Page 44 of Porcelain Grave

In one fluid, violent motion, he lunges. His first hand comes around my waist. His second hand clamps over my mouth and nose, pressing a chemically-scented handkerchief firmly against my face. I gasp, but instead of air, I inhale a sharp, sweet, cloying scent that immediately makes my head swim.

I fight. I fight like a fucking animal. I claw at his arms, kicking at his shins, trying to twist away from his grip, but he's like a wall of granite. He holds me tight, pinning my arms to my sides, crushing my chest against his suit.

"Let her go!" Amara screams, trying to rush forward, but one of the gunmen slams the butt of a rifle into her shoulder and presses the barrel against her temple, forcing her to the floor.

I struggle harder, my vision starting to blur, the edges of the room fraying into darkness. I can see Mrs. Aldridge sobbing behind the counter, the world turning into a distorted smear of black and grey.

The man pulls me closer, his grip possessive and suffocating. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a psychotic, soothing whisper.

"Shhh... stop fighting, Snowdrop. Just let it happen. You're coming with me, and by the time Rhys finds you, I'll have already used you against him in more ways than he could possibly imagine."

The sweetness of the drug floods my brain, turning my limbs to lead. My struggles slow, my eyelids grow heavy, and slowly, the world vanishes, leaving me unconscious in the arms of a stranger.

Chapter 13

I wake up feeling something ridiculously soft beneath me. My head is throbbing, a dull, rhythmic ache that makes me want to punch a wall, and I blink repeatedly, trying to clear the fog from my vision. As I sit up, the dizziness hits me in a wave, and I have to steady myself.

I look down. The bedsheets are a crisp, expensive cream color—completely different from the dark, moody fabrics I’m used to at the Menagerie. The mattress is too firm, the air smells of a different kind of expensive cologne and old money, and the room is... well, it's a fucking palace. High ceilings with ornate crown molding, heavy velvet curtains that block out most of the light, and antique furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum rather than a bedroom.

Then it hits me. The shop. The men in black. The sweet, cloying smell of that handkerchief.

I snap upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. I scan the room frantically until my eyes land on a man seated on a plush velvet couch, casually reading a hardcover book as if he’s spending a lazy Sunday afternoon.

I gasp, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He doesn't even look up from his page.

"Good to see you're finally up, Snowdrop," he says, his voice smooth, arrogant, and irritatingly calm.

"Who the fuck are you?" I snap, immediately scrambling to the other side of the bed, putting as much distance between us as possible. I stand there, trembling but furious. "Why the hell did you bring me here?"

He slowly closes the book, marking his page with a slender finger, and finally looks me in the eye. Those grey eyes are cold, but there's a glimmer of something—amusement, maybe—dancing in them. He stands up and begins to stroll toward me, his movements fluid and predatory. He stops at the edge of the bed, opposite to where I'm standing.

"The name is Lucien Ashcroft," he says, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

My eyes go wide. My stomach drops. I take a reflexive step back, my heel catching on the carpet. Lucien’s grin widens, looking absolutely delighted by my reaction.

"Ah, so you've heard of me," he purrs. "Wonderful. That saves me the tedious trouble of listing all the terrifying threats I was going to utter to keep you from trying to bolt. I hate repeating myself; it's just so draining."

"What do you want with me?" I hiss, my voice shaking. "Are you going to kill me?"

Lucien lets out a short, genuine laugh, shaking his head as if I've just told the funniest joke in the world. "Kill you? Good heavens, no. You're far too valuable to damage, Ophelia. I'm not a barbarian."

"Why?" I demand.

"Because," he says, his voice dropping an octave, "you are the perfect piece of leverage against Rhys. A little bird in a gilded cage to make the great Rhys Castellan dance to my tune."

He begins to circle the bed, moving slowly, like a shark circling its prey. I back away, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps, until my shoulder blades hit the cold, hard surface of the wall. I'm trapped.

"You won't get away with this," I spit at him, trying to find my courage. "Rhys will fucking kill you. He'll tear you apart limb from limb."

Lucien stops, looking completely unfazed. In fact, he looks bored. "Oh, I'm sure he'll try. He's always been so... passionate. But by the time he finds the front door, I'll have exactly what I want. So, don't look so frightened, Snowdrop."

"Why the fuck are you calling me that?" I snap.

"Because of the skin, obviously," he gestures vaguely toward my face. "Pale as a drift of fresh snow, and those blue eyes... you look like a little winter spirit. It's quite charming, really."

I just stare at him. The nickname sounds gentle, almost sweet, but coming from a man who just kidnapped me, it's fucking unsettling. It's the kind of gentleness that precedes a knife to the throat.

Suddenly, a surge of desperation hits me. I don't think; I just act. I leap onto the bed, rolling across the mattress with a frantic energy, and dive off the other side, hitting the floor with a thud. I scramble to my feet and bolt for the door, my heart screaming in my chest.