Page 9 of Porcelain Grave

"Did you kill my sisters?" I repeat.

Thomas starts to shake his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but before a single syllable can escape, Rhys snaps the gun up. "That's a lie!" he barks, shoving the gag back into his mouth with a brutal force.

As Thomas tries to fight the gag, Rhys slams the muzzle against his temple and pulls the trigger.

CLICK.

The sound is like a gunshot to Thomas's psyche. He loses it. A dark, warm stain spreads rapidly across the front of his trousers. He's pissed himself. He's sobbing, sweating, hyperventilating so hard he's nearly choking.

Rhys looks down at the puddle on the floor and laughs—a genuine, psychotic sound. "Why are you crying, you pathetic cunt? You can lie five times and tell one truth, and you might just make it."

Rhys sighs, looking bored. He turns to me. "This is getting a bit dull, isn't it? Do me a favour, love. Reach into my pocket and grab another bullet. Let's make his odds two in six."

I don't do what he asks. Not exactly.

I walk toward him, my eyes locked on Rhys. I slide my hand into his pocket and my fingers wrap around the cold metal of the remaining ammunition. I pull them all out—four bullets—and open my palm to show him.

"Load them all," I whisper. "Make it five. Make his chance of surviving one in six. Make his chance of death five in six."

Thomas lets out a muffled, guttural scream through the gag, his eyes bulging in sheer terror.

Rhys freezes. He looks at the bullets in my hand, then looks up at me. One of his eyebrows arcs upward, and he lets out a deep, vibrating hum of approval. He looks at me with a level of love and psychotic obsession that is almost tangible; it's as if seeing this darkness in me has made me the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"God, I fucking love you," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.

He takes the bullets from my hand and begins to load the revolver, one by one, with a slow, rhythmic precision. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

I stand there, watching the man who sired me, and it finally clicks. Rhys isn't here to play mediator. He isn't some fucking impartial judge facilitating a heart-to-heart between a father and daughter. That’s not how Rhys works. He’s a fucking predator, and right now, he’s the only thing standing between me and the psychological wreckage Thomas spent years building.

Rhys has already decided: Thomas doesn't get to speak to me however he wants anymore. The privilege is gone. The second Thomas tries to veer into some manipulative, guilt-tripping territory, Rhys shuts him down. Gag. Gun. Rules. He’s not silencing him because he’s afraid the truth will come out; he’s silencing him because he’s obsessively protective of my head. He won't let this pathetic piece of shit regain a single inch of power over me.

Rhys reaches out and rips the gag away one more time, his expression cold, devoid of any mercy. "Right then," he purrs, his voice like a razor blade. "Let's try this again. No more bollocks, Thomas. Just the truth, or you're fucking gone."

I step forward, my voice trembling but hard. "Did you kill my sisters? Did you kill Cordelia and Rosalind?"

Thomas doesn't even hesitate. He nods. A sharp, jerky motion.

Rhys doesn't cheer; he doesn't react. He just stands there, hands clasped casually in front of him, watching the scene with those dark, hungry eyes. He’s enjoying this—the slow peeling back of the skin to reveal the rot underneath.

"Why?" I whisper, the word feeling like a stone in my throat. "Why me? Why the fuck was I spared? Why didn't you kill me too?"

Thomas goes quiet. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. The moment he hesitates, Rhys snaps the gun up, the muzzle pressing hard into Thomas's cheek.

"I didn't know it was you!" Thomas screams, the words bursting out of him in a panic.

I frown, my heart hammering against my ribs. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I couldn't tell!" he wails, tears streaming down his filthy face. "I couldn't tell which one was left!"

"You better start making sense, you pathetic cunt," I hiss, leaning in, "before I take that gun from Rhys and blow every single one of those bullets right into your fucking face."

"I was just drunk! I didn't know—"

CLICK.

Rhys raises the gun, cutting him off with a sharp movement. "That's a lie," Rhys says flatly. "You knew exactly what you were doing, you spineless prick."

Before Rhys can pull the trigger again, Thomas lets out a guttural shout, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and a sudden, hideous honesty. "She wasn't spared! She was simply the last child I saw!"