Page 78 of Porcelain Grave

Then, he turns his attention to me. He doesn't just give me clothes; he dresses me like a prized possession. He slides me into a dress that’s more of a suggestion than a garment—black lace and sheer silk that clings to every curve, short enough to be a scandal and dark enough to be a funeral. He fastens a choker around my neck, tight enough to make me mindful of every breath, and slides a pair of thigh-high leather boots up my legs, zipping them with a sharp zip that sounds like a blade.

Finally, he reaches for the weapon. He holds out the double-sided axe, the heavy steel gleaming under the vanity lights. I wrap my fingers around the grip, the weight of it grounding me, making me feel powerful, making me feel like the monster he wants me to be.

"It's time for the hunt, love," he says, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. "The last one. The final cunt who touched your mum. Tonight, we carve the memory of him out of this world."

We leave the bedroom after putting on our masks, the air between us thick with a shared, murderous electricity. As we head downstairs, the muffled thrum of bass and the scent of expensive incense hit me. The ground floor is packed—a goth party full of VIPs, trust-fund ghouls, and socialites dressed in velvet and lace, all being dark while they sip champagne.

The moment we step into the light, the music doesn't stop, but the atmosphere shifts. The chatter dies down into a low, frantic hum. We don't sneak; we don't hide. Rhys reaches down and grips my hand, his fingers interlocking with mine in a possessive, iron hold.

We walk through the crowd, the sea of people parting for us like we're royalty or plagues. I can hear the whispers starting, a ripple of fear and fascination flowing through the room.

"Look at her... those eyes... they're glowing like a doll's."

"And him... the blue tears... is that paint or something worse?"

I can feel them staring, documenting us in their minds. We aren't just guests; we're a spectacle. The woman with the glowing doll eyes and the man with the blue tears. We’ve stopped being people to this town; we’ve become a fucking urban legend in real-time. The new monsters in town, and we're wearing the titles like crowns.

Rhys doesn't spare a single glance for the crowd. He leads me straight out the front doors, his pace steady and purposeful.

Waiting for us in the driveway is his car—a massive, obsidian-black custom beast of a vehicle. It’s a vintage luxury sedan that’s been modified into something sinister. The paint is a deep, mirror-like black that seems to swallow the moonlight, the chrome accents polished to a blinding silver. It looks less like a car and more like a hearse for the living, wide-bodied and menacing, with tinted windows that hide whatever horrors are kept inside.

Rhys opens the door for me, his hand resting on the small of my back. As I slide into the leather interior, which smells of expensive cologne and old blood, I look back at the mansion.

"Let's go," I mutter, my grip tightening on the axe. "I want to see him scream.”

The air in the ballroom is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, old money, and a suffocating layer of pretension. It’s a masquerade, a sea of velvet, silk, and gold, where every posh cunt in the room is hiding behind a mask, pretending to be something they aren't. The music is a sweeping, orchestral swell that feels too loud, too manic, like it's trying to drown out the screams that haven't happened yet.

Rhys has me locked in his arms, our bodies pressed together in a slow, rhythmic glide across the polished marble floor. I can feel the heat of him through the lace of my dress, his grip on my waist possessive and iron-tight. We aren't just dancing; we're hunting.

The weapons are tucked away, hidden in plain sight. My double-sided axe is concealed beneath a heavy, sweeping cloak of midnight silk that trails behind me, the weight of the steel pressing against my thigh, a cold comfort. Rhys has his gun tucked into the small of his back, hidden by the sharp cut of his Ringmaster’s tailcoat. To anyone else, we’re just another eccentric couple of goths playing dress-up. To us, this party is just a fucking buffet of targets.

As we swirl through the crowd, I notice the shift. The dancers around us are moving, but their eyes—visible through the slits of their ornate masks—are fixed on us. They recognize the look. The glowing doll eyes. The blue tears. We’re the monsters they’ve whispered about, the urban legends walking among them. They don't dare stop us, but the air around us turns frigid, a wake of silent terror following our every step.

He holds me for a dance. I let him lead.

I lean in, my lips brushing against the shell of Rhys's ear, my voice a low, dangerous hiss. "Do you see the old bastard? Tell me you see him."

Rhys doesn't miss a beat, his eyes scanning the room with a predatory precision. A dark, cruel smile tugs at his lips. "I've had my eyes on the cunt since we walked in, love. He’s shaking in his boots, though he doesn't know why yet."

He steers me toward the edge of the room, his movements fluid and calculated. The target is an old man in his sixties, dressed in a tuxedo that costs more than most people's houses, wearing a gold leaf mask that looks like a dying sun. He’s sipping champagne, trying to look composed, but his eyes are darting around, sensing the predator in the room.

Rhys doesn't make a scene. He doesn't have to. He simply catches the man's eye and gives a slight, commanding nod toward the corridor leading to the restrooms. It’s not an invitation; it’s a summons. The old man freezes, the glass of champagne trembling in his hand. He recognizes the blue tears. He knows exactly who we are, and the blood drains from his face, leaving him a ghostly, pathetic shade of grey.

We flank him, guiding him out of the ballroom with a terrifying politeness. Rhys’s hand is on the man's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle like talons, while I walk beside him, the hem of my cloak brushing the floor with a sinister hiss. The moment we hit the privacy of the opulent, marble-tiled bathroom, Rhys slams the door shut and bolts it with a heavy thud.

The old man stumbles back, his gold mask slipping sideways, revealing a face etched with cowardice and age. He looks at us—the doll and the monster—and he knows. He fucking knows.

"Please," he wheezes, his voice a pathetic crack. "I... I don't know who you are!"

Rhys steps forward, the gun appearing in his hand as if by magic, the muzzle cold against the man's forehead. "Liar," Rhys purrs, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. "You know exactly why we're here. You’re going to pay for every single scream, every tear, and every bit of agony you inflicted on Marguerite Hansburg."

The man’s eyes widen. The mention of my mother’s name is the final nail in the coffin. He lets out a strangled sob and tries to bolt for the door, his frail legs scrambling for grip on the slick marble.

He doesn't even make it two steps.

I swing the axe with a guttural scream, the heavy blade whistling through the air before it bites deep into the back of his calf. A sickening crunch of bone and a wet thwack echoes through the room. He collapses with a shriek that would have brought the whole party running if the walls weren't so thick.

He’s on the floor now, crawling, sobbing, begging for a mercy that doesn't exist in our world. I stand over him, the axe dripping a dark, visceral crimson onto the white marble. I look down at him with those glowing eyes, feeling a surge of electric, murderous joy.