Page 60 of Porcelain Grave

It’s a low, vibrating rumble. It sounds like the engine of a massive car idling, a deep, guttural thrum that I can feel vibrating through the floorboards, into Rhys, and into my own bones. I ignore it, figuring it’s just some weird quirk of this gothic castle, and keep sucking on his lower lip as he finally reaches the bed and drops me onto the mattress.

"Fuck, Ophelia," he groans, hovering over me, his eyes dark and manic. "I can't get enough of you. I could spend a fucking eternity just devouring you."

I’m about to pull him back down for more when I feel something. Something heavy. Something warm and slightly damp. It’s a soft, wet pressure right against my forehead, like a giant, sandpaper-textured tongue licking my skin.

I freeze. That isn't Rhys.

And then the sound returns—that heavy, engine-like rumble, but now it’s right next to my ear. A purr. A fucking massive purr.

I snap my eyes open and look up. My heart nearly stops.

Lying right there, draped across the top of my head and shoulders like some demonic velvet blanket, is a huge black jaguar.

"FUCK!" I shriek, jumping so violently that I launch myself upward, my skull colliding with Rhys’s head with a sickening thwack.

"Ow! Bloody hell!" Rhys yells, clutching his forehead and recoiling.

I scramble backward, practically flying off the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I stand there, trembling, pointing a shaking finger at the beast. "Rhys! There is a fucking black panther on your bed! Or is it a leopard! Why the fuck is there a jungle cat in your room?!"

Rhys is still rubbing his head, looking more annoyed at my reaction than the presence of a predator in his linens. "Did you have to move that fucking fast? You've nearly given me a concussion, you mad woman."

I don't give a toss about his head. I’m staring at the creature. It’s magnificent and terrifying. Its fur is a deep, obsidian black—not a flat color, but a shimmering, iridescent midnight that catches the dim light of the room. It’s massive, a wall of pure, lean muscle and power. Its paws are the size of dinner plates, and its eyes—god, those eyes—are piercing, golden-amber orbs that watch me with a calm, terrifying intelligence.

And it is so clean. Like how Rhys always is. Which is my first clue that he owns the beast.

I’m half a second away from bolting out of the room and locking myself in the bathroom when Rhys sighs.

"Relax, Ophelia. He's harmless," he says casually.

He turns to the animal, and my jaw nearly hits the floor. The jaguar doesn't attack; instead, it leans into him, rubbing its massive head against Rhys’s chest and licking his face with a rough tongue. Rhys actually smiles, scratching the beast behind its ears.

"Did you miss sleeping in my bed, you spoiled bastard?" Rhys asks the cat in a tone that's almost... affectionate.

I just stand there, blinking, watching this psychotic display of bonding between a man who likes to destroy people and a cat that could rip my throat out in one bite. It’s the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen.

"Come here," Rhys commands, his voice softening but remaining firm. "He won't hurt you."

I hesitate, my instincts screaming run, but the magnetic pull of Rhys is stronger. I creep forward, stopping at the very edge of the mattress, my toes curling into the carpet. Rhys reaches out, grabs my hand, and firmly places my palm onto the jaguar’s flank.

The animal doesn't snarl. It doesn't even flinch. Instead, it leans into my touch, the heat of its body radiating through its thick, soft fur.

"Do you... do you actually own this thing?" I whisper, my voice trembling.

"I do," Rhys says, a smug glint in his eyes. "I needed some proper male companionship, since most of the men in my life are either useless or trying to kill me."

"His name is Shadow," he adds.

As I pet him, I realize Shadow is just a mirror of Rhys. He’s the man’s shadow in every sense—imposing, territorial, and radiating a silent, deadly confidence. He doesn't need to roar to let you know he's the boss; he just is. He’s protective and calm, but there’s an underlying current of violence in those golden eyes that tells me he’s only behaving because Rhys told him to.

"I wasn't sure how you'd react when you first arrived," Rhys explains, watching me with a predatory softness. "I kept him in another wing, away from you. But it seems Shadow had had enough of being ignored."

He pulls me closer, his arm sliding around my waist. "I imprinted on him at birth. We're linked. And he won't hurt you because I've made sure he knows your scent. That's why he's letting you touch him and why he didn't try to toss you off the bed the moment you landed on his head."

I lean back, looking from the obsidian cat to the obsidian-hearted man. I can't help it; a small, hysterical laugh escapes me.

"Of course," I mutter. "Of course you have a fucking apex predator as a pet. Why the fuck am I even surprised? It's so fucking you to own something that can kill everyone in the room."

Rhys smirks, leaning in to nip at my ear. "What can I say, love? I've always had a taste for the dangerous. And you," he whispers, his hand sliding down to grip my ass, "are the most dangerous thing in this house."