Page 3 of Porcelain Grave

"Take me to him," I demand, my voice cold. "My father. He's in this godforsaken place somewhere, isn't he? If you're going to keep playing these fucking games, then take me to him right now. Let me look the bastard in the eye.”

"No," he says. Just one word. Flat. Final. Like a fucking gavel hitting a block.

The word triggers something in me—a surge of pure, unadulterated panic mixed with rage. I can't stay here. I can't stay in this bed, in this house, wrapped in his clothes while he holds the keys to my entire fucking existence. I scramble, trying to throw myself off the mattress, my bandaged hands slipping against the sheets as I fight to get my feet on the floor.

But Rhys is faster. He’s always fucking faster.

Before I can even slide an inch, he lunges. He doesn't just stop me; he slams his entire weight down on top of me, pinning me flat against the bed. The air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp oof, and for a second, I can't breathe, the sheer mass of him crushing me into the mattress.

"Get off me!" I scream, the sound raw and jagged. "Get the fuck off me, Rhys!"

He doesn't budge. He locks his arms around mine, pinning my wrists beside my head, his chest heaving against mine. He’s like a fucking mountain of muscle and obsession, an immovable object that has decided I am his world and his prisoner all at once.

"You can't take it, Ophelia," he growls, his face inches from mine. His eyes are wide, dark, and shimmering with that psychotic intensity that usually turns me on, but right now, it just terrifies me. “You can’t take what you'll find. Not today. Not tonight. You’re already shattered, my little cracked doll. If I give you the rest of it now, you’ll fucking disintegrate.”

"I don't give a fuck!" I shriek, thrashing beneath him. I start to fight, really fight. I arch my back, trying to buck him off, my legs kicking wildly against the sheets. I manage to free one hand for a split second and I swing, my fist connecting with his jaw with a dull thud.

He doesn't even flinch. He just grunts, his grip tightening until I feel like my bones might actually snap.

"Let me go! Take me to him! Take me to my father!" I’m punching his chest now, hitting him over and over, my bandaged palms stinging with every blow. I’m sobbing, the rage dissolving into a desperate, hacking grief. "Please, Rhys! Please, I need to know! I can't live like this!"

"I can't lose you," he whispers, and the way he says it isn't romantic. It's possessive. It's the sound of a man who would rather see me locked in a cage for eternity than risk me walking away or breaking beyond repair. "I won't let you go. I'll hold you down until you stop fighting. I'll hold you until you forget there's a world outside this room."

I stop punching. I stop kicking. I just collapse under him, my body going limp as the first real wave of hopelessness hits me. I start to cry—not the quiet, pretty kind of crying, but the ugly, snotty, gasping sobs of someone who has lost everything.

“Please,” I beg, my voice breaking, a pathetic whimper. “Please, Rhys... just tell me. Please let me go.”

He doesn't move. He stays right there, heavy and suffocating, his heart beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against my own. He doesn't offer comfort; he offers containment. He just lies there on top of me, holding me down with a terrifying, absolute certainty, listening to me break while he keeps me exactly where he wants me.

Chapter 2

3 am. The fucking middle of the night, or the start of the morning—I can’t even tell anymore in this godforsaken place. I’m dead to the world, drifting in some fever dream of blood and rusted metal, when I feel his hands on me.

Rhys. He doesn't wake me up gently. He pulls me from the depths of sleep with a possessive tug, his fingers digging into my skin. I blink, squinting against the dim light, my head feeling like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool.

"Wake up, my little cracked doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that sends a shiver straight down my spine. "Time to get dressed."

He doesn't give me a choice. He never fucking does. He’s already laid out the clothes, and for the next thirty minutes, he treats me like a living mannequin. He slides me into a gothic Victorian gown that’s so intricate it feels like a fucking cage. It’s heavy, midnight-black silk and layered lace that clings to my curves before flaring out into a dramatic, sweeping skirt. The bodice is boned, cinching my waist until I can barely breathe, pushing my breasts up and out, topped with a high, ruffled collar that makes me feel like I’m being presented for a fucking sacrifice. He finishes the look with a pair of pointed-toe black leather boots with laces that go all the way up to my calves, the heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Once I’m encased in lace and silk, he dresses himself. He looks like a fucking nightmare in a tailored black suit, a charcoal waistcoat, and a heavy overcoat that makes him look even broader, more imposing. He looks like the king of this twisted circus, and I’m just the prize he’s decided to keep.

He takes a gun and five bullets, which he puts in his pocket instead of loading them. I wonder what that's for.

"Are we going to Goth Weekend?" I ask, my voice still scratchy from sleep. The festival is still raging in town—today’s Sunday, the final day of the madness.

"We'll pass by," he says vaguely, his eyes scanning me with a hunger that makes my stomach flip. "But first, we’ll go to The Tin Heart."

My heart skips a fucking beat. The Tin Heart. The center of the rot.

"And," he adds, a smirk playing on his lips, "I'll let you talk to Thomas."

The mention of Thomas is the hook. He knows exactly how to manipulate me, how to dangle the truth in front of me just to keep me walking in his shadow. He reaches out, gripping my hand in a hold that's far too tight to be considered 'romantic,' and leads me out of the room.

As we walk down the hallway, the atmosphere is thick with the scent of incense and old blood. A few guests are drifting toward the succubus room, their faces pale, their eyes glazed with lust and curiosity. They stop dead when they see him.

"Mr. Castellan," they murmur, bowing their heads in a mixture of respect, love, and genuine fucking fear.

Then, their eyes shift to me. I can feel them scanning me, taking in the dress, the pale skin, the haunted look in my eyes.