Page 63 of Porcelain Grave

Amara.

I sit up abruptly, my hair falling in a messy curtain around my face. My heart gives a little thump. Did Rhys Castellan actually save her number in here for me? Or is this just a way for him to keep tabs on who I’m talking to? Regardless, the urge to hear a voice that isn't Rhys's—or the silence of the Menagerie—is overwhelming.

I press the call button, my finger trembling slightly. I hold the phone to my ear, listening to the ringing. Each tone feels like a heartbeat. Then, there's a click, and a voice filters through—sharp, familiar, and sounding a bit stressed.

"Hello?"

"Hello," I whisper, my voice sounding small even to me.

There’s a pause on the other end. "Who is this?"

"It's me. It's Ophelia."

For a second, there is absolute silence. Then, Amara lets out a scream so loud I actually pull the phone away from my ear, wincing. "Ophelia?! Are you fucking kidding me? You've got a mobile already?!"

I can't help it; I burst out laughing. The sound feels foreign in my throat, but it's genuine. "Yeah, Rhys got me one. A present."

"A present? Since when does that posh man give presents that aren't blood-stained or creepy?" Amara’s voice softens, though the shock is still there. "God, Ophelia... the last time I saw you, some rich prick had kidnapped you. I thought you were fucking dead or worse."

I lean back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling where I know that camera is still watching. "Yeah, well... that was one of Rhys's enemies. A right piece of shit."

"Are you alright? Truly?" Amara asks, and I can hear the genuine worry bleeding through. "I mean, are you actually okay being with a man like him? It seems like danger just fucking follows you whenever you're in his orbit. He's... he's a lot, Ophelia. He's dangerous."

I bite my lip, thinking about the bruises he leaves and the way he claims every inch of me. "I'm okay, Amara. Really. He found me not too long after. He... he takes care of me. In his own twisted way."

"I just miss you, you little girl," Amara sighs, her tone turning fond. "I've spent half my time wondering if you were rotting in a cellar somewhere or if you'd actually managed to escape that madman."

A wave of longing hits me. I need something normal. I need a friend who doesn't want to possess my soul or carve their name into my skin.

"Listen," I say, my voice gaining a bit of strength. "Come to the carnival gate. Right now. We can hang out here, and I can actually show you my face so you know I'm not a ghost."

"The Menagerie?" Amara asks, though I can hear the excitement building. "Fuck it, why not? It's my off day anyway. I'm on my way, love. Don't let that lunatic lock you in the tower before I get there."

"I'll try my best," I giggle.

"See you soon. Bye!"

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a moment, a small, triumphant smile on my lips. I look over at Shadow, who lets out a long yawn, showing off those terrifying teeth.

"I've got a visitor, Shadow," I whisper.

I glance back at the camera in the ceiling. Rhys is probably watching, probably seething or amused that I'm bringing someone into his sanctuary. I don't care. For a few hours, I am not just the 'ruined little doll' he loves so much. Although I feel like no matter where I go, I always will be.

I step into the shower, letting the steaming water scald my skin. I clean myself for a few good minutes.

I step out, dripping and shivering, and wrap myself in a plush, oversized black bathrobe that smells faintly like Rhys and I. It’s far too big for me, making me feel small and fragile, but the softness is a luxury I’m still getting used to.

I walk over to the vanity for the first time. It’s a stunning piece of Victorian craftsmanship, all dark, carved mahogany and ornate swirls that look like frozen smoke. I reach out and swing open the mirrored cabinet, and for a heartbeat, I freeze. I expect to see them. I expect my sisters to be standing behind me, their faces covered in blood, their eyes hollow and haunting. I expect my mother to be there.

But there’s nothing. Just me. Pale, wide-eyed, and hauntingly alone.

I sit down on the velvet stool, staring at the array of makeup Rhys bought for me. He’s a psychotic bastard, but he has a fucking eye for quality. I’ve never done this before, but I start tentatively. I apply a primer that feels like silk, then a foundation that evens out my pale skin. I use a dark, smoky eyeshadow, blending the charcoal and deep plums around my lids to give myself a sunken, gothic look—something that matches the darkness in my head. I line my eyes with a sharp, black wing, making my gaze look predatory, and finish it off with a deep, blood-red lipstick that makes my mouth look like a fresh wound.

I spend an hour on my hair, brushing out the tangles until it falls in heavy, obsidian waves down my back. I feel like a doll being painted, a masterpiece created by a madman.

Finally, I reach for the jewelry. I clasp the necklace around my throat—heavy, cold metal that feels like a collar—and carefully place the black halo upon my head. I lean in close to the mirror, staring into my own pupils. No ghosts. No screaming spirits. Just Ophelia. I look like a fallen angel, a ruined thing made beautiful.

I walk over to the closet, where Rhys has curated a wardrobe that is essentially a collection of high-fashion mourning wear. I pick out a dress that’s a masterpiece of black lace and silk, clinging to my curves like a second skin, with a high collar and a skirt that flares slightly at the bottom. I slide into a pair of pointed black heels that make me feel tall and dangerous.