Page 71 of Porcelain Grave

I was wrong.

He leads me deep beneath the earth, down winding stone stairs that smell of damp soil and ancient rot, until we reach a heavy iron door. When he heaves it open, the air that hits me is cold, stagnant, and thick with the scent of beeswax and old death.

"Welcome, love," he whispers, his voice echoing. "The Underground Catacombs."

My breath hitches. It’s exactly the kind of twisted shit he’d curate. Endless, yawning tunnels stretch out into the gloom, illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles that cast dancing, distorted shadows against the walls. And the walls... fuck, the walls are lined with skulls. Thousands of them, bleached white and staring with empty sockets, interspersed with grotesque, carved saints whose stone eyes seem to follow my every move. It feels like the earth itself is breathing, waiting to swallow me whole

We’re completely alone. The silence is so heavy it feels physical, pressing against my eardrums.

Rhys stops walking. He doesn't touch me, but I can feel the predatory heat radiating off him. When he speaks, his voice has changed. The tenderness is gone, replaced by something jagged and dangerous.

"I want your fear, Ophelia," he says, and a shiver races down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. "I want it to overwhelm you. I want you to feel it in your marrow."

I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I look at him, searching for a hint of a joke, but his eyes are voids—black, bottomless, and utterly unhinged.

"I shouldn't have fallen in love with you," he continues, his voice a low, menacing growl. "I’ve become something I never thought I’d be. I let you get too close to my heart, and in a few fucking seconds, I became a stalker who will never let you go. I'm a monster because of you."

He steps closer, his presence suffocating. "And now? Now I want you to run. I want to feel you trying to escape me. I want to chase you through this hellhole and destroy every single stone of this place until I get you back. I want to see that exquisite terror in your eyes."

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice dripping with a psychotic edge. "Look at what you've made me become."

I’m not faking it. The fear hits me like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I stumble back, my voice trembling. "Are you... are you bluffing, Rhys? Tell me you're fucking joking."

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he reaches out and casually knocks over a heavy brass candle holder. The flame catches on a stray piece of cloth or old parchment on the floor, and whoosh—a wall of orange fire erupts behind him, casting his silhouette in a towering, demonic shadow that swallows the tunnel. He looks like a god of death standing in the mouth of a furnace.

"This place goes on for many many meters, love," he purrs, the fire reflecting in his dark pupils. "And there is only one way out. At the very end."

He smiles, and it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen. "Run."

I bolt.

I turn on my heel and sprint into the darkness, but my legs feel like lead. I’m so overwhelmed, so fucking terrified, that my coordination is shot. I can't move as fast as I want to; it feels like I'm running through waist-deep water. My chest tightens, my vision begins to blur at the edges, and I can feel a panic attack clawing its way up my throat. I'm hyperventilating, the air tasting of smoke and ancient dust.

The tunnels are a blur of flickering light and white bone. Every time I pass a carved saint, I swear the stone fingers are reaching for me. The skulls seem to be laughing at my desperation.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I can hear him. He isn't running; he's stalking. He's taking his time, savoring the hunt, the rhythmic sound of his boots on the stone echoing through the corridors like a heartbeat.

I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Behind me, the tunnel is a corridor of fire, the flames licking the ceiling and turning the skulls into glowing embers. And there he is. Emerging from the smoke, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes locked onto me with a terrifying, obsessive hunger. He looks like a predator who has already won.

The sight of him—the fire, the madness, the absolute certainty that he owns every inch of my fear—makes my head spin. I stumble, my knees buckling, and for a second, I feel like I’m going to fucking faint right there in the dirt.

I can’t breathe. I fucking can’t breathe.

I slam my palms against the cold, damp stone of the wall, my fingers scraping against the grit and the porous surface of ancient bone. I’m shaking so violently I can barely stand, my chest heaving in jagged, shallow gasps that sound like a dying animal in the oppressive silence. I try to ground myself, try to tell my brain that this is just a game, but the look in Rhys’s eyes wasn't a game. It was a fucking execution.

Around me, the catacombs are a nightmare made manifest. Hundreds of candles flicker in the draft, casting long, spindly shadows that dance and writhe against the walls. The carved saints look down at me with hollow, judging eyes, and the thousands of skulls—bleached, grinning, empty—seem to whisper my name, mocking my terror. Every shadow is a limb, every flicker of light a ghost.

Then, the roar of the fire hits.

I scream, a raw, guttural sound, and I bolt. I sprint into the first tunnel, my boots slapping against the stone, the sound echoing a thousand times over. I don't look back. I can't. I just run, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, my vision blurring with the first hot prickle of tears.

"Ophelia..."

His voice. It isn't a shout. It’s a song. A low, melodic, haunting croon that vibrates through the very stone beneath my feet. It’s the sound of a predator who knows the prey has nowhere to go.