Page 97 of Porcelain Grave

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s a heavy, oppressive quiet that makes my ears ring. I hold my breath, my lungs burning, staring at the two dolls on the table. They look the same as they did five minutes ago—still, cold, lifeless.

Please, I pray to whatever dark god is listening. Please work.

Then, it happens.

Slowly—so slowly it’s almost imperceptible—the first doll’s head tilts. Just a fraction. A tiny, porcelain creak echoes in the silence as her head turns slightly toward me. Her ice-blue eyes aren't blank anymore; there's a spark there, a recognition.

Beside her, the second doll doesn't move her head, but her glass eyes shift. They slide to the side, tracking Rhys with an intensity that mirrors his own.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, a sob nearly breaking through. It worked. Those little shits are actually in there.

Later that night, the house is quiet, bathed in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamps. I carefully place the two new dolls on the vanity, lining them up next to the old doll I’ve had for a while at Rhys's. Three identical faces. Three pairs of ice-blue eyes. A little family of porcelain nightmares.

I'll figure out where I can put them later where they won't see us having sex. It's inappropriate for child ghosts to witness that.

I look at them and smile, a genuine, twisted feeling of contentment settling in my gut. And in years, the hole in my chest doesn't feel quite so empty.

I turn to Rhys. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette dark and imposing. Shadow is there too, a flickering, oppressive presence hovering just behind him, watching us with that silent, void-like curiosity.

"Rhys?" I whisper, glancing back at the dolls. "Are you... you know, actually okay with this? Having haunted dolls in your home? Most blokes would be fucking losing it."

Rhys lets out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates through the room. He walks toward me, his movements fluid and predatory, and wraps his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me flush against his hard chest. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot.

"Love, look at me," he murmurs, his voice dripping with that psychotic devotion. "I live with a shadow, I spend my nights in a torture chamber, and I’m utterly obsessed with a girl who talks to ghosts. You think a couple of haunted dolls are going to spook me?"

He nips at my earlobe, his grip tightening possessively.

"I don't give a toss if the house is full of spirits, as long as you're the one ruling over them. If they're a part of you, Ophelia, then I fucking love them. Besides..." he adds, his voice dropping to a husky, dangerous velvet, "...the more madness in the house, the more it feels like home.”

Chapter 32

The next morning, the sunlight is far too fucking bright for my liking. I’m curled up in the passenger seat of Rhys’s car, feeling half-asleep and completely clueless. Rhys is humming something low and dark under his breath, his eyes fixed on the road with that focused, predatory intensity he always has.

On my lap, Shadow is a heavy, purring weight. The big Jaguar is practically a rug with a heartbeat, kneading his paws into my thighs. I run my fingers through his thick fur, looking over at Rhys.

"Oi, love," I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep. "How old is this big fluff-ball anyway? He acts like a kitten but he's the size of a fully grown jaguar."

Rhys glances at me, a small, fond smirk playing on his lips. "Four years old, love. Fully grown. Still a menace, though."

I chuckle, scratching Shadow behind the ears. I have no fucking clue where we’re going. We’ve been driving for a while, leaving the familiar gothic sprawl of the town behind for something greener, quieter, and far more secluded.

Then, we pull up to a set of massive, wrought-iron gates. They’re intricate, swirling with black metal vines and thorns that look like they could rip the skin right off your bones. As we approach, the gates groan and swing open automatically, like the house is welcoming us home.

As we roll down a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, weeping willow trees that drape over the road like funeral veils, a house comes into view.

My breath catches. It’s stunning. A sprawling, gothic estate that looks like it was ripped straight out of one of my nightmares—but the beautiful kind. It’s all dark stone and sharp gables, with towering windows that reflect the grey sky. The front yard is a wild, overgrown expanse of deep green grass and clusters of dark red roses that look like splashes of blood against the lawn.

"Where are we, Rhys?" I ask, staring at the place.

"We're home, Ophie," he says simply.

I blink, completely baffled. "Home? What do you mean? We have the castle. Why would we need a new home?"

Rhys pulls the car to a stop and turns to me, his expression softening, though his eyes still burn with that possessive fire. "The castle is a masterpiece, love, but it’s the VIP hub of the Midnight Menagerie. Aside from my office and my bedroom, we have zero fucking privacy. I’m tired of sharing our air with the ghosts of the elite and the stench of blood and luxury."

He leans in, his voice dropping to a husky, dangerous velvet that makes my toes curl. "And selfishly... I want you all to myself. I want to be able to fuck you on the kitchen counter, pin you against the wall in the living room, or take you right there in the sunroom without worrying about some masked prick wandering in."

I feel a heat bloom in my chest, my heart skipping a beat. But then he continues, and his voice goes tender, almost vulnerable.