Page 70 of Porcelain Grave

One of his hands leaves my waist, his long fingers tracing the edge of the canvas, hovering just inches from the charcoal lines. He isn't looking at me; he's staring at the shattered doll with an intensity that feels almost voyeuristic, like he’s seeing into the deepest, most fucked-up parts of my soul.

"You've got a real fucking talent for the macabre, love," he murmurs, his grip tightening around my middle, pulling me so close I can feel every muscle in his thighs through those sweatpants. "Most people are too scared to look at the cracks. But you... you lean right into the wreckage, don't you?"

I lean my head back against his shoulder, closing my eyes. It’s a strange feeling—being praised for the things that usually make me want to scream. With anyone else, this drawing would be a red flag, a sign of a mental collapse. With Rhys, it’s a goddamn masterpiece.

"It's just a doll, Rhys," I mutter, though my voice is shaky, lacking any real conviction.

"It's not just a doll, Ophelia," he chuckles, the sound dark and possessive. He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me gasp. "It's raw. It's honest. It's fucking beautiful because it's broken, cracked. Just like you."

He kisses the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, a hard, bruising press of his lips that marks me as his. I can feel his arousal pressing against my backside, a blunt reminder that while he admires the art, he’s far more interested in the artist.

"Keep drawing," he commands, his voice dropping an octave, turning that soft praise into an order. "Bleed it all out onto the canvas. Every nightmare, every scream, every bit of filth you've been hiding. I want to see it all.”

Chapter 22

The office is heavy with the scent of old paper, expensive tobacco, and the lingering, metallic tang of something I can’t quite name. It’s a gothic sanctuary, all dark mahogany and towering bookshelves that seem to swallow the light. Rhys is buried in his work at the desk, the rhythmic scratching of his pen the only sound in the room, while I’ve claimed a spot by the massive window.

I stare out at the grey, oppressive sky, but my mind isn't on the weather. It’s drifting upward. Just a few floors above where I used to sleep, in the suffocating silence of the attic, they’re waiting. My mother. My sisters. Tucked away in those tin hearts, guarded by Rhys’s men like some macabre treasure. He told me they’re mine to decide—burial, cremation, moving them to a place where the soil isn't cursed. Whenever you're ready, love, he’d said.

But I’m not ready. I’m a fucking mess, and the thought of them—still and preserved—feels like a weight pressing down on my lungs.

I turn away from the window and look at the blank canvas. The nightmares are clawing at the back of my eyelids again, vivid and visceral. I don't want charcoal today. I don't want the dry, scratchy honesty of graphite. I want something that feels like the void.

I reach for the oil paints.

I fucking love oil paint. It’s thick, indulgent, and smells of linseed and obsession. It has a depth that charcoal can't touch, a texture that lets me build layers of grief and madness. With this, I can create rich, suffocating blacks, deep, arterial reds, and cold, dead blues. I can paint the flicker of a dying candle, the cling of graveyard mist, the hairline fractures in porcelain skin, and the damp, oppressive feel of wet stone. It’s timeless. It’s gothic. It’s exactly how my head feels.

I start with the background, slapping a heavy, textured layer of midnight black and deep violet onto the canvas. I don't use a brush for everything; I use my fingers, smearing the paint, feeling the slick, greasy glide of it against my skin.

I begin to shape the image. It’s a scene from the deepest pit of my memory—a distorted version of the attic. I paint the Tin Heart, but I make them bleed, a slow, visceral drip of crimson oil that looks wet, almost fresh. In the center, I paint a figure—not quite a person, but a ghost of a girl with cracked porcelain skin, her eyes hollowed out and filled with gold leaf. Around her, I paint a swarm of moths. Not just any moths, but great, velvet-winged creatures in shades of ash and bone, their wings overlapping until they look like a shroud. I paint them fluttering around the figure, some landing on the cracked cheeks, others dissolving into the darkness.

I’m lost in it. The world outside the canvas ceases to exist. I’m not just painting; I’m exhaling the filth and the trauma, pushing it out of my chest and onto the fabric. I don't notice the time. I don't notice that I’ve stopped caring about the mess.

I’m deep into a streak of cadmium red, blending it into a bruised purple, when the air shifts.

I feel him before I see him. That predatory, warm presence that always manages to find me. I blink, snapping back to reality, and realize I’ve gone completely off the rails with the paint.

I look down at myself. I’m a fucking disaster. My hair is a wild, tangled nest, sticking up in every direction. There’s a smudge of black paint smeared across my cheek like a bruise, and a thick, vivid streak of crimson runs across the back of my hand and wrist, looking for all the world like a fresh wound. I’m not elegant. I’m not the polished doll he dresses up. I look like a lunatic who’s had a fight with a paint bucket.

I look up at Rhys, my face heating up, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping my throat. "Fuck, I've made a right mess of myself, haven't I?"

Rhys doesn't laugh. He doesn't tell me to go clean up. He just stands there, his eyes dark and roaming over me with that intense, possessive hunger. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips.

"Don't move," he commands, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

Before I can protest, he reaches for his camera. Click.

I let out a genuine laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet office. "Rhys, stop it! I look absolutely mental."

"You look fucking perfect," he murmurs, stepping closer, the lens of the camera capturing every smudge of black and streak of red. Click.

I remember how I used to feel. The way I’d recoil from the camera, the way I hated my own reflection because I couldn't stand the sight of the broken thing staring back. How I only saw my sisters instead of myself. I used to want to disappear, to be invisible so I wouldn't have to acknowledge my own existence.

But now? Now I’m standing here, covered in the colors of my nightmares, creating something beautiful out of the wreckage. I don't shrink away. I don't hide. I just smile at him, a flicker of defiance and peace in my chest, and turn back to my canvas.

He keeps taking the photos—the way my fingers grip the brush, the intensity in my eyes, the paint staining my skin—and I just keep painting. For the first time, I don't mind being seen. Because with Rhys, the mess isn't something to be fixed. It's something to be worshipped.

Rhys has been talking about the scale of the Midnight Menagerie for hours, claiming there are corners of this fucking place that would make a sane person lose their mind. I didn’t believe him—not really. I thought I’d seen the worst of his madness, the darkest parts of his soul.