Page 31 of Porcelain Grave

"I felt you," I whisper, my eyes searching his. "I remember. I felt someone watching me, but it wasn't like the others. It was... hungry."

"Starving," Rhys corrects me, his grip tightening on my hip, pulling me flush against his hard frame. "I was fucking starving for you, Ophelia. I spent days in those shadows, memorizing the rhythm of your life, the way you walked, the way you sighed. I didn't want to just 'talk' to you. I wanted to possess you. I wanted to weave myself into the very fabric of your existence until you couldn't imagine a world without me in it."

He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a possessive growl. "I didn't just stalk you, love. I curated you. I waited until you were broken enough, lonely enough, that when I finally stepped out of the dark, I wouldn't just be a man. I'd be your entire fucking world."

I let out a shaky breath, my head tilting back to give him better access to my neck. The sheer, unadulterated psychosis of it all sends a jolt of electricity through me. He’s a monster, a fucking lunatic, and he’s spent time obsessing over me from the dark.

And god, I've never felt more loved in my entire life.

I lean back against him, my heart hammering a frantic, needy rhythm. I want more. I want to hear how he saw me through those predatory eyes, how he cataloged every single inch of me while I was nothing more than a lonely girl in a grey town.

"Describe me," I whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of arousal and desperation. "Tell me exactly how I looked to you. Don't leave a fucking thing out, Rhys."

Rhys lets out a low, humming sound in his throat, his grip on my hip tightening until it almost hurts. He shifts, pulling me around so I'm pinned between his body and the cold surface behind us, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes are dark, swirling with a possessive hunger that makes my toes curl.

"You want to know how you looked, love?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. "You looked like a fucking funeral in the middle of a daydream. You were a vision of grief and grace, and I was absolutely ruined by it."

He reaches up, his long fingers tangling in my hair, tugging my head back just enough to expose the line of my throat.

"That hair... that endless, ink-black river of it, falling all the way down to your waist. It was so dark it seemed to swallow the light around you, a stark, violent contrast against the pale, moonlight glow of your skin. You looked like you were carved from the finest marble, Ophelia—cold, pristine, and utterly fragile. I wanted to touch you just to see if you'd shatter under my fingers, or if you'd bleed something as dark as your hair."

His gaze drops to my face, his eyes tracing every contour with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.

"And your eyes... those ice-blue depths. They weren't just blue; they were freezing, haunted, like a winter morning in a graveyard. You didn't look at anyone, but when you looked at that leaf, I saw the storm inside you. I saw a loneliness so profound it mirrored my own, and it made me want to lock you away in a gilded cage where only I could witness that sorrow."

He slides a thumb over my nose, then down to my lips, pressing firmly against the plush skin.

"Your nose was so delicate, so perfectly sculpted, and your lips... those lips were a soft, bruised rose against the pallor of your face. I spent hours imagining the taste of them, wondering if you'd scream or moan if I finally decided to claim them for myself."

He lets his hand slide down, his fingers tracing the line of my collarbone before gripping my wrist, lifting my hand to inspect my fingers.

"Even your hands were poetry. Slender, tapering fingers that looked like they belonged to a pianist or a saint, though I knew better. I knew there was a darkness in you that matched mine."

He pulls me flush against him, his chest heaving against mine, his voice becoming a possessive rasp.

"You were standing there, 167 centimeters of pure, gothic perfection, draped in that Victorian dress that clung to you like a shroud. You looked like a ghost that had wandered out of a century of mourning, a beautiful, broken thing that didn't belong in a shithole town like this. You were too exquisite for the world, Ophelia. That's why I knew I had to take you. I didn't just want to love you—I wanted to consume you, to wrap myself around you until the rest of the world vanished and there was nothing left but the two of us in the dark."

I let out a shaky, broken moan, my eyes fluttering shut. The way he describes me—not as a person, but as an obsession, a piece of art to be possessed and devoured—it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard. I feel completely stripped bare under his words, more naked than if he'd actually undressed me.

"You're a fucking lunatic," I breathe, arching my back against him.

"Only for you, my darling," he whispers, his lips grazing my ear. "Only ever for you."

Chapter 9

I wake up feeling the lingering warmth of Rhys’s body beside me, but the space is already cold. He’s gone. I can still feel the ghost of his lips against the crown of my head—that soft, possessive kiss he leaves every morning before he disappears to handle the business of his twisted empire.

I stretch, my muscles aching in that delicious way that only happens after he’s spent hours devouring me, and I slide out of bed. I stumble into the bathroom, grabbing the toothbrush I’ve used since the first day I stepped foot in this madhouse. As I scrub, I stare at the mirror, but I don't linger. I head straight for his closet, the scent of him—leather, expensive cologne, and something dark—wrapping around me like a blanket.

I dig through the hangers and find it: one of his oversized t-shirts. I pull it on, and it swallows me whole, the hem hitting mid-thigh, leaving my legs bare. I love this one. Right in the center is the Midnight Menagerie logo—a stark, bleached skull entwined in a wreath of velvet-black roses. It’s the perfect symbol for this place: beauty and death, locked in a fucking embrace.

I catch my reflection in the mirror opposite his weapon wall. For a second, I just stare. I see the ice-blue of my eyes, the ink-black river of my hair, and the pale skin that Rhys treats like a holy relic. I still struggle with the girl staring back at me—the trauma, the ghosts, the blood—but because of him, the reflection doesn't make me want to scream as much as it used to. He’s taught me to love the darkness.

He’s taught me that the face in the mirror is mine—not hers.

I turn away and wander out of the bedroom. The hallway is empty and silent, the gothic architecture looming over me. I make my way downstairs, passing through the kitchen area. It’s funny; I’ve eaten countless meals here, but I’ve barely ever stepped foot in the actual kitchen. I’ve always just let the food appear or be brought to me, too distracted by Rhys’s obsession to care where the grub comes from. My stomach gives a little growl—I haven't had breakfast yet—but the pull of the morning air is stronger.

I step outside into the backyard, and the light hits me, warm and golden. I close my eyes, tilting my head back, and I hear it—birds chirping. It feels fucking surreal. In a place as cursed and sinister as the Midnight Menagerie grounds, you don't expect something as innocent as birdsong. I'm standing in my slippers, the cool, damp grass pressing through the fabric, grounding me.