Page 7 of Porcelain Grave

I feel a small, genuine smile tug at my lips. “You’re a complete lunatic, you know that?”

"And you're my favorite kind of broken," he replies, brushing his thumb across my cheek.

I reach up, touching the cool metal of the ornament. "What the fuck is this, exactly? A crown for the Queen of the Damned?"

He chuckles, that dark sound that always makes my skin prickle. "It's a symbol, Ophelia. A mark of who you belong to. A ring is a promise, but this... this is a bond. It's a black halo.”

My heart skips a beat.

"Whenever you're afraid... hold it. Whenever you are in trouble. Wherever you need me, wherever you are, hold it in your hands, close your eyes, think of me. I'll find you."

I look at him, a playful spark hitting me despite the gloom. "I've always wanted a guardian angel," I tease.

Rhys's expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken. "I'm no angel, love."

"Then what are you?" I whisper, leaning into him. "The devil?"

His grip on my waist tightens, pulling me flush against him. "The devil negotiates, Ophelia. I don't."

I shiver, the heat of him radiating through my gown. "And how does this thing even work? Is it some kind of magic?"

"In a way," he says, his voice turning serious, almost commanding.

"Hold it in both hands."

I laugh. "And then?"

"Think of me."

"That's it?"

"That's all."

"How will you know?"

He smiles. "I always know.”

"All you have to do is hold it in your hands and think of me. Wherever you are, in whatever hell you find yourself in, I will find you. I will always find you." He leans in, his lips grazing my ear. "So, swear to me. Swear you'll never take it off."

"I swear," I breathe, the word feeling like a contract signed in blood.

We spend the rest of the hour exploring the garden, walking hand-in-hand through the silence. We pass the veiled statues and the weeping willows, the only sound being the distant, ghostly echo of the carnival below.

The halo feels strange on my head—not heavy, but present. It feels like a weight and a shield all at once. Every time I catch a glimpse of my shadow on the marble paths, I see the silhouette of the halo, and for the first time, I don't feel the urge to run. I feel claimed. I feel seen.

As we walk, I realize that in this garden of mourning, I'm not grieving for the people I lost. I'm just existing in the orbit of the man who destroyed my world only to rebuild it in his own twisted image. And God help me, I fucking love it.

Chapter 3

The air in the castle changes the moment Rhys leads me through the back door. It gets colder, damp, smelling of ancient stone and something metallic—like old blood and wet iron. We descend a set of narrow, winding stairs that plunge us deep into the belly of the place, emerging into a dark, oppressive hallway where the only light comes from flickering torches that cast dancing, skeletal shadows against the walls.

We pass several heavy wooden doors, the silence of the corridor broken only by the rhythmic click of Rhys’s boots. Finally, we stop. A guard stands outside the last door, his face a mask of indifference. He doesn't even dare to look Rhys in the eye; he just steps aside with a hurried, subservient motion, as if being in Rhys's line of sight is a death sentence.

Rhys unlocks the door with a slow, deliberate turn of the key and pushes it open. I follow him inside, and my heart stops.

There he is. Thomas. My father.

The room is a fucking hole—a concrete cell with moisture seeping through the walls and a single, dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. He’s chained against the far wall, his arms yanked upward by rusted shackles that bite into his wrists. He looks pathetic. Filthy, gaunt, his clothes reduced to rags stained with grime and god-knows-what. He’s blindfolded and gagged, his chest heaving in shallow, terrified spurts.