Page 50 of Porcelain Grave

I open my mouth to answer, but Rhys beats me to it. His voice is smooth, certain.

"She wants shepherd's pie. Proper one, with plenty of pepper and a burnt crust on the mash," he says.

I freeze, turning to look at him. I almost don't know what to say. I’ve never told him that was my favorite—not explicitly. But then it hits me. The meals he’s provided for me since I’ve been under his thumb... the flavors, the exact way things are seasoned. It wasn't a coincidence. He’s been studying me, mapping out my cravings and my comforts like he maps out the city. He knows me better than I know myself.

Meredith smiles thinly. "And for dessert?"

"Sticky toffee pudding," Rhys answers instantly. "With extra cream."

Meredith turns to me, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Is he right, dear?"

I can't even find my voice. I just nod slowly and bring the wine glass to my lips, the tart liquid burning a path down my throat. I feel exposed, seen in a way that should be terrifying, but instead, it sends a shiver of heat straight to my core.

The butler bows slightly and excuses himself to prepare the meal, leaving me alone with the two most dangerous people I’ve ever met.

Meredith leans back, her eyes tracking me with a curiosity that feels like a dissection. "Tell me about yourself, Ophelia. Your history, your passions... who are you, really?"

I freeze, the wine glass suddenly feeling heavy in my hand. My history? My history is a fucking bloodbath of trauma, ghosts, and madness. I don't even know where to start without sounding like a complete lunatic.

"I... I truly don't like talking about myself," I mutter, my voice small.

I turn to Rhys, looking at him with a desperate, pleading expression, silently begging him to get me out of this spotlight. Up close, he looks fucking immaculate. His jaw is clean-shaven and sharp enough to cut glass, and his hair is styled to perfection, not a single strand out of place. He looks like a king, even if I know he’s a psychotic bastard underneath.

Rhys doesn't even blink. He just glances at his mother, his voice cool and possessive. "You'll know all about Ophelia in due time, Mother."

I let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. He’s got my back, even when he’s being cryptic as fuck. Meredith doesn't push; she simply nods, accepting his answer with a knowing look.

To fill the silence, I let my gaze wander around the room again. My eyes land on a framed photograph on a side table. It’s an older photo—Rhys as a toddler, looking plump and wide-eyed, standing between Meredith and a man who looks like a similar image of the man sitting next to me. Same bone structure, same imposing presence.

"Is that... is that your father?" I ask softly.

The moment the words leave my lips, the air in the room shifts. It’s like the temperature drops ten degrees in a heartbeat. The atmosphere becomes heavy, suffocating, charged with a sudden, sharp tension.

Meredith turns to look at Rhys. I can't see exactly what she sees in his eyes, but whatever it is, it gives her the green light to continue.

"That is Rhys's father," she says, her voice devoid of any warmth. "He died five years ago. It was well overdue for him."

A chill runs down my spine. The way she says it—not with sadness, but with a cold, hard satisfaction—tells me everything I need to know. I glance at Rhys, then back to Meredith.

"He wasn't a good person, was he?" I venture.

Meredith shakes her head slowly, a flicker of something dark crossing her face. "I did my best to shield Rhys from his cruelty," she admits, "but he completely deserved what came to him."

I don't ask for details. In this house, "deserving what came to him" usually involves a lot of blood and a shallow grave. I reach over and squeeze Rhys’s hand, my fingers locking with his. He squeezes back, his grip tight, almost bruising.

"I have a gift for you, darling," Meredith says suddenly, breaking the gloom. "I'll be right back."

She stands up and glides out of the room, the rhythmic click-clack of her heels echoing against the marble floor as she disappears down the hall.

The second she's gone, Rhys leans in. I feel his hot breath against my skin before I feel his lips. He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the sensitive curve of my neck, his stubble-free skin smooth against mine.

"Meredith adores you," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating growl that makes my toes curl.

"Rhys, stop it," I whisper, though I'm leaning into him. "You shouldn't be kissing my neck right now. It’s fucking inappropriate to get me aroused while your mother is fetching a present."

He chuckles, a dark, amused sound, and nips at my earlobe. "Since when do I give a toss about what's appropriate, love?"

"Since we're in your mother's living room, you absolute menace," I hiss, though my heart is racing and a familiar heat is pooling between my thighs.