Page 77 of Porcelain Grave

I lean back against the mahogany, my eyes tracing the sharp, dangerous lines of his face. "The masks, the axe, your gun... the way we've been carving through those bastards who raped my mum," I murmur, a dark thrill humming in my veins. "We've become a proper bit of folklore in Whitby, haven't we? The porcelain doll woman and the man with the blue tears. People are probably shitting themselves just thinking about us."

Rhys doesn't smile, but his eyes glimmer with a psychotic sort of pride. He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, and the only thing he ever wants to break. "Let them fear us," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I don't give a toss about the legends, Ophelia. I only care that they know you belong to me. If the whole fucking town has to tremble to keep you safe and adored, then I'll give them a reason to scream."

He shifts in his chair, his gaze softening just a fraction. "Come here," he commands.

I stay where I am, shaking my head with a small, knowing smirk. "Nah. I know exactly what you're after. You just want to fuck me."

Rhys sighs, a sound of exaggerated disappointment, though the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable. "Not everything is about sex, Ophelia," he says, his tone sounding unnervingly sincere. "I just miss you. I want you close."

I stare at him, my eyes narrowing. I don't believe a word of it—not for a second—but the way he looks at me, so steady and devoted in his madness, makes my heart hammer against my ribs. I hesitate, then slowly walk around the edge of the desk. I slide into the space behind it, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

The second I'm within reach, the sincerity vanishes.

In one blurred, violent motion, Rhys stands. He grabs my waist and yanks me forward with such force that I gasp, my hips slamming into the edge of the mahogany. He shoves me backward, pinning me against the desk until my upper body is sprawled across the polished wood, my back pressed flat against the surface. Before I can even blink, he hooks his arms under my thighs, ripping my legs wide apart and settling his heavy frame firmly between them.

"Rhys!" I scream his name, the sound echoing in the quiet office.

"Shh," he hisses, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver of terror and lust down my spine. "Don't wake Shadow. You don't want the cat hearing you moan like a little slut, do you?"

I open my mouth to snap back, to tell him he's a manipulative prick, but he cuts me off, his hand gripping my jaw firmly. "Quiet, love. Not a fucking peep. If you wake him, I'll make sure you can't walk for a week. Just take it."

He doesn't give me time to argue. His hand dives under my dress, bunching the fabric up around my waist in one rough motion. He hooks his fingers into the lace of my knickers and rips them down and off, tossing them somewhere onto the floor. At this point I will run out of underwear because I never repeat a single one. They are always torn off my body. I hear the frantic metallic click of his belt and the rasp of a zipper. He doesn't waste time with foreplay; he lines himself up and drives into me with one brutal, deep thrust that knocks the wind out of me.

I gasp loudly, my back arching off the desk, and I immediately slam my hands over my mouth to stifle the sound. My eyes go wide, staring at the couch where Shadow shifts in his sleep, letting out a low grunt, but he doesn't wake.

"You... you tricked me," I muffle against my palms, my voice trembling.

Rhys groans, a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction as he begins to hammer into me. He doesn't slow down; he fucks me with a relentless, psychotic intensity, his hips slamming against mine with a wet, slapping sound. "I didn't trick you, darling," he pants, his voice thick with lust. "I just gave you exactly what you wanted."

His hands are everywhere—one is clamped firmly on the small of my back, pinning me to the wood, while the other reaches around to grip my hip, bruising the skin. I'm trapped between his hard body and the cold mahogany, the contrast making me dizzy. Every thrust is deep, hitting my cervix and sending sparks of white-hot pleasure through my brain. I'm shaking, my fingers digging into my own cheeks, fighting the urge to scream his name as he absolutely ravages me.

He’s going hard, no mercy in his movements, treating me like a piece of property he's claiming over and over again. The friction is intense, the heat building until I feel like I'm going to combust. I can feel my orgasm building, a tidal wave of pressure that I can't hold back. I bite down on my hand, a muffled cry escaping as I peak, my internal muscles clamping tight around his cock.

As I shudder, Rhys doesn't stop. He pulls back slightly, his hand sliding down to find my clit. He begins to masturbate me with a brutal, fast rhythm, his thumb grinding into me while he continues to pump into me.

"One more," he growls, his voice sounding completely unhinged. "Give me one more, Ophelia. Come for me again."

I try not to scream, my whole body vibrating, my toes curling against the air. He’s working me so hard I can barely breathe, the pleasure becoming almost painful. I’m sobbing silently into my hand, my hips jerking uncontrollably as a second, even more violent orgasm crashes over me.

As I collapse against the desk, breathless and broken, Rhys grabs the back of my neck, pulling my head around so he can crash his lips onto mine. He pounds into me one last time, a series of fast, desperate thrusts that feel like they're trying to merge our souls. He groans deep in his throat, his body stiffening as he comes inside me, filling me with a hot, thick surge.

We stay like that for a long time, locked in a bruising kiss, both of us panting, our breaths mingling in the silence of the office.

I pull back just an inch, my voice a wrecked whisper. "You're a fucking animal, Rhys."

He smirks, his eyes dark and possessive as he leans his forehead against mine. "And you're my little doll, Ophelia. Now be a good girl and stay still while I decide if I'm actually going to move the cat.”

Chapter 24

I’m perched on the velvet stool by the vanity, my reflection staring back at me, but I’m not looking at myself. I’m looking at Rhys. He’s standing behind me, his large, steady hands framing my face, holding a tube of deep, blood-red lipstick. He applies it with a slow, agonizing precision, the waxy glide of the color staining my lips into a perfect, lethal pout.

I don't blink. I just stare into his eyes through the mirror—those dark, psychotic depths that make me feel like I’m drowning and flying all at once. He lingers, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth to smudge the line just a fraction, making me look a bit more undone, a bit more manic.

"Perfect," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that rattles my bones.

He steps back, and I finally take him in. He’s dressed like a fucking twisted Ringmaster. He’s wearing a sharp, tailored black tailcoat with crimson silk lining that flashes whenever he moves, paired with a crisp white shirt and a black waistcoat that hugs his frame. His trousers are pressed to a lethal edge, leading down to polished leather boots that look like they were made for stepping on throats. He looks magnificent and terrifying, the absolute master of this madhouse.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his gun. The metallic click-clack of him loading the magazine is the only sound in the room, a rhythmic, cold promise of violence.