Page 68 of Porcelain Grave

"Tell me," he commands, his voice a guttural snarl as he hammers into me. "Tell me whose you are, you gorgeous little brat."

"Yours!" I sob, my voice cracking, my nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm yours, Rhys! Fuck, please... just don't stop!"

He lets out a dark, triumphant laugh, his pace increasing, his thrusts becoming deeper, more desperate. He’s claiming me, marking me from the inside out, ensuring that every nerve ending in my body is screaming his name.

When he finally peaks, it’s a violent release, his body shuddering against mine as he fills me, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us gasping for air in the wreckage of the sheets. He doesn't pull away. He stays buried inside me, holding me so tight I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs—a frantic, obsessive beat that matches my own.

"There," he whispers, his voice sounding almost peaceful now, though the madness still lingers in the depths of his eyes. "Now you smell like me. Now you taste like me. Now you're home.”

We stay like that for a while, just kissing. It’s slow now, a desperate, clinging sort of heat that tastes like salt and obsession. Every time I think he’s had enough, he pulls me back in, his tongue sliding against mine as if he’s trying to swallow my very soul. I’m completely spent, my limbs feeling like lead, but I can’t get enough of him.

Then, he pulls away. The sudden lack of his heat makes me shiver. I watch him, my eyes heavy, as he stands up and walks across the room to grab his camera. I sit up slowly, completely bare in the dim light. I don't even try to cover myself; there's no point. I'm his.

He walks back toward me, the camera held in his grip like a weapon. He stops at the edge of the bed, his gaze raking over my body with that familiar, psychotic hunger.

"I want to capture this," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough grate. "This exact moment."

I blink, a small, breathless laugh escaping me. "You want to take a fucking picture of me naked, Rhys? Right now?"

He smirks, that dark, arrogant twist of his lips. "Not just naked, Ophelia. Ruined. Marked. Mine. I want to look at this when you're not in the room, to remind myself exactly how you look when you've finally broken for me."

"You're a proper freak, you know that?" I retort, though there's no heat in it. I feel a thrill of excitement shoot through me. I like that he wants to document my descent. I like that he finds the wreckage of me beautiful.

"And you love it, you little brat," he counters, his eyes flashing. "Now, stay still."

I shift, posing for him. I arch my back slightly, letting my hair—a tangled, damp mess of dark strands—spill over my shoulders and across the sheets like ink. I tilt my head back, exposing the raw, reddened skin of my throat where he’s been marking me. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly powerful all at once.

Click.

The flash blinds me for a split second. I jump slightly, my breath hitching.

"Let me see," I demand, reaching for the camera.

He lets me look, holding the screen in front of my face. I stare at the image and feel a surge of something hot and heavy in my gut. I look... haunting. My skin is pale, contrasted against the deep black of the silk. My boobs are pushed up slightly by the way I'm leaning, the nipples dark and peaked from the chill and the lingering arousal. The bruises on my hips and the faint red scratches on my chest look like art—violent, beautiful art. I look like a fallen angel in a den of sin.

"I actually... I fucking love it," I whisper, leaning my head against his chest.

"Of course you do," he says, kissing the top of my head. "But I have something else for you. Something more permanent than a photo."

He leads me out of the bed, and I follow him, barefoot and naked, feeling the cool air on my skin. He leads me to a corner of the room where several large packages are waiting. He begins to unpack them, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.

Charcoal sticks, professional-grade graphite pencils, thick, high-quality sketchbooks with heavy cream paper, tubes of oil paints in every conceivable shade, stretched canvases of all sizes, and two sturdy wooden easels.

"I thought these would suit you better," he says simply, stepping back to look at the hoard of supplies.

I stare at the gear, then up at him, completely bewildered. "How the fuck do you know I draw? I only did it twice."

Rhys steps closer, his hand sliding around the back of my neck, pulling me flush against him. "Ophelia, love... I know everything about you. Every secret, every fear, every little habit you think you've hidden."

He looks at the art supplies, then back to me, his expression unusually earnest. "I want you to draw. I want you to put all that darkness, all those screams in your head, onto a canvas. This is everything you need. And if you run out of a single pencil or a drop of paint, I'll get you more. I'll buy the whole fucking factory if I have to."

He leans in, his breath hot against my skin. "It's the first thing you've ever created instead of just surviving."

The words hit me harder than any of his thrusts. For the first time, I feel seen—not just as a toy or a possession, but as something with a voice.

Suddenly, his phone rings, cutting through the silence. He pulls it out and answers. He barely says two words—just a grunt of acknowledgement—before hanging up. He looks at me, his expression neutral, though his eyes are cold.

"Mary Wells is dead," he says.