Page 37 of Porcelain Grave

He’s lying through his teeth. The terror in his voice is a confession. I just watch, my grip tightening on the axe.

Rhys leans in closer, his voice a psychotic, loving caress. "That was the mother of the woman I love. And I can still see it... I can see these filthy hands of yours pinning her down while you raped the life out of her."

Rhys grabs the man's wrists, pinning them flat against the cold earth with a crushing grip. The man begins to scream, a raw, guttural sound of pure panic.

I look at Rhys, and he gives me a small, dark nod.

"Go ahead, love," he whispers.

I don't hesitate. I slide the axe from my shoulder and raise it high above my head, the moonlight catching the steel. The man thrashes, trying to break free from Rhys’s grip, but it’s useless. He’s trapped.

CRUNCH.

I bring the axe down with everything I have. The blade bites deep into his wrist, severing the hand in one brutal stroke. He lets out a scream that could wake the dead, a high-pitched, agonizing wail.

CRUNCH.

I swing again, taking the other hand. Blood sprays everywhere—hot, crimson droplets splashing across my mask and my dress. He’s shrieking, looking down at the bloody stumps where his hands used to be.

Rhys lets him go and stands up straight, looking down at the broken man with utter indifference. The man is rolling in the dirt, sobbing and screaming, his blood soaking into the graveyard soil.

The crowd around us erupts in applause. They're smiling, cheering, absolutely thrilled by the "gore" and the "special effects." They think it's the most realistic act they've ever seen.

The man, delirious with pain, manages to scramble up, pointing a bloody stump at us. "Help me! Help me!" he screams, his voice breaking. "The man with the melting blue face and the porcelain doll woman! They did this! They're trying to kill me! Get me to a hospital! Please!"

The people just laugh. "Brilliant acting!" someone shouts. "The commitment to the role is insane!"

Rhys doesn't give him another second. He raises his gun, the barrel steady. BANG.

A single shot rings out, hitting the man square in the back of the head. His skull shatters, and he drops like a stone, dead before he even hits the ground. A spray of blood and brain matter hits the front row of the audience.

The crowd goes wild. They clap and cheer, shouting that tonight's graveyard was the best one yet because it "featured actual death."

"Did you see that?" a woman whispers nearby. "The porcelain doll woman and the man with the blue tears... they must be the new attraction of The Midnight Menagerie. Absolutely stunning!"

Rhys’s men move in quickly, efficiently hauling the corpse away as if it were nothing more than a piece of discarded scenery.

Rhys turns to me, a look of possessive pride in his eyes. He scoops me up into his arms, carrying me away from the carnage. I lean my head against his chest, the bloody axe still in my hand, dragging behind us in the dirt, leaving a long, red streak across the graveyard path as we disappear back into the mist.

The clock on the dashboard reads 3:00 AM. The air is freezing, a sharp, biting wind that cuts through my clothes, but I can still feel the phantom heat of that bastard’s blood on my skin. With Rhys on the wheel, the same song played. Danse Macabre. I sat in the front with him, and the succubus occupied the back seat.

We’ve pulled up in front of a casino—a gaudy, neon-lit monstrosity that screams new money and desperation. It’s a palace of sin, all gold trim and flashing lights, standing in stark contrast to the gothic gloom we just left behind.

I turn to the succubus, my grip tightening on the handle of my axe. The blade is still stained, a dark, crusty crimson that I haven't bothered to wipe off. "You ready for this, then?" I ask, my voice raspy.

She looks at me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. "I think you're the one who should be asking that, darling," she purrs.

She looks fucking lethal. She’s wearing a dress that’s less of a garment and more of a suggestion—a skin-tight, midnight-black latex number that clings to every curve of her body like a second skin. It’s cut dangerously low at the chest and has a slit running all the way up her thigh, revealing stockings held up by intricate lace garters. Her heels are towering spikes, and her makeup is sharp enough to draw blood. She looks like a dream and a nightmare all wrapped into one.

I smirk at her, leaning in. "Tell me something. This Robert prick hurt you so bad that you're this keen to see him dead, right? So, wouldn't he recognize you? Wouldn't that break your little seductive spell the moment he sees your face?"

She doesn't blink, her eyes shimmering with a hidden, hungry light. "Trust me, love. That man won't recognize me. Not until it's far too late to scream."

She starts strutting toward the entrance.

I turn back to Rhys. He’s leaning against his car, the silhouette of him framed by the dim streetlights. He’s lighting a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating the sharp lines of his face. He’s got this new stubble—a rough, dark shadow along his jawline that makes him look even more rugged, more dangerous. His hair is a beautiful mess right now, wind-swept and chaotic, a few dark strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes me want to reach out and tangle my fingers in them.

I lean closer, my fingertips grazing the rough texture of his beard. He doesn't move, just exhales a cloud of smoke that swirls around us.