Chapter 1 #2
Then comes the oil. He pours a warm, scented moisturizer into his palms and begins to rub it into my skin.
He starts at my ankles and works his way up, his palms sliding over my calves, my thighs, and up over my hips.
The friction is intoxicating. He spends a long time on my back, his thumbs digging into the knots of my shoulders, his touch possessive and heavy.
By the time he’s done, my skin is glistening, smelling of him and luxury, a stark contrast to the stench of decay I can still taste in the back of my throat.
He slides me into his black bathrobe—it’s huge on me, the fabric heavy and soft, smelling of tobacco and expensive cologne. He carries me to the bed, the one that isn't split in half, and sets me down.
I sit there, staring at the wall, feeling empty. Rhys doesn't leave. He sits behind me, his legs flanking mine, and reaches for a brush.
He starts at the ends of my hair, gently working out the tangles.
The rhythmic scritch-scratch of the bristles against my scalp is the only sound in the room.
It’s hypnotic. Every stroke is slow, deliberate, pulling the hair taut against my head before gliding down the length of it.
I can feel his breath on the nape of my neck, warm and steady.
For a long time, I’m just a ghost. I’m not really here.
I’m back in that attic, looking at Rosalind’s undone plait and Cordelia’s open mouth.
I feel like I’ve been hollowed out, like there’s nothing left inside me but a cold, whistling wind.
But the feeling of the brush, the warmth of Rhys’s body behind me, starts to pull me back from the edge.
He brushes a long strand over my shoulder, his fingers lingering on the black silk of my hair.
My throat feels like it’s full of glass, dry and jagged. I swallow hard, the sound loud in the silence. I don't know if I can do it, but I have to. I have to know if I'm still alive.
"Why..." I whisper, my voice sounding like a stranger's—cracked, raw, and barely there. I clear my throat, my chest heaving. "Why the fuck were they in that box, Rhys?”
The brush clatters onto the bedside table, the sound sharp in the oppressive silence of the room.
Rhys doesn't just move me; he maneuvers me, his grip firm and possessive as he turns me around to face him. I’m still swimming in his oversized black bathrobe, feeling small and fragile, like a fucking bird with clipped wings.
He reaches for a roll of black bandages and a small medical kit.
His eyes aren't on my face; they're locked on my hands. My palms are a mess, shredded and raw from where I’d gripped that rusted, godforsaken box in the attic.
I can still smell the metallic tang of old blood and decay clinging to my skin, even after the bath.
“Hold still, you stubborn little thing,” he mutters, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
He takes my hand in his, his touch surprisingly steady.
Then, without warning, he digs a pair of tweezers into the meat of my palm.
I gasp, my body jerking, as he pinches something deep in the flesh.
With a sharp tug, he pulls out a jagged, rusted sliver of metal—a piece of the box that had embedded itself so deep I hadn't even felt it.
“Fuck!” I hiss, wincing and trying to pull away, but he pins my wrist to the bed with a strength that reminds me exactly who owns me in this house.
“Don’t be a baby,” he murmurs, though there's a twisted kind of tenderness in his eyes.
He dabs the wound with disinfectant, the sting making my eyes water, and then he begins to wrap the black bandages around my palms. He does it meticulously, the fabric tight and secure, turning my hands into something that looks like a fucking gothic accessory.
Once he’s finished, he doesn't let go. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable, psychotic and calm all at once.
"I know exactly what happened to Marguerite," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "Every bloody detail."
My heart hammers against my ribs. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating. "Tell me," I demand, my voice still sounding raw.
Rhys sighs, a slow, mocking sound. "I'm not so sure you're in the right state of mind to handle the truth, Ophelia. You're cracked. You're barely holding together as it is."
I scoff, a bitter sound. "I know the basics, Rhys. I know my mum died giving birth to me and my sisters. That’s the story, isn't it? The tragic loss."
He looks at me, and for a second, I see a flash of genuine disgust—not for me, but for the memory he's conjuring. “That’s true. She did die giving birth. But she didn't just ‘die,’ love. She died because your father is fucking evil.”
I freeze. "What?"
"He wouldn't take her to the hospital," Rhys says, his voice cold and clinical.
"Her water broke, and he just... left her.
He sat there while she bled out, while she struggled to push you out—the last one, the little baby that finally finished her off.
She was hemorrhaging, screaming for help, and he just watched her fade away because he knew he couldn't take her out of the house.”