Page 58 of Porcelain Grave

The gunshot is deafening, painting the trees and the mud in a spray of red and grey. The man's head snaps back, his body twitching once, twice, and then falling limp.

I stand back, breathing hard, my chest heaving. I look at the carnage—the blood, the gore, the shattered remains of a man who thought a few prayers could erase a lifetime of sin. I feel a wave of intense, electric arousal wash over me.

I turn to Rhys, my mask still glowing, and lean into him. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my blood-splattered body against his.

"Well done, love," he murmurs, kissing the side of my mask. "Absolutely fucking brilliant.”

We leave the gore and the stench of that pathetic cunt behind in the mud. The masks, the axe, and the gun are discarded, left to the shadows of the woods as Rhys leads me toward the neon-soaked darkness of the Midnight Menagerie. The transition is jarring—from the silence of a murder to the distant, distorted music and screams of the carnival.

I walk close to him, my heels clicking against the pavement, feeling the lingering adrenaline humming in my veins. I glance up at him, my voice a bit breathless. "Where the fuck are we going, Rhys?"

He doesn't look at me, but I can hear the smirk in his voice, that low, predatory rumble that always makes my stomach flip. "Somewhere, love, where I can give you both fear and pleasure in equal measure."

My heart hammers against my ribs. With Rhys, that's usually a promise of something absolutely mental.

He stops abruptly in front of the ferris wheel, and I just stare. It’s not some bright, tacky piece of carnival machinery painted in primary colors. This thing is a gothic monstrosity of black wrought iron, towering into the midnight sky like a skeletal hand reaching for the moon. The gondolas aren't open buckets; they're enclosed Victorian cages, lined with deep crimson velvet seats that look like they belong in a haunted opera house. It turns almost silently, a slow, ghostly rotation that feels more like a ritual than a ride. Only one or two cabins are occupied, leaving the rest to sway like empty coffins in the breeze.

As we approach, I notice the crowd. People are lined up, but as soon as we step into view, the atmosphere shifts. I see women fanning themselves as they eye Rhys up and down, their eyes wide, whispering frantically behind their hands. I brace myself for the usual—the sneers, the whispers of 'freak' or 'madgirl' that I get from the locals in Whitby.

But it doesn't happen.

"Look at her dress... absolutely stunning," one woman hisses to her friend.

"God, she's so lucky," another whispers, her gaze darting between me and Rhys. "To actually get thee Ringmaster... he's easily the hottest thing in this entire fucking carnival."

I freeze, my brow furrowing. Ringmaster? Who the fuck is the Ringmaster? I glance at Rhys, who is walking with that effortless, arrogant stride, completely unfazed by the attention. Is that him? Is that what they call him in his kingdom?

We don't even bother with the queue. Rhys breezes past the line of people as if they’re nothing more than ghosts. The operator running the wheel doesn't even wait for him to open his mouth; he snaps to attention, his face pale.

"The carriage is ready as ordered, boss," the man says, his voice shaking slightly.

He engages the mechanism, and the wheel groans softly, bringing a specific carriage down to the platform. Unlike the others, this one is shielded by black stained glass instead of clear windows, turning the interior into a private, obsidian sanctuary.

Rhys reaches out, his hand firm on the small of my back, and helps me into the carriage. As the door clicks shut, sealing us away from the world, I instinctively reach for the safety belt, clicking it into place with a sharp snap. Outside, I can hear the muffled sounds of other passengers being loaded into the remaining cages.

I lean back into the velvet, looking up at him. "You should've warned me we were going on the fucking ferris wheel, Rhys."

He arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "What's this? Is my brave little doll afraid of heights?"

"Not always," I mutter, glancing through the dark glass as the carriage begins to lift, the ground dropping away with dizzying speed. "Just when it's this fucking high."

I look over at him and realize he’s just standing there, leaning against the ornate ironwork, completely unrestrained. "Why aren't you wearing your safety belt? We're going to be meters up."

Rhys steps closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the cramped, velvet-lined space. He reaches out, his fingers grazing my jaw, tilting my head back so I have to look into those obsessive, psychotic eyes.

"There's no need for the safety belts, love," he purrs, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet whisper. "Because the moment this wheel starts to spin, I'm going to fuck you."

My breath hitches, a sharp, electric jolt of arousal slamming through me so hard my toes curl. My heart isn't racing because of the height anymore; it's racing because of him. A dizzying mix of terror and desperate want floods my system. I feel my pussy clench, instantly soaking my knickers, the thought of being hammered into the velvet while suspended in the air making my head spin.

I let out a shaky, half-broken laugh, my hands gripping the edges of the seat. "You're a fucking lunatic, Rhys."

"And you love every second of it," he whispers, his hand sliding down from my face to grip my thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise.

I lean into him, my voice a needy whimper. "Then I'll wait for you to fucking do it.”

"I can't fucking wait," Rhys growls, his voice a low, vibrating threat that settles deep in my gut.

He stands there for a moment, just listening. I can hear the muffled sounds of the other passengers being loaded into the cages around us—the distant laughter, the chatter of people who have no fucking clue that a monster is currently stalking me in a velvet-lined box. Then, with a heavy, mechanical groan, the wheel begins to move.