Page 55 of Porcelain Grave

I feel my orgasm rip through me, a violent, shaking convulsion that leaves me breathless and broken. He cums inside me with a force that feels like he’s pouring his entire soul into my womb. We collapse together into the black roses, our blood mingling on the petals, our breath coming in synchronized, ragged gasps.

We lie there in the dark, shredded, bruised, and completely insane, two broken pieces of a puzzle that finally fit together in the most violent way possible.

I’m back at Rhys’s place, the silence of the house feeling heavy and expectant, like the walls themselves are breathing in sync with us. I’ve wandered into his bathroom, the air still smelling of his expensive cologne and something metallic, something dark.

My eyes drift to the mirror next to the shower. Every single time I’ve been in this room, I’ve avoided it. Not just because I didn’t want to see myself, it’s always been covered. A heavy, velvet black cloth draped over the glass, hiding whatever truth lay beneath. Rhys always kept it that way. He’s always been the one to control what I see, how I see myself.

Today, the curiosity is a fucking itch I can't stop scratching.

I walk over to it, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic little bird trapped in a cage. I reach up, my fingers trembling slightly, and grip the edge of the black fabric. With one slow, deliberate tug, I pull it down. The cloth hits the floor with a muted thud, leaving me exposed.

I freeze.

For a long moment, I just stare. The woman in the mirror is a stranger and my oldest friend all at once. My long black hair is a tangled, wild mess, clinging to my damp skin. My ice-blue eyes look back at me, wide and haunted, shimmering with a mixture of terror and an addictive, psychotic devotion. My skin is pale—deathly pale—making everything else on my body pop in vivid, violent detail.

I look down, tracing the map of Rhys’s obsession etched into my flesh.

The thorn cuts from the garden are thin, angry red lines that crisscross my shoulders, my breasts, and my thighs. Some are still weeping slightly, small beads of crimson standing out against the white of my skin. And then there are the marks he left—the deep, purple-black hickeys that look like bruises, the ghost of his handprints clamped around my waist and thighs, the skin there still flushed and tender.

I look at my entire naked body, and I don't feel disgust. I don't feel shame. I don't feel fear. I don't feel ghost.

I feel claimed.

A shiver runs down my spine, and it isn't from the cold. Seeing the wreckage of myself—the physical evidence of how he’s broken me and put me back together in his own twisted image—makes my stomach flip in the most erotic way possible. I look like a fucking disaster, a beautiful, ruined thing, and the realization makes me want to sink to my knees and beg for more. I’m not just his lover; I’m his canvas, and he’s painting me in pain and pleasure.

I turn away from the mirror and step into the shower, twisting the handle until the water is scalding.

The moment the hot spray hits me, I hiss, my muscles locking up. The water stings the open cuts from the roses, a sharp, biting heat that makes my skin prickle. But I don't move. I stand there, eyes closed, feeling the water run down my scalp, over my face, and cascading down my scarred body. The pain is a grounding wire, a reminder that I’m alive, that I’m here, and that I belong to a man who loves the blood as much as the skin.

Then, through the steam and the roar of the water, I see him.

I open my eyes and look back into the mirror. Rhys is there, stepping into the shower behind me. He doesn't say a word at first. He just stands there, the water running through his naked body—I can't tell through the mist—but his eyes are locked onto mine in the reflection. Those dark, predatory eyes are wide, unhinged, and filled with a hunger that could swallow the world whole.

He moves closer, his chest pressing against my back, the heat of his body rivaling the temperature of the water. He reaches around, his large, calloused hands beginning to caress my body with a slow, possessive deliberation.

His fingers trace a long, jagged cut on my ribs, his touch light but firm. I gasp, leaning back into him, my head resting on his shoulder.

"Look at you," he rasps, his voice a low, guttural vibration that echoes in my chest. "Look at what we made, Ophelia."

He slides his hand up to my breast, his thumb brushing over a thorn prick on the nipple, causing a jolt of electricity to shoot straight to my core. I moan, my eyes fluttering shut, but he nudges my chin, forcing me to look back at the mirror.

"Don't close your eyes. I want you to see it," he whispers, his lips grazing my ear. "I fucking love these wounds. Every cut, every bruise, every scar... they're the marks of my devotion. They tell the world that you've been touched by madness. That you've been touched by me."

His grip tightens on my waist, his fingers digging into the bruises he left earlier, and I let out a broken sob of pleasure. He isn't just loving me; he's worshipping the damage. He's in love with the ruin he's created, and God help me, looking at my reflection in his arms, I've never felt more beautiful in my entire fucking life.

Rhys doesn’t just want me to see the damage; he wants me to witness the act of being claimed all over again. His hands, large and bruising, slide from my waist to my shoulders, and with a sudden, forceful shove, he slams me forward.

My palms smack against the cold glass of the mirror with a wet slap. The contrast is fucking electric—the scalding water hitting my back and the freezing mirror against my skin. I gasp, my breath fogging up the glass, and I look up to see him. He’s looming behind me, a dark, predatory silhouette in the steam, his eyes burning with a psychotic intensity that makes my knees shake.

"Hold onto it, Ophelia," he commands, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Grip the fucking glass. I want you to see every single thing I do to you."

I obey instantly, my fingers splaying across the mirror, clutching the edges as if it's the only thing keeping me upright. He doesn't give me a second to breathe. He reaches down, grabbing my hips with a grip that’ll definitely leave more bruises, and yanks my backside out, forcing me to arch my spine and stick my ass out for him.

"Look at yourself," he hisses, his breath hot against my neck. "Look at how you're begging for it. Look at how open you are for me.

I look. I fucking look. In the reflection, I see my pale skin flushed red from the heat, the thorn cuts weeping, and my ass pushed back, trembling and ready. I’m sore—God, I’m so fucking sore from the last time he had me—but the sight of him behind me, his hard cock pressing against my entrance, makes me crave it with a desperation that borders on insanity. I don't want him to be gentle. I want him to ruin me.

"Rhys... please," I whimper, my voice breaking.