Page 65 of Porcelain Grave

The coldness of her tone sends a shiver down my spine, but the fear for myself is eclipsed by a sudden, sharp spike of dread for Amara.

"Where is Amara?" I rasp, my voice sounding like I’ve swallowed broken glass. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

Mary tilts her head, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips. "Oh, the little helper. I simply caught her on her way to you. A quick blow to the head—nothing too permanent, though she’s quite a clumsy thing. I used her phone to send you that little invitation, then I dragged her deeper into the woods and smashed the device into a thousand pieces. She's... resting."

I let out a shaky breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. The bitch is a monster.

"The only reason I didn't kill you right on the spot when I saw you today," Mary continues, stepping closer, her green eyes scanning me with an intensity that feels like a physical touch, "is because I want to know. I want to know exactly what you have."

I frown, my confusion momentarily overriding the terror. I don't understand what the fuck she's talking about. I don't say a word, though; I just glare at her, my jaw clenched.

Mary sighs, a sound of genuine frustration, and begins to pace the small, dusty room. "I did everything," she spits, her composure cracking just enough to let the obsession bleed through. "I gave Rhys everything. I gave him my body, my heart, my fucking soul. I worshipped him in ways you couldn't possibly comprehend. And he rejected me. He looked right through me as if I were nothing."

She stops and looms over me, her face twisting into a mask of hatred. "I am from a noble family. I am well-educated, refined, a woman of standing. I am everything a man of his stature should want. But he didn't see that. Not once."

She leans down, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of peppermint and something metallic.

"But then there's you," she sneers, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "The daughter of the town drunk. The spawn of a lowly, pathetic toymaker. A piece of gutter trash from the slums of Whitby. Tell me, you little slut... what the fuck is so special about you?”

I don’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. I just stare at her, my chest heaving, my eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and pure, unadulterated terror. I can see the gears turning in her head, the psychotic machinery of her mind clicking into place.

"I'm going to find out," Mary whispers, her voice devoid of any warmth. "I'm going to find out exactly how you taste, you little brat. And then I'll change myself. I'll mold myself until I taste just like you."

I have no fucking clue what she’s talking about—until she lunges.

She grabs my face with a grip like iron, her fingers digging into my cheeks, and slams her mouth onto mine. I freeze for a split second in sheer shock before the revulsion hits me like a freight train. I clamp my mouth shut, teeth gritted, fighting her with everything I have. I twist my head violently from side to side, shaking and struggling against the ropes, trying to buck her off me. I’m gagging, the smell of her peppermint breath turning into something cloying and sick.

Finally, she pulls away, leaving me gasping for air.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" I scream, my voice cracking. "You're a fucking lunatic!"

"I am NOT crazy!" she shrieks back, her face contorting, the mask of nobility finally shattering to reveal the monster underneath. "Don't you dare call me crazy! I refuse to be called that again. I will get your taste all over me. Rhys will love me just as much as he loves you—no, more—and soon, I'll be the only one he sees!"

I watch in horror as she begins to undress. I snap my head away, staring at the peeling wallpaper, but I can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of her clothes hitting the dusty floor. She’s fully naked now. I can feel the mattress shift as she climbs onto the bed, her skin cold against mine.

She points at some marks on her thigh. I can't even tell how many there are. “These are little tally marks I carved into my own thigh every time I killed one of Rhys’s lovers. You'll be the last one.”

That is insane, even for me. And I don't even want to know how many of those tally marks there are because I don't want to know how many women Rhys has been with before me.

Suddenly, she reaches down and shoves my dress up to my waist. I start panicking, thrashing my limbs, pulling against the ropes until the coarse fibers bite deep into my skin. I don't care about the pain; I just need to get away from her. I pull and strain until I feel the skin on my wrists tear, blood slicking the ropes, but I'm still trapped.

Mary doesn't care. She reaches for a knife on the bedside table and, with one swift, clinical motion, slices my knickers right off me. Before I can even scream, she bunches the fabric up and stuffs it deep into my mouth, gagging me.

Then, she leans down.

I feel her tongue—hot and wet—hit my clit. A muffled scream rips through my throat, vibrating against the fabric in my mouth. I try to arch my back, to kick, to do anything to stop this violation, but I'm pinned.

"You actually taste quite good," she murmurs against my skin, her voice sounding hungry, predatory.

I am repulsed. Every nerve in my body is screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s not just kissing me; she’s consuming me, licking and sucking at my pussy with a desperate, starving intensity. She’s assaulting me, treating my body like a fucking recipe she's trying to memorize. She keeps the knife gripped in her hand, the cold steel occasionally brushing against my thigh, a reminder that she owns my life in this moment.

"So sweet," she moans, her voice thick. "So fucking sweet."

She finally pulls back, licking her lips with a look of triumph. "Yes... I must taste like this."

She straddles me, her weight pressing me into the stained mattress. I shake my head frantically, tears blurring my vision, pleading with my eyes for her to stop. But she’s gone. She’s completely lost to her own madness. She begins to rub her pussy against mine, a wet, sliding friction that makes my skin crawl. She moans loudly, the sound echoing in the small, dead room.

Her hands reach up, squeezing my breasts hard enough to leave bruises. "They look so good too," she pants. "I wonder what they taste like..."