Page 49 of Porcelain Grave

I blink, shifting in his lap. The adrenaline is still humming in my veins, and I was craving the sanctuary of our bed, the privacy where he could finally devour me properly without a bodyguard staring at the rearview mirror.

"Wait, why aren't we going home?" I ask, my voice a bit raspy.

A small, dark smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s a tiny thing, but it carries a weight of possessiveness that makes my stomach flip. He likes it. He fucking loves that I called his place home. To him, that word isn't just a location; it's a claim.

"My mother wants to see you," he says, his voice returning to that smooth, haunting velvet. "She’s been... adamant. Quite a persistent woman when she wants something."

My heart skips a beat, but not in the good way. A cold spike of nervousness shoots through me. I know the kind of world Rhys comes from—the legacy of blood and power that built the Castellan name. The thought of facing the woman who birthed this beautiful, psychotic monster makes my skin prickle.

"Your mum?" I mutter, feeling a sudden wave of anxiety. "Now? Like, right fucking now?"

Rhys senses it immediately. He wraps his arm tighter around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest as if to remind me that no matter who is waiting at the Manor, I belong to him.

"Just a quick hello, little doll," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "A courtesy visit to stop her from throwing a fit. We’ll play the part for a bit, and then we can go home and I can spend the rest of the day and night making you forget anyone else even exists."

I chew on my lower lip, glancing out the window at the blurring English countryside. The idea of meeting her is terrifying, but the way Rhys is holding me—like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to this earth—makes me feel like I can handle it.

"Fine," I sigh, nodding reluctantly. "But if she hates me, you're defending me. No matter what."

He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound in his chest. "I’d burn the Manor down with both of us inside before I let her say a word against you."

I lean back into him, letting out a shaky breath. The nervousness is still there, simmering under the surface, but the heat of him drowns it out. I reach up, threading my fingers through his messy hair and pulling his face down to mine.

We sink into a deep, desperate kiss, the kind that tastes of relief and lingering violence. I cling to him, my nails digging into his shoulders, while he holds me with a grip that borders on bruising. We stay like that, locked together in the back of the car, kissing with a feral hunger as we ride toward the Castellan Manor, two broken things heading straight into the lion's den.

We keep kissing, our mouths locked in a desperate, hungry rhythm that makes the rest of the world blur into nothing. It’s all heat and friction, the taste of him filling my senses until the car finally begins to slow. I pull back, breathless and dizzy, my lips swollen, and look out the window.

We’ve reached the perimeter. A massive, ornate iron gate slides smoothly to one side, disappearing into a towering stone pillar draped in ancient, clinging ivy. As we pass through, the driveway stretches out before us—a long, winding ribbon of grey gravel flanked by towering, skeletal oaks that arch overhead like the ribs of some prehistoric beast. The atmosphere is oppressive yet grand, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old money.

Then, the trees break, and the compound opens up. It’s fucking enormous. The Castellan Manor looms ahead of us, a gothic monstrosity of dark stone and jagged spires that seem to pierce the bruised purple of the evening sky. It looks less like a home and more like a fortress designed to keep the world out—or keep something dangerous in.

The car comes to a halt, and before I can even move, Rhys’s men are there, snapping to attention and opening the doors with military precision. Rhys steps out first, his presence commanding the space around him, and then he reaches back, his hand firm and warm as he helps me out of the seat.

I don’t say a fucking word. I just stand there, staring up at the manor. It’s breathtaking and terrifying all at once, with its sweeping gables, narrow windows that look like watchful eyes, and a heavy, brooding silence that clings to the walls.

Rhys doesn't let go of my hand. He laces his fingers with mine, his grip possessive and grounding, as he leads me up the wide stone stairs toward the main entrance. The heavy oak doors swing open, welcoming us into a foyer that feels like a cathedral to excess.

The entrance is a long, echoing hallway lined with polished marble and deep crimson carpets that swallow the sound of our footsteps. On the walls, gold-framed portraits stare down at us—generations of Castellans, all with the same piercing eyes and arrogant tilts to their chins. I spot one that makes me pause: a baby photo of Rhys. He was a stunning child, with wide, innocent eyes and a mop of dark hair, looking far too beautiful and fragile to ever become the psychotic, obsessive man currently holding my hand.

We move further in, entering the living room. It’s a cavernous space, filled with velvet furniture in shades of midnight blue and emerald, a massive fireplace crackling with a low, orange glow.

Meredith Castellan is seated there, looking every bit the matriarch. She’s dressed in a sleek, charcoal-grey silk lounge suit that screams quiet luxury, her posture impeccable. In one hand, she holds a crystal glass of deep red wine; in the other, a leather-bound book.

The moment she hears us, she sets her glass down with a precise clink and stands. She’s a tall woman, possessing the same imposing stature as her son, with a grace that feels almost predatory. “Ophelia,” she smiles at me. “Rhys, honey. You brought her to me.” She glides across the room toward me, her eyes scanning me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink.

Then, she wraps me in a hug. She smells of expensive perfume and old paper.

"You are absolutely beautiful, darling," she murmurs, pulling back to look at me.

I give her a nervous, tight-lipped smile, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Thank you... it's lovely to meet you. Again," I stammer, feeling like a fucking imposter in this house of ghosts and gold.

Meredith turns to Rhys, and the tension softens. They hug, and she presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. It’s a rare glimpse of tenderness from two people who seem built from stone and shadow.

"Sit, please," she commands gently. She glances toward the door and calls out for the butler. "Arthur, bring in the finest vintage. Now."

As the butler arrives, moving like a ghost, he begins to pour the wine into delicate crystal glasses. Meredith watches me over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable.

"Have you two eaten?" she asks. Without waiting for me to answer, she adds, "What should we have the kitchen prepare for you? What do you like, Ophelia?"