Page 90 of Porcelain Grave

The blade shears through his neck in one clean, violent motion. Blood erupts like a geyser, spraying everywhere—the stage, the floor, and the front row of guests. His head detaches and rolls across the floor, bouncing once before coming to a stop right at the feet of my grandparents. They look down at the severed head with absolute indifference, as if it were nothing more than a piece of rotten fruit.

The room explodes. The guests clap wildly, and my family joins in, their faces filled with a grim, satisfied triumph.

"More champagne! More scotch!" one of the guests bellows, his voice booming. "A toast! A piece of filth has been sent screaming his way to hell!"

I look over and see my grandpa. He doesn't say a word, but he raises his glass to me, a silent acknowledgment of the debt paid in blood. I smile—a real, genuine smile—and hand the axe back to the staff.

Rhys is there in an instant. He wraps his massive arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest, shielding me from the noise and the gore. He holds me so hard I can feel his heartbeat thumping against my back.

"It's over, Ophelia," he whispers into my ear. "It's finally over."

I lean back into him and close my eyes. For the first time since I was twelve years old, the ghosts are quiet. The screaming in my head has stopped. I feel empty, but it's a clean emptiness—a void where the pain used to be. I feel light, almost floating, as the weight of an almost decade of trauma finally slides off my shoulders. I am no longer the girl in the toy shop. I am no longer the ghost. I am simply Ophelia, and I am finally, bloody finally, free.

Chapter 29

I’m practically floating in the sheets, my skin still humming from the shower sex. We’re tangled together, damp and warm, the scent of soap and sex clinging to us like a second skin. I shift my weight, resting my head on Rhys’s massive chest, listening to the steady, heavy thrum of his heart.

"So," I murmur, tracing a mindless pattern over his pec. Then to the tattoo. "Your birthday's coming up. What do you actually want to do? A fancy dinner? Some rare, fucked-up artifact? Just tell me what you want."

Rhys doesn't even blink. He just lets out a low, rumbling huff of a laugh that vibrates through my entire body. "Nothing, Ophelia. I don't do birthdays. Pointless shite."

I lift my head, giving him a skeptical look. "Nothing? Not even a cake? A bottle of the expensive scotch?"

He shifts, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard frame. His voice drops an octave, turning into that dark, velvet growl that always makes my stomach flip. "I wouldn't mind some birthday sex, though. Plenty of it."

I roll my eyes, a small, knowing smile tugging at my lips. "Typical. You have sex everyday. What would be different about having it on your birthday?”

“Because this will be on my birthday.”

Suddenly, his hand moves from my waist to my chin, his grip firm but not bruising. He forces me to look him straight in the eye. I stop joking, my breath hitching. We just stay like that, locked in a stare. His eyes are like abysses—dark, obsessive, and completely consumed by me. The silence in the room thickens, becoming heavy and electric.

"What?" I whisper, my voice sounding small in the quiet of the bedroom.

He doesn't answer. He just keeps staring, his gaze scanning every inch of my face as if he's memorizing me for the thousandth time. His thumb begins to caress my cheek, a slow, rhythmic motion that feels almost possessive.

"What is it?" I ask again, a bit more breathless this time.

"You look more beautiful tonight," he says, his voice a rough whisper. "Which I honestly thought was fucking impossible."

I feel a flush creep up my neck, a warmth that has nothing to do with the shower. I lean into his touch, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You're such a liar," I breathe, though I'm beaming. "I'm a mess. I've got blood under my nails from tonight and I'm probably still smelling like the blood that spat all over me."

"You smell like mine," he corrects, his eyes darkening. "And that's the only thing that matters."

He doesn't give me a chance to respond. He crashes his lips onto mine, the kiss hungry and desperate, like he's trying to swallow me whole. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a claim. His tongue slides into my mouth, tasting of mint and obsession, and I moan into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

He flips me over with a sudden, violent grace, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. He looms over me, his huge frame blocking out the light, making me feel small and utterly possessed.

"Birthday sex," he growls against my skin, his mouth migrating down to my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. "I want you screaming my name until your throat is raw. I want to feel every inch of you shaking under me."

"Then stop talking about it and fucking show a trial run," I gasp, arching my back and pressing my hips up against his.

He lets out a guttural sound, a mix of a growl and a moan, and rips his boxers off in one motion. I watch him—the raw power of his body, the psychotic devotion in his eyes—and I know I'm completely fucked. In the best way possible.

He dives between my legs, his hands gripping my thighs and shoving them wide. When he enters me in one deep, brutal thrust, I scream, my head hitting the pillow as the world narrows down to just the feeling of him filling me up, stretching me, claiming every single part of me. He doesn't hold back, pounding into me with a rhythmic, animalistic intensity that leaves me sobbing and clawing at his back.

This isn't just sex; it's a ritual. Every thrust is a declaration, every gasp a surrender. We're two broken, unhinged things fitting together perfectly in the dark, and as we climax together—a violent, shaking explosion of heat and sweat—I know there's nowhere else in this godforsaken world I'd rather be.

I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the creature looking back at me. I look fucking ethereal, like some sort of gothic deity. I’m wearing a floor-length gown of midnight-black silk that clings to every curve of my body, the bodice laced tight enough to make my breasts heave. The skirt flares out at the bottom, trailing behind me like a pool of ink. Around my neck is a heavy velvet choker with a single, blood-red ruby that looks like a drop of fresh gore. And the crowning glory—my halo. It’s a delicate, spiked circle of blackened silver that sits atop my head, making me look like a fallen angel who’s finally embraced the pit.