Chapter 15 #3
We begin to shower together, the water washing away the blood and the sweat.
We don't stop kissing—deep, hungry, desperate kisses that taste like salt and obsession.
We scrub each other's skin, our hands lingering on the bruises and the cuts, treating the wounds like sacred relics.
Every touch is a vow, every kiss a claim.
We stay there for a long time, locked in each other's arms under the scalding spray, two broken people finding a twisted kind of peace in the middle of the madness.
I bolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The nightmare is still clinging to me—cold, suffocating, and smelling of old earth and copper.
I’m shaking, my skin slick with a cold sweat that makes the sheets cling to my thighs.
I gasp for air, the silence of the room feeling heavy, almost predatory.
Beside me, Rhys is out cold. He’s sleeping peacefully, his features softened in a way that only happens when he’s completely unconscious.
He looks almost innocent, if you ignore the possessive way his arm is still draped across my waist, pinning me to him even in sleep.
I don't want to wake him. He’s worked himself into a state of exhaustion keeping me safe, and seeing him this still, this quiet, is the only thing that anchors me back to reality.
I carefully slide out from under his arm, my movements slow and deliberate.
I lean over him, running my fingers through his dark hair—it's soft, a stark contrast to the violence he's capable of.
I press a lingering, soft kiss to his forehead, a silent thank you for being the monster that protects me from all the others.
I spot his shirt discarded on the floor, a crumpled heap of expensive fabric.
I scoop it up and slide it over my head.
It’s massive on me, the hem reaching mid-thigh and the sleeves swallowing my hands, smelling strongly of him—sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and that metallic tang that always seems to follow him.
I don't bother with shoes; I leave the room barefoot, the cold floor biting at my soles.
As I wander through the corridors of the castle, I pass a couple of his guards.
They straighten up, their faces stoic, but I don't even look at them.
I'm in a fugue state, my mind still half-lost in the dark corridors of my dream.
I don't give a fuck who's watching; I just need to get the noise out of my head.
I slip into his office. It’s a sanctuary of dark wood, leather, and the scent of old books. My eyes land on a sketchbook on the desk, its pages crisp and untouched, with a graphite pencil resting beside it. I grab them and drift toward the massive window.
I lean against the sill, looking out. The night sky is a bruised black, with a sliver of a moon cutting through the clouds like a blade.
Below the manor, the carnival is still in full swing.
From this height, it looks like a neon wound in the earth.
The Ferris wheel spins slowly, a circle of garish gold and red lights, while the crowds look like tiny, frantic ants scurrying between the tents.
The distant sound of calliope music and muffled screams of excitement drift up to me, sounding distorted and surreal, like a recording played underwater.
I open the sketchbook and start to draw. I don't think; I just let my hand move, the pencil scratching aggressively against the paper.
The image emerges from the void: a skeletal figure draped in tattered Victorian lace, its jaw unhinged in a silent, eternal scream.
From its chest, thick, black thorny vines erupt, winding around a small, fragile human heart that's being squeezed until it bleeds. Around the figure, I sketch a halo of floating eyes—wide, staring, and judgmental—all weeping a thick, ink-like substance. It’s a portrait of agony and obsession, a visceral manifestation of the trauma and the twisted love that defines my existence.
It’s fucking grotesque, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever created.
As the final stroke of the pencil lands, I feel the tension drain out of my shoulders. The frantic rhythm of my heart slows down. The darkness that was choking me in my sleep has been transferred onto the page, trapped in graphite and paper. I can breathe again.
I stand up, clutching the sketchbook to my chest. I walk back to the bedroom, the silence of the house now feeling comforting rather than oppressive. I slide the book and the pencil into the drawer of the nightstand, hiding the madness away where only I know it exists.
I slip back into bed, sliding my body against Rhys's warmth.
He stirs, his instincts kicking in even in sleep, and he instinctively pulls me back into his chest, his grip tightening as if making sure I haven't vanished into the night.
I nestle my head under his chin, closing my eyes, and finally fall into a deep, dreamless sleep in the arms of my favorite nightmare.