Page 91 of Porcelain Grave

Rhys steps up behind me, his reflection towering over mine. He looks absolutely lethal. He’s in a bespoke black suit, the fabric so dark it seems to swallow the light in the room. His shirt is a deep charcoal, open at the collar just enough to show the edge of his strength, and his cufflinks are silver skulls. He doesn't wear a mask tonight; he wants the world to see exactly who owns me. He wraps his massive arms around my waist, his hands splaying across my stomach, and kisses the curve of my neck.

"You look fucking divine, Ophelia," he growls, his voice vibrating through my spine. "Absolutely breathtaking."

"You don't look too bad yourself," I tease, leaning back into his chest.

"Ready to show these gits what real beauty looks like?" he asks.

I smirk. "Let's go."

We walk downstairs into the main living room of the castle, and the atmosphere is thick with the scent of expensive incense, old parchment, and desperation. The room is packed with the elite of the goth scene—people draped in lace, leather, and velvet, their faces painted pale, their eyes rimmed in kohl.

As soon as we enter, the chatter dips. Heads turn.

"Mr. Castellan!" a man in a frock coat calls out, stepping forward with a polished smile. "A pleasure to see you again."

Rhys gives a curt, dominant nod, his hand never leaving the small of my back. "Good evening."

A man in a dramatic wide-brimmed hat glides toward me, his eyes wide with genuine admiration. "And who is this vision? Darling, your dress is exquisite, and that halo... simply inspired. It’s positively haunting."

"Thank you," I say, giving him a small, mysterious smile. I feel Rhys’s grip tighten slightly, a possessive reminder that while they can admire, I belong to him.

Without a word, Rhys leads me toward the ballroom, which opens up from the living room like a vast, shadowed cavern. The music is slow, haunting—a cello and a violin weaving a melody that feels like a funeral march for a lover. He pulls me onto the dance floor, his hand sliding firmly to my waist, the other locking with mine.

We move together in a slow, hypnotic swirl. The world around us blurs into a smear of black and grey, leaving only him. I look up into those abyssal eyes, and I can see the psychotic devotion swirling there. He isn't just dancing with me; he's claiming me in front of everyone.

"You're shaking," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

"I'm not shaking," I lie, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "I'm just... feeling the music."

"Liar," he murmurs, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "You're feeling me. You love it when everyone knows you're mine, don't you? You love being the prize of the monster."

"Maybe I do," I breathe, arching my back slightly, pressing my chest against his suit. "Maybe I like being the only thing in this room that actually matters to you."

He pulls me closer, erasing every millimeter of space between us. For a moment, the dance isn't about the music; it's about the friction, the heat, and the silent, violent love we share. He looks at me as if he wants to devour me right there on the marble floor, and I want him to.

As the song fades, he leans in close. "Come with me. I want to show you something. I'm taking you to The Cabinet of Lost Things."

I nod, my curiosity piqued. As we walk toward the wing of the castle that houses the museum, I notice a trail of guests following us, drawn by the gravity of Rhys’s presence.

The Cabinet of Lost Things is a masterpiece of misery. It’s a long, dimly lit gallery filled with glass cases. I walk past abandoned wedding rings that never saw a honeymoon, yellowed letters of love that were never answered, and cracked porcelain dolls that look like they’ve seen too many deaths. Each object has a small card beneath it, detailing a tragic story of loss and abandonment. It’s beautiful in its bleakness.

But as I turn the corner into the next section, I stop dead. My heart skips a beat.

There, framed in heavy, ornate black wood and lit by a soft spotlight, is the first oil painting I ever did. The one from my nightmares.

I gasp, stepping closer. Then I see the next one. And the next.

Every single piece I’ve created is here. The abandoned churches with their crumbling spires, the cracked porcelain dolls with their hollow eyes, the black roses bleeding into the canvas, the crows circling a dead field. The sea beneath Whitby Abbey, churning and violent, the carnival lights blurring into a ghostly fog, and the skeletal saints staring back with empty sockets.

I whirl around to face Rhys, my eyes wide. "What the fuck is this? Rhys, why are my paintings here? You... you framed them? You put them on display?"

He looks at me, his expression calm but his eyes burning. "They deserved to be seen, Ophelia. Your darkness isn't something to be hidden in a sketchbook on a canvas in the office and bedroom. It's art. It's the most honest thing in this entire castle."

I look back at the paintings, and I see the guests. They aren't just glancing; they're mesmerized. They're leaning in, whispering, admiring the raw, unhinged pain I’ve poured onto the canvas. They see the horror I live with, and they love it.

A man in a velvet waistcoat approaches us, gesturing toward a painting of a skeletal saint. "These are breathtaking. The technique is raw, almost visceral. Tell me, Mr. Castellan, will these be part of the auction tonight?"

Rhys doesn't even look at the man. His gaze is locked on me. "They are all on the auction tonight," he answers smoothly.