaming. "One of the oldest in Britain. We deal in paintings, rare books, jewelry, historical artifacts... things that have a story, things that have survived the ages. I've always loved old objects. They don't lie like people do."

I am quiet for a moment then ask, “What happened to your father?”

“He died.”

I roll my eyes. “I heard that. I know he died. But what happened? Was he sick? Car accident…?”

“He was killed.”

It's not the words that make my heart skip a beat. It's the way he says it, it's the kind of tone that makes me not ask anything further.

I stare at him, my mind reeling. The sheer scale of it is dizzying. "So you're really a fucking billionaire. That's... that's actually insane."

Rhys leans in, his lips brushing against my forehead. "It means you will never lack for anything, Ophelia. Whatever you want, whatever you desire—no matter how expensive or impossible it seems—it's yours. I will give you the world if you ask for it."

The intensity of his promise makes my heart race. He doesn't just want to own me; he wants to provide for me, to surround me with luxury until I forget there was ever a world where I was poor and broken. It's a gilded cage, but God, it's a beautiful one.

I look into his eyes, searching for something—some crack in the armor, some hint of a human heart beneath the obsession.

"Rhys?" I whisper. "Have you... have you ever actually been in love before?”

Rhys shakes his head, his gaze dropping for a split second before locking back onto mine with a heaviness that makes my chest ache.