Page 51 of Porcelain Grave

"The risk makes it better," he whispers, his hand sliding down to grip my thigh, squeezing firmly. "Does it? Does the thought of her walking back in and catching us make you wet, Ophelia?"

"You're a fucking deviant," I breathe, my head tilting back to give him more access.

"And you love every second of it."

Just as he's about to slide his hand further up, the sound of heels returns. I practically jump, shoving Rhys’s hand away from my body and straightening my dress in one frantic motion. I'm breathless, my cheeks flushed, hoping to god Meredith can't tell I was seconds away from begging him to fuck me right there on the velvet sofa.

Meredith returns, carrying a small, exquisite black box. It’s made of polished ebony, inlaid with intricate silver filigree that looks like twisting vines and thorns. It’s heavy and dark, fitting perfectly into the gothic aesthetic of the manor.

She sits down beside me, the scent of her perfume enveloping me again. "I want you to have this, Ophelia."

She flips the lid open, and I catch my breath.

Inside, resting on a bed of deep crimson velvet, is a collection of Victorian mourning jewelry. It is hauntingly beautiful and obscenely expensive. There is a heavy brooch made of jet and gold, featuring a delicately carved skull surrounded by tiny, shimmering diamonds. Beside it lies a ring—a thick band of black onyx with a small, transparent compartment on top, containing a meticulously braided lock of human hair. There's also a necklace of black pearls and carved jet beads, with a pendant shaped like a weeping willow, crafted from the darkest obsidian I've ever seen.

It’s macabre, dark, and breathtakingly elegant. It’s the kind of jewelry designed to celebrate death, and as I stare at the shimmering black stones, I realize it’s the most perfect gift anyone has ever given me.

I stare at the jewelry, my heart hammering against my ribs. It’s breathtaking, yeah, but it’s also fucking morbid. I mean, a lock of someone's dead hair in a ring? A skull brooch? It’s the most twistedly beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and for a second, I actually recoil.

"I... I can't take this, Meredith," I stammer, shaking my head. "This is way too much. It's... it's far too expensive. And a bit... well, a bit grim, isn't it?"

I feel a sudden surge of panic, a flicker of the old Ophelia who didn't belong in rooms like this, surrounded by people who treat death like a fashion statement. I try to push the box back toward her, my palms sweating. I don't know why I'm resisting; it's not like I'm some fucking saint. My life is a goddamn graveyard. But there's something about the weight of it—the history and the darkness—that feels like a brand.

Meredith doesn't move the box. She just looks at me, her expression unreadable but firm. "Ophelia, darling, you don't understand. This isn't just jewelry. It's a testament to what remains when everything else is stripped away. It suits you. You have a darkness in you that recognizes this."

I glance at Rhys. He’s watching me with those predatory, obsessive eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He knows I’m lying to myself. He knows I love the macabre.

"Take it, love," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that settles right in my gut. "Embrace it. You're one of us now."

That’s the clincher. One of us. The feeling of belonging, even to something as fucked up as the Castellan legacy, is a drug I can't resist. I swallow hard, my resistance crumbling like wet paper. I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly as I touch the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian pendant.

"Alright," I breathe, a shiver of excitement racing down my spine. "I'll take it. Thank you."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel a strange sense of acceptance, as if by accepting the jewelry, I'm officially signing my soul over to this gothic nightmare. And honestly? I'm fucking here for it.

Meredith smiles—a thin, sharp expression—and reaches into the box. "Let me," she says.

She leans in and fastens the black pearl and obsidian necklace around my throat. It rests next to the necklace of the carnival that Rhys gave me. The stones are ice-cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from Rhys's body next to me. The weight of the weeping willow pendant rests right against my collarbone, feeling like a heavy, dark anchor. I feel marked. I feel like I'm wearing a collar of grief and elegance, and it makes me feel powerful in a way I can't explain.

I catch my reflection in a nearby mirror—pale skin, wide blue eyes, and this haunting black ornament clinging to my neck. I look like a gothic doll, a piece of art for Rhys to possess.

Just as I'm admiring the dark shimmer of the obsidian, the heavy oak doors creak open. The butler stands there, his face a mask of professional indifference.

"Later lunch is served in the dining hall, Madam. Master Rhys, Miss Ophelia," he announces in a dry, monotone drone.

I take one last look at the mourning jewelry in the box, then at Rhys, who is looking at me with a hunger that has nothing to do with the meal waiting for us. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.

"You look fucking exquisite in black, Ophelia," he growls. "Almost makes me want to skip the 3 PM late lunch and eat you instead.”

The sun is starting to dip, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep oranges that match the mood of this fucking place. I’m walking through the backyard with Meredith, our arms linked. She’s tall, poised, and has this way of moving that makes me feel like a clumsy brat, but there’s a warmth to her that I didn't expect.

"I never thought my Rhys would be the type to bring home a woman he loves," she says, her voice smooth, almost like a confession. She stops for a second, turning her head to look at me. "Do you love him, Ophelia?"

I don't even have to think about it. I just nod, my throat feeling a bit tight. "I do," I whisper.

I love him more than I’ve ever admitted, even to myself in the middle of the night when I'm shaking from everything he's put me through. The man is a fucking lunatic, a possessive, psychotic bastard, but he found me when I was in a hole so deep I couldn't see the light. No one else in this godforsaken world would have bothered to reach down and pull me out.

Meredith watches me, her eyes searching mine. "Did he unbreak you, then?"