Page 46 of Porcelain Grave

Suddenly, I remember. The halo.

"I... I need to use the bathroom," I say quickly.

Lucien eyes me for a moment, his grey eyes searching mine. "Very well. The bathroom has no windows and no secret tunnels, so feel free. Go ahead."

He points to a door across the room. I don't wait for a second invitation; I rush inside and slam the door shut, locking it with a click.

My heart is racing. I reach up to my head and carefully retrieve the black halo. It worked last time. It has to work this time.

I grip the cold metal in my hands, closing my eyes tight. I push every image of Rhys into my mind—his obsessive eyes, his possessive touch, the way he looks when he's completely unhinged.

Find me, Rhys, I plead silently. Please, fucking find me.

I slide the black halo back onto my head, the cold metal settling against my skin like a frozen promise. I take a second to actually look at the bathroom I’ve barricaded myself into, and honestly, it’s fucking ridiculous. It’s all white marble and gold fixtures, with a bathtub that looks more like a miniature swimming pool than something you actually wash your arse in. There’s a vanity mirror framed in gold leaf and towels so fluffy they look like clouds. It’s the kind of place where people probably spend three hours a day exfoliating their elbows. It’s sterile, opulent, and completely devoid of any way out.

A sharp knock at the door makes me jump, nearly knocking the halo askew.

"Lunch is ready, Snowdrop! Chop chop, I’m famished!" Lucien’s voice rings through the door, sounding far too cheerful for a man who’s currently committing a felony.

I let out a long, jagged sigh, my shoulders slumping. I don't want to eat his fancy food; I want to rip his throat out with my teeth. But I can't exactly starve myself into a rescue. I walk to the door and swing it open.

Lucien is standing there, leaning casually against the wall with a smirk that makes me want to punch him square in the jaw. "Shall we?" he asks, gesturing toward the hallway.

"After you, you prick," I snap.

He doesn't even flinch. Instead, he puts on this exaggerated, theatrical expression of chivalry, sweeping his arm out to let me pass first. "Ladies first. I may be a criminal mastermind, but I’m not a savage."

I walk past him, my eyes darting to the side. The mountain of a man with the knife steps aside with a grunt, his expression as blank as a brick wall. As Lucien leads the way, I realize I’m in some kind of massive, sprawling villa. The hallways are wide, lined with oil paintings of people who look like they died of boredom in the 1800s, and the floors are polished mahogany that reflects the dim, moody lighting of the chandeliers. It’s all very 'old money' and suffocating.

We head downstairs, the grand staircase curving elegantly, and he leads me into a dining room that’s practically a cathedral for food. It’s a long, heavy oak table that could probably seat twenty people, centered under a massive crystal chandelier that casts shimmering shards of light across the room. The walls are draped in deep crimson velvet, and there are silver candelabras flickering at intervals, adding to the gothic, oppressive vibe.

Lucien glances back at the big man. "You can bugger off now, Tiny. I can handle the little snowdrop from here."

The guard doesn't say a word, just retreats to the entrance of the dining room and stands there like a gargoyle, blocking the only exit.

Lucien turns to me, his smirk returning. He pulls out a heavy velvet-cushioned chair at one end of the table with a flourish, acting like we're at a five-star restaurant instead of a kidnapping scenario. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

I slide into the seat, staring at him with pure hatred. He leans over, meticulously adjusting the chair an inch to the left to make sure I'm perfectly centered, which is just fucking irritating. As he moves to the opposite end of the table, a maid—who looks like she’s terrified to even breathe in his presence—glides forward and serves our plates.

The food looks like something out of a gourmet magazine. There’s a perfectly seared piece of sea bass resting on a bed of saffron risotto, accompanied by glazed heirloom carrots and a side of steamed asparagus drizzled in lemon butter. It smells incredible, which only makes me angrier.

Lucien looks at my plate, then at me, his eyes twinkling. "Ophelia, love, eat your veggies. They'll make you stronger. You'll need your strength for all the pouting you're planning to do."

I glare at him, my fork remaining untouched. "I'm not eating a fucking thing until Rhys comes here and breaks your neck for taking me."

Lucien doesn't look bothered. In fact, he looks delighted. He cuts into his fish with surgical precision. "Now, now, let's not be dramatic. I had to kidnap you, darling. It was the only logical choice. I mean, let's be honest—you wouldn't have agreed to come for tea and crumpets on your own, would you? And I need you to make Rhys meet my demands. If I ask nicely, he'll just ignore me. But if I have his favorite little love? Well, then we're talking."

He shrugs, popping a carrot into his mouth. "What other choice did I have? I can't exactly send him a formal invitation via post. 'Dear Rhys, please come to my villa and give me all your secrets, P.S. I've got your girlfriend.' A bit too blunt, don't you think? No?"

"You're a fucking lunatic," I hiss.

"A lunatic with excellent taste in seafood," he corrects me. "Don't look so sad, Snowdrop. The quicker Rhys does what I say, the quicker you'll be back in your dark, moody castle with your psychotic boyfriend. It's a win-win, really."

"Have you even told him?" I ask, my voice tight. "Have you told him you have me?"

"I did," he says casually, sipping a glass of white wine. "While you were still out cold and dreaming of whatever it is you dream about—probably something involving blood and leather, knowing your taste. I sent word the moment you arrived. He knows exactly who has you."

"He's going to burn this whole place to the ground," I tell him, a small spark of hope lighting up in my chest.