Page 43 of Porcelain Grave

"I look like a fucking disaster," I whisper, though I'm smiling.

"You look like mine," he corrects, leaning down to kiss me with a possessiveness that tells me he's still not nearly finished with me.

I push open the door to the Aldridge shop, the little bell above chiming with a cheerful ring that feels completely out of place with the storm brewing in my head. I’m dressed in a way that would probably make a Victorian ghost blush—a tight, black lace corset that cinches my waist until I can barely breathe, paired with a sheer, flowing black skirt that clings to my hips and swirls around my ankles. My necklace is hanging on my neck perfectly. I’ve got on my heavy platform boots, the kind that make me feel like I could stomp a man’s windpipe in if I felt like it. My waist-long black hair is loose, cascading down my back like a dark river, and my ice-blue eyes are probably looking a bit too haunted for a Tuesday morning. Especially when I made sure I didn't forget my halo. Well, Rhys made sure. It was the only way to let me out without him stalking behind me.

"Morning, Mrs. Aldridge," I mutter, giving the older woman a quick nod as I pass the counter. She gives me a knowing, slightly worried look, but I don't stop. I've got a mission. I already know why she looks worried. It's probably worrying Amara too.

I head straight for the back room, the scent of old paper and incense getting stronger. That's where I find Amara. She’s a proper goth icon, looking like she stepped straight out of a dark fantasy novel. She’s wearing an oversized band tee with some obscure doom-metal logo, ripped fishnets under a pleated plaid skirt, and enough silver chains around her neck to anchor a small boat. Her afro is styled perfectly, a magnificent, dark halo that frames her face, adorned with a few silver rings clipped into the curls.

"Hey," I say softly.

Amara stops whatever she’s tinkering with and spins around. The second she sees me, her face lights up, and she practically launches herself at me, wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug.

"Fucking hell, Ophelia! Where have you been?" she exclaims, pulling back but keeping her hands on my shoulders. "Last time I saw you, some mental case had thrown you into the water and you nearly drowned before Rhys fished you out. And my throat was sore from screaming for someone to help because I can't fucking swim. Fuck! I went to the Tin Heart a dozen times, but the place was dead. Empty. I figured you were tucked away with Rhys, but I couldn't get into the VIP areas without one of those fucking necklaces. I've been worried sick, Ophelia! Are you alright?"

I offer her a small, tired smile. "I'm okay now, Amara. Really."

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is exactly why you need a fucking phone, Ophelia. A basic piece of tech! You could have sent a simple text—'I'm alive, not dead in a ditch'—and I wouldn't have spent days wondering if you'd been murdered or kidnapped by a cult—"

She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes widen, and she freezes, staring at me with a look of absolute shock.

"Ophelia..." she whispers, leaning in. "Did you just... did you just look me in the eye?"

Before I can even blink, she’s reaching up, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead to check my temperature. "Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever? Have you had a stroke? You never do that."

I nod, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "I'm... I'm getting better with the eye contact. I'm trying."

Amara pulls back, her expression shifting from concern to intense curiosity. A smirk plays on her lips. "Right. I see. Is this the 'Rhys Castellan effect'? Is the Whitby billionaire the reason you've suddenly found your spine? Did he brainwash you into being a functioning human, or is he just that fucking hypnotic?"

I roll my eyes, though I can't help the giggle that escapes. "Shut up. He's just... persistent. And psychotic. But yeah, maybe he's had something to do with it."

"Speaking of the devil," Amara says, leaning against a table. "Where is he? I didn't think he was the type to let his precious little love wander off alone. I figured he'd have you on a golden leash."

I snort, thinking of the chaos of the last few hours. "Believe me, it took a lot of convincing. And a few threats. And... a fair bit of sex to get him to let me out of the house for an hour. He’s a clingy bastard when he wants to be."

Amara cackles, her eyes gleaming. "God, I love that for you. Absolute madness. Anyway, you mentioned the Midnight Menagerie tonight? Please tell me I'm invited. I would fucking kill to go."

I lean in, a teasing glint in my eyes. "Oh? Is that so? Or do you just want to see the succubus?"

Amara doesn't even hesitate. "Obviously! I mean, who wouldn't? A real-life demon of lust? Sign me the fuck up."

I start to laugh, about to tell her she's a degenerate, when a blood-curdling scream rips through the air. It's Mrs. Aldridge.

"Mom!" Amara screams, her face instantly pale. She bolts toward the front of the shop, and I'm right on her heels, my heart hammering against my ribs.

We round the corner and stop dead in our tracks.

The shop is crawling with men in black. Tactical gear, cold expressions, and—most importantly—guns. They've got the customers pinned against the walls, faces pressed into the dusty shelves. Mrs. Aldridge is shaking violently behind the counter, her eyes wide with terror.

"Is this a robbery?" Amara whispers, her voice trembling.

But then, one man steps forward. He isn't in tactical gear. He's wearing an expensive, charcoal-grey suit that probably costs more than the entire shop. He's tall, with sharp features, jet-black hair, and eyes the color of a winter storm—cold, piercing grey.

He walks toward us with a slow, predatory confidence, stopping right in front of me. He looks me up and down, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips.

"So," he purrs, his voice smooth as silk and just as cold. "This is the gorgeous Ophelia Sorrell that has Rhys Castellan so utterly obsessed. I can see why.” He looks me up and down. “Interesting. You’re much smaller than I imagined."

I don't answer. I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but I'm too slow.