Page 42 of Porcelain Grave

"Look at you," he purrs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. "Marked. Ruined. Absolutely fucking mine. I could spend an eternity carving my name into your skin, Ophelia, and it still wouldn't be enough to show the world who you belong to."

I sit up abruptly and immediately regret it when that soreness stings but I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince, the sheets sliding down to my waist. I don't say a word. I just glare at him, my chest heaving, my ice-blue eyes narrowed into slits. I'm fucking fuming, even if a part of me is still humming from the memory of him losing his mind inside me.

He chuckles, a dark, amused sound, and slides into bed beside me. He props himself up on one elbow, looking at me with an infuriatingly calm smirk.

"What's the matter, love?" he asks, his tone mocking. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"You absolute fucking lunatic!" I snap, my voice raspy. "You didn't just fuck me, Rhys, you practically tried to kill me! You overwhelmed me with so much fear and pleasure that I fucking fainted! Who the fuck does that?"

He doesn't look sorry. Not one fucking bit. In fact, he looks proud. "I told you I was obsessed with you. I don't do things by halves, darling. If I'm going to love you, I'm going to do it until you can't remember your own name."

"There's a difference between love and trying to break my fucking pelvis!" I retort, shoving his shoulder. "You went mental! You were possessed by some fucking scorpion venom and decided to turn me into your personal fucking bag!"

"And you loved every second of it," he counters, his eyes darkening. "Don't lie to me, Ophelia. You were screaming for more. You were begging for it."

"I was not begging! I was... I was caught up in the madness!"

"Same fucking thing," he grins.

I try to push him away, starting a proper row, cursing him out with every term I can think of, calling him a psychotic tosser and a madman. I'm mid-sentence, probably calling him a degenerate prick, when he suddenly lunges.

Before I can react, he climbs on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head. I freeze, still glaring at him, expecting another round of that feral intensity, but his expression has shifted. He looks mischievous.

Then, his fingers find my ribs.

"Don't you fucking dare," I warn, but it's too late.

He begins to tickle me, his fingers dancing across my most sensitive spots with ruthless precision. I try to resist, twisting and turning under him, trying to keep my face stern, but it's a losing battle. A small snort escapes me, and then, the dam breaks.

I burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, my body arching off the bed. "Stop! Rhys, stop it! You fucking prick, stop!"

He doesn't stop. He doubles down, digging into my sides, making me shriek and gasp for air. I'm laughing so hard that tears are pricking my eyes, my anger evaporating into pure, chaotic joy.

"Still want to fight me, love?" he asks, his voice teasing as he continues to torture me.

I shake my head violently, unable to even form words. "No! No! Stop! I give up!"

He finally relents, pulling back but remaining straddled over me. I lie there for a moment, panting, my chest heaving, still giggling uncontrollably as I try to catch my breath. The tension has snapped, replaced by a strange, intimate warmth.

Then, he reaches for the bedside table.

I freeze. He picks up the camera—the same fucking camera he used to watch me with when I was trapped in the Tin Heart. The very tool of his stalking. He raises it to my face, the lens staring at me like a cold, glass eye.

My first instinct is to hide, to turn away from the gaze of the man who hunted me. But as I look up at him, seeing the raw, unhinged devotion in his eyes, I don't feel the urge to run.

I don't hide. Instead, I nod. I let out a soft giggle and smile, a genuine, messy smile, and click.

He captures the moment.

Rhys lowers the camera and looks at the screen, a look of absolute satisfaction crossing his face. "Perfect," he whispers.

He turns the camera around to show me.

In the photo, I look wrecked. My hair is a wild, black tangle across the pillow, my lips are swollen and flushed, and my eyes are wide, shimmering with a mixture of exhaustion and lingering ecstasy. I look vulnerable, exposed, and completely consumed by the experience. I look like a woman who has been loved by a monster and found she liked it.

I stare at the image for a long time. For the first time since this whole twisted journey began, I realize something.

I'm not scared of my own picture. I'm not scared of the girl in the photo, and I'm not scared of the man who took it.