Page 99 of Porcelain Grave

It isn't horror. It's fucking worship.

He didn't just want to own me; he worshipped every single version of me. The broken girl, the artist, the lover, the monster. I am his religion, and this room is his cathedral.

I set the music box down slowly, the melody still tinkling in the background. I turn to him, and before he can utter a single fucking word, I launch myself at him. I jump, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist, my arms locking around his neck.

Rhys lets out a guttural grunt of surprise and desire, his large hands instantly gripping my ass to hold me up. He doesn't waste a second. He slams me back against the wall of obsession, the photographs rattling behind me as my back hits the surface.

"Fuck, love," he growls, his voice sounding like gravel and sin.

I don't want romance. I want the madness. I start clawing at his clothes, my fingers frantic, desperate to get him out of everything. I’m ripping at his belt, my breath coming in jagged gasps, cursing under my breath as I struggle with the fabric.

"Hurry the fuck up, Rhys! Now!" I scream, my voice raw.

He doesn't need telling twice. He rips my dress up, the fabric screaming as it gives way. He doesn't bother with the lace of my knickers; he just hooks his fingers into the waistband and rips them clean off, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the small room.

He enters me in one brutal, merciless thrust.

I let out a loud, piercing moan, my head snapping back against the wall, knocking a few of the photos askew. It’s a fucking assault of pleasure, a violent collision of two broken souls. He isn't being gentle; he’s pounding into me with a psychotic intensity, his hips slamming against mine with a rhythmic, wet thud.

"You're mine," he snarls, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, nearly drawing blood. "Every inch of you. Every fucking breath. Mine."

"Yes! Fuck me, Rhys! Destroy me!" I shriek, my nails digging deep into his shoulders, drawing blood.

I can feel the wall behind me, the hundreds of eyes of my past selves watching us, and it only makes it hotter. The obsession is tangible, a physical weight pressing us together. He’s hitting my cervix with every thrust, a deep, punishing ache that sends sparks of white light through my vision. I’m sobbing, laughing, and cursing all at once, my body shaking under the force of his onslaught.

He’s fucking me like he wants to merge our skin, to push himself so far inside me that there’s no longer a boundary between us. His breath is hot and ragged in my ear, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, more insane. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, locking him in, demanding every single drop of his madness.

We’re both on the edge, the tension coiled tight like a spring. I can feel his muscles bunching, his grip on my thighs bruising, his breath hitching in his throat.

"I love you, you crazy fucking doll," he groans, his voice breaking.

Just as the first wave of an explosive, toe-curling orgasm crashes over me, and Rhys lets out a roar, emptying himself deep inside me in a violent surge of heat, a movement at the door catches my eye.

Shadow.

The big black Jaguar is poking his head through the door, his golden eyes wide and curious. He lets out a soft, inquisitive mrow and steps into the room, watching us with a detached, feline judgment as we collapse against each other, shaking and drenched in sweat, pinned against the wall of the man who worships me.

Chapter 33

The car engine cuts out, leaving us in a heavy, ringing silence. Shadow lets out a low huff, his massive paws shifting in the back seat.

"Stay," Rhys murmurs, patting the Jaguar’s head before shutting the door.

I step out and the evening air is crisp, smelling of damp pavement and fading light. It’s past six, and the sun is dipping low, bleeding a bruised purple and orange across the horizon. I look up at the Tin Heart toy shop, and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold races down my spine. The place looks skeletal in the twilight, the windows like cataracts, blind and milky.

There’s no electricity—the power’s been out for weeks—and the darkness is already beginning to swallow the storefront. I glance at Rhys, my heart doing a weird little dance.

"I hope whatever you've got planned here, we can make it fucking fast," I mutter, pulling my coat tighter. "No lights."

He just gives me that dark, knowing smirk, the one that tells me he’s three steps ahead of everyone in the room. He leads me inside, the bell above the door giving a lonely, rusted cling.

As the door shuts behind us, the smell hits me. Dust, old cedar, and the cloying, sweet scent of new decaying fabric. I walk slowly, my boots clicking on the warped floorboards. I look around at the shelves, piled high with toys from the fifties—tin soldiers with chipped paint, wind-up monkeys, and rows upon rows of cracked porcelain dolls that seem to track my movement with their glassy, frozen eyes.

It’s fucking mental. I should hate it. This place is a graveyard of my worst memories, a monument to the misery Thomas put me through. But as I stand there in the gloom, I feel a strange, twisted sense of nostalgia. This was the place where Rhys first saw me. Where he first started his game of cat and mouse, stalking me through the aisles, breathing me in while I thought I was alone. It’s where he first held me, where the obsession took root.

I notice Rhys is holding some papers he grabbed from the car. He’s looking at me with an expression that’s almost tender, though there’s always that predatory edge to him.

"What is that?" I ask, nodding toward the documents.