Page 4 of Porcelain Grave

"God, she's stunning," one woman whispers, her voice dripping with envy. "What's her name, sir?"

Rhys doesn't even look at her. He just tightens his grip on my hand, pulling me flush against his side. "Mine," he says.

Just one word. Simple. Absolute. He doesn't give me a name because in his head, I am just his. I'm his possession. His property.

We head downstairs, and I’m fucking floored. I expected the place to be empty, everyone having flocked to the town festival, but the VIP party is still in full swing. The room is a sea of black lace, velvet, and leather. People are drinking deep red wine from crystal goblets, dancing in slow, hypnotic circles to music that sounds like a funeral march played at a disco. It’s surreal, a pocket of decadent insanity tucked away inside The Midnight Menagerie.

Rhys moves through the crowd like a shark through water. People part for him, greeting him with hushed tones. He doesn't stop, just gives a curt nod to the masses, until a man in a sharp grey suit steps forward, looking desperate.

"Mr. Castellan, a moment? I need a private audience regarding the shipments," the man pleads.

Rhys doesn't even slow down. "Not now," he snaps, his voice cold as ice. "I'm with someone important."

I feel a flicker of something—pride? Fear?—as he steers me away from the party, the castle, and out toward the common area of the carnival.

The air outside is crisp, smelling of ozone and fried dough. The common area is buzzing. People are scattered everywhere, dressed in their finest gothic gear, eating the carnival’s twisted take on street food. I see trays of deep-fried blackened squid with a charcoal aioli, blood-red glazed ribs that look like they were ripped from a corpse, and strange, shimmering purple candies that look like crystallized amethyst. It’s a feast for the damned.

But Rhys isn't here for the food. He leads me away from the crowds, deeper into the Menagerie, to a part of the grounds I’ve never seen.

We stop in front of a massive, weathered banner. It’s a terrifying image of a clown—not some colorful, birthday-party prick, but something ancient and sinister. The clown on the banner has a wide, jagged grin that stretches too far across its face, eyes that are nothing but hollow black pits, and a single, oversized tear of blood running down its cheek. The colors are muted, grays and deep reds, looking like a painting from a nightmare.

A sign hangs beside the entrance: CLOSED FOR ONE HOUR.

Rhys doesn't give a fuck about the sign. He pushes the doors open and leads me inside.

The interior is a stark, unsettling contrast to the chaos outside. It’s an elegant, monochromatic void. The walls are draped in heavy black velvet, and the floor is a polished white marble that reflects everything like a mirror. There are no bright lights, only dim, flickering candelabras that cast long, dancing shadows. In the center of the room, there are two ornate, high-backed velvet chairs facing a small, empty stage.

Rhys pushes me into one of the chairs, sitting beside me, his presence suffocating. We sit in a heavy, oppressive silence for a moment, the only sound the distant thrum of the party we left behind.

Suddenly, a voice echoes through the room, smooth and devoid of emotion.

“Welcome, Boss. We cleared the place at exactly 3 am for you, as you requested.”

"Ready," Rhys says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like a fucking predator that’s finally cornered its prey.

Out of the oppressive black velvet shadows of the stage, he emerges. My breath hitches in my throat. This isn't some tacky, neon-colored prick from a fucking birthday party. This is something far more sinister.

He’s an elegant, Victorian nightmare. He’s dressed in a beautifully tailored costume of heavy black velvet—a long, sweeping coat that brushes the marble floor, cinched at the waist. No bright colors. No oversized, floppy shoes. Just polished black boots and a stark, monochromatic palette that makes him look like a ghost from a funeral parlor. His face is a mask of thick, white greasepaint, and beneath his eyes, two perfectly symmetrical black tears are painted, trailing down his cheeks like permanent mourning.

He doesn't just walk; he glides. He stops before us and drops into a dramatic, sweeping bow, his coat billowing around him like a shroud.

"We have been waiting for you, my lady," he purrs. His voice is unnervingly charming, a melodic, riddle-like cadence that makes my skin crawl. "The stars whispered of your arrival, and the shadows have been starving for a glimpse of such... exquisite fragility."

I shift in my seat, feeling the corset dig into my ribs. "Who the fuck is this?" I mutter, though I'm too mesmerized to actually move.

Rhys doesn't answer. He just watches me with that dark, obsessive glint in his eyes, looking like he’s enjoying my discomfort.

The clown begins to move, his hands a blur of motion. He’s performing card tricks, but they aren't tricks—they're impossible. He snaps his fingers, and a black rose—darker than the void—materializes out of thin air. It doesn't just appear; it seems to bleed into existence. With a flick of his wrist, the flower lands perfectly in Rhys’s open palm.

Rhys takes the rose and leans in, the scent of the flower mixing with his expensive cologne and the metallic tang of the room. He presses the petals against my cheek, his voice a low, possessive growl. "I love you, Ophelia. Every broken, bleeding piece of you."

I want to tell him to fuck off, but my heart is hammering against my ribs, and the intensity of his gaze is fucking suffocating.

Then, the mood shifts. The charm vanishes, replaced by something cold and jagged. The clown produces a deck of cards, the edges looking sharp enough to draw blood. He fans them out in the air, the cards hovering for a second before he gestures toward me.

"Pick one, little love," he whispers. "Pick your fate."

My hand trembles as I reach out and pluck a card from the air. I turn it over, and the blood drains from my face.