Page 79 of Porcelain Grave

"This is for her, you piece of shit," I spit.

I raise the axe high and bring it down with everything I have, splitting the gold mask and the skull beneath it in one brutal, wet blow. Blood sprays across my face, warm and metallic, staining my red lips a deeper shade of gore.

Rhys doesn't let him die instantly. He wants the terror to linger. As the man gasps, half-dead and staring at the ceiling in shock, Rhys presses the gun to the man's open mouth.

BANG.

The sound is muffled by the man's own throat, a wet, explosive pop that paints the wall behind him in a spray of grey and red.

Silence returns to the bathroom, save for the sound of the man's final, rattling breath.

Rhys reaches out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge of blood from my cheek. He looks at me with such intense, psychotic adoration that it makes my skin prickle. "Well done, my lovely monster."

We don't panic. We don't rush. We take our time cleaning the spray off our clothes with a few dampened towels, adjusting our masks, and smoothing out the silk of my cloak. I feel light, purged, as if the weight of my mother's trauma has been lifted by the weight of the axe.

We unlock the door and step back into the ballroom, sliding seamlessly back into the crowd. We resume our dance, our bodies entwined, the music still swelling, the guests still whispering. To the world, we are just the beautiful, strange couple in the masks.

Nobody notices the faint scent of copper clinging to us as we glide across the floor, smiling at the guests, perfectly composed, and utterly fucking lethal.

The room is swallowed in a heavy, oppressive silence, broken only by the rhythmic, low rumble of Shadow’s snoring and the steady, deep breathing of Rhys. I’m standing at the edge of the bed, my skin prickling in the midnight chill, watching them.

Rhys looks almost peaceful when he’s out cold, his face devoid of that manic, predatory hunger that usually defines him. He’s got one arm flung over Shadow, the great black beast curled up against him like some oversized, murderous kitten. It’s a fucking domestic picture, if you ignore the fact that the man is a psychotic Ringmaster and the cat is a shadow-demon.

I feel a surge of something—love, terror, or maybe just a desperate need to breathe without his hand around my throat or my waist. He’s my anchor, but right now, he feels like a golden cage.

My mind is a fucking whirlwind. I can’t do this while he’s watching me, guiding me, molding me into his perfect little monster. I need to know who the fuck I am when I’m not just 'his' Ophelia.

The weight of what’s waiting for me in the attic is crushing. My mother. My sisters. Those poor, broken things, preserved in a state of horrific stillness. I have to face them. I have to look at the wreckage of my bloodline and decide if I want to bury them, burn them, or keep them as shrines to the agony that made me. And then... there’s him. The old bastard. My father. The man who turned my childhood into a slaughterhouse. He’s the final boss in this fucked-up game, and I can’t face that demon while I’m still leaning on Rhys’s strength.

I need to be the one to swing the axe this time. Not for revenge, not for Rhys’s pleasure, but for me.

I move like a ghost, my footsteps silent on the cold floor. I dress quickly, pulling on clothes that don't scream 'doll' or 'victim.' Every rustle of fabric feels like a gunshot in the quiet room. I glance back at the bed one last time. Rhys stirs, a small groan escaping his lips, and for a second, my heart hammers against my ribs, thinking he’s woken up to drag me back into his arms. He doesn't. He just settles deeper into the pillows, oblivious.

I reach for the bedside table. My phone is there, glowing faintly. Next to it lies the halo—that shimmering, cursed bit of jewelry he loves so much.

I stare at them for a long moment. If I take the phone, he can track me. If I take the halo, he’ll track me. He’s too fucking clever, too obsessed; he’ll find me in an hour if I leave him a breadcrumb trail.

Fuck it.

I leave them both. I leave the phone, the halo, and the safety of his psychotic protection.

I slip out of the room, the air in the hallway feeling thinner, colder. As I head for the door, I don't look back. I can't. If I see his face again, I might just stay, and if I stay, I’ll never find out if there’s anything left of Ophelia that isn't stained by someone else's blood.

I step out into the night, the wind biting at my face, and I run. I run until my lungs burn and the house is nothing but a dark smudge against the horizon, disappearing into the woods where the ghosts are waiting.

Chapter 25

The park at this hour is a fucking graveyard of living things. A thick, cloying mist has rolled in, swallowing the wrought-iron fences and the skeletal remains of the autumn trees, turning everything into a blurred, grey smudge. The air is frigid, a biting cold that doesn't just touch the skin—it sinks deep into the marrow, freezing the very breath in my lungs. Every snap of a twig sounds like a bone breaking; every rustle of the dead leaves feels like a ghostly finger brushing against my ankle. It’s oppressive, eerie, and perfectly suited for the state of my fucking head.

I sink onto a damp, rotting bench, the moisture seeping through my clothes, but I don't move. I close my eyes and dive. I don't just think; I plunge headfirst into the abyss of my own consciousness, stripping away the layers of the 'doll' and the 'victim' until I reach the raw, pulsing core of who I am.

What I find there is a fucking wasteland.

Deep in my mind, there is no light, only a vast, echoing chamber of obsidian mirrors, each one reflecting a different version of my agony. I see the blood—so much fucking blood—splattered across the floor of my childhood, the metallic scent of it choking me. I find the shards of my shattered innocence, jagged and sharp, cutting into my palms as I try to gather them. My heart isn't a heart anymore; it’s a blackened, shriveled thing, a piece of charcoal burnt to a crisp by years of terror and betrayal. It doesn't beat; it thrums with a low, violent frequency, a rhythmic demand for retribution.

And my soul... my soul is a void. A hungry, gaping maw that has spent seven years starving. I see the ghosts of my sisters, their faces frozen in that final, horrific scream, and I realize I don't feel pity anymore. I feel a kinship. I find a darkness there that is ancient and predatory, a dormant beast that has finally been woken up by the touch of a madman. It’s a cold, calculating hatred that tastes like copper and ash. I realize that the 'good' Ophelia—the girl who wanted to be saved, the girl who cried in the dark—is dead. She was murdered long ago, and the thing that replaced her is something far more dangerous. I am a creature of the night, a parasite of pain, and I am finally, fucking finally, comfortable in the dark.

Then, I hear them.