Chapter 1 #3
The world tilts. I feel a wave of nausea roll over me, a sickening heat rising in my throat. My mother didn't just die; she was murdered by negligence, left to rot from the inside out while she tried to bring me into this miserable world.
"How the fuck do you know that?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "How do you know all this?"
Rhys reaches up, cupping my face in his large hands. His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, his grip tightening just enough to let me know I can't move. "You have to process what you saw in that attic first, Ophelia. You're too fragile right now. We'll talk when you've stopped shaking."
The fragility is gone. In its place is a white-hot, searing rage that burns through the fog of my trauma. I slam my bandaged hand against his chest, pushing him back, though he barely budges.
"No!" I scream, the sound ripping from my throat. "I am fucking done with this! I'm done with you treating me like some porcelain doll you can just put on a shelf! You don't get to hide things from me anymore. You don't get to decide when I'm 'ready' to know about my own fucking mother!"
I'm shaking, but it's not from fear anymore. It's adrenaline. "I have the right to know everything. Every disgusting, bloody detail of how my family was destroyed!"
Rhys's eyes darken, that obsessive, psychotic glint returning. He looks like he wants to devour me and break me all over again. "Tomorrow morning," he says firmly. "I'll show you everything then. Not a second sooner."
I shake my head violently, my hair whipping around my shoulders. "Fuck your tomorrow! I'm not taking that for an answer, you arrogant prick."
I glare at him, my eyes narrowing. If he won't give me the truth, I'll rip it out of the source.
"Take me to him," I demand, my voice cold. "My father. He's in this godforsaken place somewhere, isn't he? If you're going to keep playing these fucking games, then take me to him right now. Let me look the bastard in the eye.”
"No," he says. Just one word. Flat. Final. Like a fucking gavel hitting a block.
The word triggers something in me—a surge of pure, unadulterated panic mixed with rage.
I can't stay here. I can't stay in this bed, in this house, wrapped in his clothes while he holds the keys to my entire fucking existence.
I scramble, trying to throw myself off the mattress, my bandaged hands slipping against the sheets as I fight to get my feet on the floor.
But Rhys is faster. He’s always fucking faster.
Before I can even slide an inch, he lunges. He doesn't just stop me; he slams his entire weight down on top of me, pinning me flat against the bed. The air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp oof, and for a second, I can't breathe, the sheer mass of him crushing me into the mattress.
"Get off me!" I scream, the sound raw and jagged. "Get the fuck off me, Rhys!"
He doesn't budge. He locks his arms around mine, pinning my wrists beside my head, his chest heaving against mine. He’s like a fucking mountain of muscle and obsession, an immovable object that has decided I am his world and his prisoner all at once.
"You can't take it, Ophelia," he growls, his face inches from mine. His eyes are wide, dark, and shimmering with that psychotic intensity that usually turns me on, but right now, it just terrifies me. “You can’t take what you'll find. Not today. Not tonight. You’re already shattered, my little cracked doll. If I give you the rest of it now, you’ll fucking disintegrate.”
"I don't give a fuck!" I shriek, thrashing beneath him. I start to fight, really fight. I arch my back, trying to buck him off, my legs kicking wildly against the sheets. I manage to free one hand for a split second and I swing, my fist connecting with his jaw with a dull thud.
He doesn't even flinch. He just grunts, his grip tightening until I feel like my bones might actually snap.
"Let me go! Take me to him! Take me to my father!" I’m punching his chest now, hitting him over and over, my bandaged palms stinging with every blow. I’m sobbing, the rage dissolving into a desperate, hacking grief. "Please, Rhys! Please, I need to know! I can't live like this!"
"I can't lose you," he whispers, and the way he says it isn't romantic.
It's possessive. It's the sound of a man who would rather see me locked in a cage for eternity than risk me walking away or breaking beyond repair.
"I won't let you go. I'll hold you down until you stop fighting.
I'll hold you until you forget there's a world outside this room. "
I stop punching. I stop kicking. I just collapse under him, my body going limp as the first real wave of hopelessness hits me. I start to cry—not the quiet, pretty kind of crying, but the ugly, snotty, gasping sobs of someone who has lost everything.
“Please,” I beg, my voice breaking, a pathetic whimper. “Please, Rhys... just tell me. Please let me go.”
He doesn't move. He stays right there, heavy and suffocating, his heart beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against my own.
He doesn't offer comfort; he offers containment.
He just lies there on top of me, holding me down with a terrifying, absolute certainty, listening to me break while he keeps me exactly where he wants me.