Page 52 of Porcelain Grave

I let out a sharp, dry laugh. "No. It was more like... he broke me further, then put together the tight little pieces I had left."

Meredith doesn't look shocked. She doesn't pity me. Instead, a small, knowing smile touches her lips. "Then he knows exactly how you're made," she replies softly. "The Castellans don't do 'fixing,' darling. We just rebuild things into something stronger. Something more dangerous."

As we keep walking, I spot it. A garden. But not some colorful, cheerful shite. It’s a sea of black roses.

I stop dead, staring. They’re stunning—various shades of darkness. In the fading light, some look like the deepest burgundy or a crimson so dark it’s practically ebony. Others are just... black. Pure, haunting black.

Meredith notices me gaping. She smiles, a thin, elegant expression. "Rhys has been gifting you my flowers again."

I blink, confused. "Gifting?"

"Every black rose you've ever received came from my garden."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly, dozens of moments flash through my head—every single time he’d appeared with one of those dark blooms. I’d always just assumed he bought them. I mean, this is Whitby, the fucking Dracula town; you can probably find a goth florist on every street corner selling "vampire roses" to tourists.

"I've always wondered where you got them," I mutter, feeling a strange flutter in my chest.

"I planted the first bush before Rhys was born," she says, leading me closer to the blooms. She points to a particularly thick, gnarled bush. "These bushes are older than Rhys himself."

She tells me then that Rhys has never given these roses to anyone else. Not a single one. Until me.

I’m stunned. The thought of it makes my stomach flip. He didn't just stop at some shop on his way to see me. He came home. He went into his mother’s garden, carefully chose a bloom, cut it himself, and brought it to me as a trophy. It wasn't an aesthetic choice for the Menagerie; it was a piece of his home, his family history, offered up to me.

"I planted those bushes just before my water broke," Meredith adds, her voice nostalgic. "After he could walk, tending those roses became something Rhys and I always did together."

She looks at me with a softness that feels genuine. "You were the first girl he ever cut one for."

I frown, looking at the dark petals. "Why would Rhys give me black roses, though? It can't just be because you grow them."

Meredith actually laughs—a light, melodic sound. "You're asking the wrong Castellan. But if I could answer... it's because red roses are for ordinary love stories." She pauses, her gaze intensifying. "Yours with Rhys was never going to be ordinary."

The realization settles in. Every flower wasn't just a gift; it was a ritual. A deliberate, quiet act of devotion from a man who doesn't know how to be "normal."

Meredith leads me through the greenhouse, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and floral decay. She gestures to the rows of obsidian blooms. "These are yours now. Pick as many as you like."

The weight of that offer hits me. Rhys has always brought me one rose at a time—a slow, steady drip of obsession. For his mother to offer me the entire garden... it’s like she’s handing me the keys to the kingdom.

"You're family now," she says.

I don't even think. I just lean in and hug her, squeezing tight. When I pull away, I turn back to the roses, feeling a surge of affection for that psychotic man. He’s been returning to this spot, over and over, just to bring me a piece of his world.

“Can I ask you something, Meredith?”

“Anything.”

I turn to her. “When was Rhys born?”

She smiles and caresses my cheek with the back of her fingers and whispers, “November 21st, 1996.”

I pause and think. It's not too far away.

"I have to check on something," Meredith says with a nod, leaving me alone in the quiet of the greenhouse.

I wander through the rows, my fingers brushing the velvet petals. Then, suddenly, I feel strong arms wrap around my waist from behind. I don't even need to look to know it's him. I can smell his scent—expensive cologne, old books, and a hint of something metallic.

I lean back into his chest, looking at a rose. "Why the roses?" I ask.

Rhys leans in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a shiver straight to my thighs. "They're impossible," he growls.