Page 98 of Porcelain Grave

"Besides... I want to build a real life with you. The Menagerie is a place of death and art, Ophelia. It’s not the place I want to raise our babies in."

I freeze. Babies? The word echoes in my head, sending a jolt of pure electricity through me. I’ve spent so long being the broken girl, the victim, the haunted thing... the idea of creating something new, something ours, makes my throat tighten. I don't know whether to scream or cry, but for the first time, the thought of a future doesn't feel like a threat. It feels like a promise.

"You... you actually want that?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "With me? A fucking mess like me?"

Rhys reaches out, cupping my cheek with his hand, his thumb brushing over my skin. "I don't want anyone else. Just you. Always you."

He gets out of the car and opens my door. The second the door clicks, Shadow leaps out, letting out a loud mrow and sprinting toward the house, his tail twitching with excitement. Rhys takes my hand, his grip firm and grounding, and leads me toward the front door.

The entrance is a massive, arched oak door with heavy iron hinges. When he pushes it open, the smell of fresh wax and empty space hits me.

The house is completely empty. No furniture, no rugs, just polished dark hardwood floors that gleam under the light streaming through the tall windows. It’s an echo chamber of potential. Shadow is already losing his mind, skidding across the floors and darting into every corner, his claws clicking rhythmically on the wood.

I walk through the first floor, my footsteps echoing. The living room is cavernous, with a fireplace large enough to roast a whole pig in, and a sunroom that looks out over the wild garden, filled with light that makes the dust motes dance. There’s a kitchen with a massive stone island—I can already imagine Rhys lifting me onto it, his hands gripping my thighs.

"It's... it's huge," I breathe, looking around. "But Rhys, there's nothing in here. It's a fucking shell."

He wraps his arms around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. "That's the point, love. I wanted it empty so you could design it. Every curtain, every painting, every piece of furniture... I want you to turn this place into whatever the fuck you want. Your sanctuary. Your kingdom."

I lean back into him, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips.

He leads me toward the stairs—a sweeping, grand spiral of dark wood and wrought iron. We climb to the second floor, where the hallway stretches out like a gallery. He opens a set of double doors at the end, revealing the master bedroom.

It’s enormous. A massive space with a balcony that overlooks the estate. The walls are a soft, muted grey, and the light hits the floor in long, golden strips. It feels peaceful. It feels safe.

Rhys turns me around to face him, his eyes searching mine. "What do you think, little doll? Is it enough?"

I look around the empty room, then back at the man who has dragged me through hell and back just to keep me. I throw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder.

"It's fucking perfect," I sob softly, the emotion finally breaking through.

He holds me tight, his voice a low, steady vow against my ear. "This is where we grow old together, love. This is where we'll raise our children. This is where we'll get married. No more running, no more hiding. Just us.”

I’m still buzzing from the emotion of the house, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Rhys is looking at me with that dark, hungry intensity, the kind that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

"I've got something to show you, little doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.

He leads me back into the master bedroom. I assume he’s just showing me where the wardrobes go or some hidden storage, but he reaches for a door I hadn't noticed—a seamless panel in the wall. When he pushes it open, it doesn't lead to a closet. It leads to a room.

I step inside and the air feels different—thick, heavy, and smelling faintly of his cologne and old paper. I look up, and my breath hitches.

The entire wall is covered. Every fucking inch of it.

Photographs. Hundreds of them. All of me.

I walk closer, my boots clicking softly on the floor, and I feel a chill race down my spine, but it isn't fear. It's something far more electric. There are photos of me from the very beginning—the first time he saw me, captured from a distance, my face blurred and raw. There are shots of me asleep, looking fragile and broken, and photos of me working at the shop, leaning over the counter, completely unaware that those predatory eyes were tracking my every move from the street.

Then, the images shift to the Menagerie. There I am in the Dracula effect room with him, my expression twisted in a mix of terror and curiosity. In the camera obscura, the house of mirrors... he’d captured every flicker of emotion, every shiver of my skin.

And then, the intimate ones. The naked photos I’d posed for, my body arched and offering, and the one where I’m actually smiling—a rare, genuine thing. There’s a photo of me painting, lost in my own dark world, my fingers stained with pigment.

It’s a wall of stalking. A chronicle of obsession. He had followed me, watched me, breathed me in long before I even knew his name.

My eyes drift down to the floor, and I see the music box he gave me. I’d put all the notes and the now dried black roses he’d given me inside it. I reach down and pick it up, the cool metal familiar in my hand. I wind the key, the mechanism clicking, and as the haunting melody begins to play, the mirror flips open.

I don't jump this time. I don't recoil. I look at my reflection in the glass, then look back at the notes and the withered roses. I glance up at the wall and find the photo of the exact moment he gave me that first rose. Then of me first holding this box.

In the past, this would have been a nightmare. I would have seen a monster, a creep, a man who had stripped away my privacy. But looking at the sheer volume of it—the devotion, the meticulous care he took to document every second of my existence—it flips.