Chapter 21
I’m perched on the stool, legs crossed, feeling the rough fabric of the black t-shirt—one of Rhys’s, with the Midnight Menagerie logo stretched across my chest. It smells like him: expensive cologne, old books, and a hint of something beautiful.
My canvas is standing there, stark and white, staring back at me like a challenge.
Beside me, the table is cluttered with the gear he bought me—charcoal, pencils, paints—all laid out like a surgical kit for my mind.
I glance over my shoulder and a small, strange smile tugs at my lips.
Rhys is on the floor, dressed down in a black tee and grey sweatpants, completely immersed in a game with Shadow.
It’s a fucking sight. The massive black jaguar is acting like a kitten, batting at a thick rope toy Rhys is tossing, his huge paws thumping against the floorboards.
Rhys is laughing—not that dark, mocking chuckle he usually gives, but something genuine.
He’s wrestling with the beast, dodging a playful swipe of a claw, his movements fluid and fast.
I watch them for a moment, my heart doing a weird little flutter. I never pegged him for the type to play any kind of game that didn't involve me pinned to a mattress or some twisted psychological mind-game. Seeing him like this... it’s almost human.
My mind drifts back to the phone call. I’d finally worn him down enough to get him to call the hospital.
Amara is okay. I’ve spoken to her, heard the exhaustion in her voice, and made sure she knows I’m still breathing.
Rhys had been a stubborn bastard about me visiting—adamant that I stay put, safe within his walls—so I’d compromised.
I asked him to send white roses. He’d just grunted and called a member of the staff, giving the instructions in that cold, commanding tone of his.
He’s a psychotic prick, but he does the things I ask if it keeps me quiet and content.
As I watch him tumble over with Shadow, a thought slips into my head, unbidden and terrifying: What would he be as a father?
I feel a sudden chill. I’m still taking the Plan B, making sure we’re safe from any accidental legacies, but the image lingers. A version of Rhys that protects something small, something fragile. But then the darkness rushes back in, reminding me why that's a fantasy for now.
I can't jump into motherhood. I can't even jump into living yet.
I haven't lived a fucking day in seven years. Since I was twelve, my life has been a slow-motion car crash. For seven years, I’ve been a ghost in my own skin, terrified of my own reflection because every time I looked in the mirror, I didn't see Ophelia.
I saw them. My triplet sisters. I saw the faces of the girls my father slaughtered right in front of me with a butcher's knife, their blood spraying across the kitchen tiles while I watched, frozen.
I need to breathe. I need to exist as a person before I can ever think about bringing another soul into this madness.
I turn back to the canvas, the weight of the memory settling in my gut. I reach for a piece of charcoal, my fingers gripping it tight. I don't want to draw something pretty. I want to draw the truth.
I don't even know where the drawing came from. I never once imagined myself drawing, until the night I wondered into his office after a nightmare and drew what was in my fucked up head. And it was so accurate. Too accurate.
I start with the eyes. Large, glassy, and vacant. I sketch the outline of a porcelain doll's face, the features too perfect, too symmetrical to be real. I spend time on the lashes, making them long and doll-like, but the pupils are just hollow voids.
Then, I begin the destruction.
I press the charcoal hard against the canvas, dragging a jagged, violent line from the forehead, slicing down through one eye and ending at the jaw.
I create a web of fractures, thin, spider-webbing cracks that bloom across the cheeks and chin.
I make the porcelain look like it's shattering from the inside out, as if the pressure of whatever is trapped within the doll has become too much to bear.
I shade the cracks deep, making them look like open wounds in the ceramic. I add a single, heavy tear rolling down the unbroken cheek, but instead of a tear, I make it look like a leak of black oil, staining the pristine white of the doll's skin.
It’s not just a doll. It’s me. A broken, painted thing, held together by nothing but a few shards of memory and the will to keep from falling completely apart.
It's a cracked doll.
I lean back, my chest heaving slightly, the charcoal staining my fingertips black. I look at the ruined face on the canvas and feel a sudden, sharp sense of relief. For the first time in years, the reflection isn't in the mirror. It's right here, where I can control it.
I’m still staring at the ruined face of the porcelain doll, my heart hammering a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. The charcoal is smeared across my skin, making me look just as stained as the canvas. Then, I feel him.
The air shifts, and suddenly there’s a wall of heat pressing against my back.
Rhys slides in behind me, his chest broad and solid, anchoring me to the stool.
He doesn't say a word at first; he just wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel the rough cotton of his t-shirt and the steady, predatory thrum of his heart beating against my spine.
He leans in, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of my ear, his breath hot and smelling of mint and something dark. I shiver, a jolt of electricity shooting straight down to my toes.
"Fuck, Ophelia," he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattles in my chest. "Look at this. The detail... the way you've captured the break."
One of his hands leaves my waist, his long fingers tracing the edge of the canvas, hovering just inches from the charcoal lines.
He isn't looking at me; he's staring at the shattered doll with an intensity that feels almost voyeuristic, like he’s seeing into the deepest, most fucked-up parts of my soul.
"You've got a real fucking talent for the macabre, love," he murmurs, his grip tightening around my middle, pulling me so close I can feel every muscle in his thighs through those sweatpants. "Most people are too scared to look at the cracks. But you... you lean right into the wreckage, don't you?"
I lean my head back against his shoulder, closing my eyes. It’s a strange feeling—being praised for the things that usually make me want to scream. With anyone else, this drawing would be a red flag, a sign of a mental collapse. With Rhys, it’s a goddamn masterpiece.
"It's just a doll, Rhys," I mutter, though my voice is shaky, lacking any real conviction.
"It's not just a doll, Ophelia," he chuckles, the sound dark and possessive. He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me gasp. "It's raw. It's honest. It's fucking beautiful because it's broken, cracked. Just like you."
He kisses the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, a hard, bruising press of his lips that marks me as his. I can feel his arousal pressing against my backside, a blunt reminder that while he admires the art, he’s far more interested in the artist.
"Keep drawing," he commands, his voice dropping an octave, turning that soft praise into an order. "Bleed it all out onto the canvas. Every nightmare, every scream, every bit of filth you've been hiding. I want to see it all.”