Page 67 of Porcelain Grave

"Look at me, Ophelia," he commands, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in my chest.

I look up, my vision blurred.

"That cunt thought she could steal your scent? Thought she could mimic the taste of what belongs to me?" He lets out a sharp, dark laugh that sends a shiver down my spine. "The absolute fucking delusion of it. To think there is any version of you that isn't mine. To think she could ever step into your place."

He leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. His voice drops to a possessive, psychotic whisper.

"You're shaking, my sweet, broken girl. You're absolutely trembling." He slides his hand from my cheek to the back of my neck, gripping me firmly, pulling me flush against his chest. "I'm going to take you home. I'm going to wash every single trace of that bitch off your skin. I'll scrub you clean until you smell of nothing but me again. And then," he pauses, his grip tightening just a fraction, "I'm going to spend the entire night reminding your body exactly who you belong to. I'll mark every inch of you so deeply that even the ghosts will know you're mine."

He kisses my forehead, a gesture that feels both protective and terrifyingly claiming.

"Don't cry another fucking tear for her. She was nothing. A smudge on the landscape. You're the only thing that matters, Ophelia. My beautiful, haunted, cracked little doll."

"I'm taking you home. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Nobody touches you again. You're sleeping in my arms the entire night.”

He wraps his arm around my waist, hauling me tight against his side, effectively shielding me from the sight of the cabin.

"Come on. Let's get you home before I decide to go back in there and resurrect her corpse just to kill her again.”

With that, he has his men head to the cabin to find the body, and he carries me away as Shadows follows us.

Chapter 20

The drive back to the Menagerie is a blur of rain-streaked glass and the suffocating, electric heat of Rhys’s presence beside me. He doesn't say a fucking word the whole way, but his hand is clamped onto my thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to remind me that I’m real, that I’m here, and that I belong to him.

The moment we step through the heavy oak doors of his bedroom, the atmosphere shifts. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood, old books, and that metallic tang of danger that always follows him. He doesn't let me walk; he practically hauls me inside, kicking the door shut with a resounding thud that echoes like a gunshot in the silence of the room.

"Right," he growls, his voice like grinding stones. "Let's get this filth off you."

He doesn't waste a second. He strips me with a frantic, possessive energy, his hands shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of the rage and lust warring inside him. He rips the torn fabric of my dress away, cursing under his breath when a button pops and flies across the room. He doesn't care about the clothes; he only cares about the skin beneath.

He carries me into the bathroom, the cold marble floor a sharp contrast to the heat of his chest. After I brush my teeth and tongue, he doesn't just put me in the shower; he slides in behind me, the water scalding, nearly burning my skin, but I don't flinch. I crave the burn. I want it to drown out the memory of Mary’s touch.

Rhys takes a sponge and a harsh, scented soap, and he begins to scrub. He’s not gentle—not exactly—but it’s a focused, ritualistic kind of care. He scrubs my arms, my legs, and the places where that bitch tried to use to take the taste of me, his eyes dark and obsessive as he watches the soap foam turn grey with the grime of the cabin.

"Every fucking inch," he mutters, his breath hot against my ear. "I can still smell her on you, Ophelia. It’s fucking disgusting. I’m going to scrub you until you’re raw, until there’s nothing left of her but a memory I can burn away."

He spends an eternity on my wrists, my pussy, and my neck, his touch becoming more fervent, more desperate. He’s not just cleaning me; he’s reclaiming me. When he’s satisfied that I’m clean, he turns me around to face him, the water cascading over us both. He looks at me—really looks at me—his eyes scanning every bruise and scrape with a hunger that borders on psychotic.

"Look at you," he whispers, his hand sliding down to cup my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. "My beautiful, ruined little thing. You’re a fucking mess, aren't you?"

He kisses the cuts on my wrists, his tongue licking the raw skin, tasting the salt and the lingering sting. It’s a sickeningly sweet gesture, a mixture of tenderness and absolute madness. I moan, my head falling back against his shoulder, my body finally beginning to unravel.

He doesn't stop there. He leads me back into the bedroom, dripping wet, and throws me onto the black silk sheets. He looms over me, a dark god of obsession, his eyes locked on mine.

"I told you what I was going to do, didn't I?" he asks, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

He doesn't give me time to answer. He descends on me like a predator, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that tastes of desperation and ownership. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a collision. He bites my lip, drawing a tiny bead of blood, and I gasp into his mouth, my fingers clawing at his back.

His hands are everywhere, marking me, bruising me, mapping out the territory that is his and his alone. He grips my hips so hard I know there will be finger-shaped bruises tomorrow, and he doesn't give a fuck. He wants me to feel him. He wants the pain and the pleasure to blur until I can't tell where I end and he begins.

Then, he is on my clit, licking it, flicking, sucking it. He tastes his time, he traces my pussy and everything and though reclaiming it.

"You're mine," he groans, his voice breaking as he rips his own clothes off, revealing his hard, lean body. "Every fucking cell. Every drop of blood. You don't belong to the ghosts, you don't belong to that cunt in the woods... you belong to me."

He enters me with one brutal, possessive thrust that knocks the breath out of my lungs. I scream, but he swallows the sound with another kiss, his body slamming against mine with a relentless, rhythmic violence. It’s not just sex; it’s an exorcism. He’s driving the memory of the cabin out of me, replacing the terror with an overwhelming, suffocating intensity.

He fucks me with a psychotic devotion, his movements hard and merciless, his eyes never leaving mine. He wants to see the moment I break, the moment I completely succumb to him.