Chapter 14 #4
He looks at the flower, his thumb brushing over a petal with surprising tenderness. "Because people say they don't exist."
I frown. "They do. I'm looking at them."
"Exactly." He turns his gaze to me, his eyes dark and hungry. "People see them and insist they're red. Burgundy. Purple. Anything except what they are. They spend so much time arguing over the colour that they forget they're beautiful."
He pulls me closer, his voice dropping to a low, obsessive vibration. "You spent seven years believing you were broken because everyone kept telling you what they saw instead of letting you tell them who you were."
He reaches out, plucking a single, perfect black rose and placing it in my hand. "You're my black rose, Ophelia."
My heart skips a beat. I can feel the heat of him radiating through my clothes.
"Black-looking roses are hardy," he whispers. "They bloom even after terrible winters." He pauses, his voice becoming almost fragile. "I always thought you'd bloom too."
It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to me. No games, no threats, just a raw belief that I could survive the wreckage of my own life.
"Most people hand the woman they love red roses," he adds, a smirk playing on his lips.
I nod, looking up at him. "Why not me?"
He smiles—that dangerous, beautiful smile that always makes me feel like I'm about to be devoured. "Because you're not ordinary love." He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. "You're the woman whose love can survive inside darkness.”
He gently tucks the black rose behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. His eyes are dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness that makes my heart hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"If I were to set the entire world ablaze just to keep you warm, would you have the courage to stand in the fire with me?
" he whispers, his voice a low, haunting vibration.
"If I spent my eternity hunting down every nightmare that dared to haunt you, would you be the one to hold me while I finally sleep? "
I look up at him, and for a second, the world around us—the greenhouse, the manor, the fucking town of Whitby—just ceases to exist. There’s only him. This psychotic, gorgeous bastard who saw the shattered remains of my soul and decided he wanted every single jagged piece.
I reach up, my hand trembling slightly as I cup his jaw, my thumb brushing over his lip.
"I wouldn't just stand in the fire, Rhys," I breathe, my voice thick with a devotion that feels like a sickness and a cure all at once. "I’d help you light the match. I’d burn every fucking bridge behind us just so there was nowhere left for us to go but deeper into the dark. "
A flicker of something raw and hungry flashes in his eyes. He loves it. He loves that I’m just as twisted as he is.
"And as for your nightmares," I continue, leaning closer until our lips are almost touching, "I’ll be the one waiting for you in the shadows. I’ll hold you while you sleep, and if any demon tries to wake you, I’ll rip its fucking throat out with my bare teeth.
You're mine, Rhys. Every dark thought, every drop of blood, every insane impulse... it all belongs to me."
Rhys lets out a low, guttural sound—half-groan, half-growl—and slams his mouth onto mine.
It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a collision.
It’s a claim. He tastes like obsession and desperation, and I meet him with the same feral hunger, my fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him as close as humanly possible.
The sun finally dips below the horizon, plunging the greenhouse into a deep, velvet twilight. The only light left is the ghostly glow of the black roses surrounding us, but I don't need to see. I can feel him.
His hands move with a frantic, possessive energy, sliding down my back to grip my hips, hauling me up against his hard frame. He breaks the kiss for a split second, his breath hot against my skin. "You're my ruin, Ophelia," he rasps. "My beautiful, broken ruin."
"Then ruin me again," I moan, arching my back.
He doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find the hem of my clothes, and he begins to strip me with a hunger that borders on violent. He’s not just undressing me; he’s uncovering his prize.
Each piece of fabric he tears away feels like another layer of my defenses falling, leaving me raw and exposed under his predatory gaze.
I’m just as desperate, my hands fumbling with his buttons, ripping at his shirt to feel the heat of his chest against my breasts. We’re both shaking, driven by a need that goes beyond sex—it’s a spiritual consumption.
As the last of my clothes hit the damp earth of the greenhouse floor, Rhys pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes scanning my body with a terrifying intensity. He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the universe that matters, and the only thing he ever wants to destroy.
"Mine," he whispers, the word a vow and a threat.
"Always," I gasp, pulling him back down to me, our bodies colliding in the dark.