Chapter 24
I’m perched on the velvet stool by the vanity, my reflection staring back at me, but I’m not looking at myself.
I’m looking at Rhys. He’s standing behind me, his large, steady hands framing my face, holding a tube of deep, blood-red lipstick.
He applies it with a slow, agonizing precision, the waxy glide of the color staining my lips into a perfect, lethal pout.
I don't blink. I just stare into his eyes through the mirror—those dark, psychotic depths that make me feel like I’m drowning and flying all at once. He lingers, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth to smudge the line just a fraction, making me look a bit more undone, a bit more manic.
"Perfect," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that rattles my bones.
He steps back, and I finally take him in.
He’s dressed like a fucking twisted Ringmaster.
He’s wearing a sharp, tailored black tailcoat with crimson silk lining that flashes whenever he moves, paired with a crisp white shirt and a black waistcoat that hugs his frame.
His trousers are pressed to a lethal edge, leading down to polished leather boots that look like they were made for stepping on throats.
He looks magnificent and terrifying, the absolute master of this madhouse.
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his gun. The metallic click-clack of him loading the magazine is the only sound in the room, a rhythmic, cold promise of violence.
Then, he turns his attention to me. He doesn't just give me clothes; he dresses me like a prized possession. He slides me into a dress that’s more of a suggestion than a garment—black lace and sheer silk that clings to every curve, short enough to be a scandal and dark enough to be a funeral.
He fastens a choker around my neck, tight enough to make me mindful of every breath, and slides a pair of thigh-high leather boots up my legs, zipping them with a sharp zip that sounds like a blade.
Finally, he reaches for the weapon. He holds out the double-sided axe, the heavy steel gleaming under the vanity lights. I wrap my fingers around the grip, the weight of it grounding me, making me feel powerful, making me feel like the monster he wants me to be.
"It's time for the hunt, love," he says, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. "The last one. The final cunt who touched your mum. Tonight, we carve the memory of him out of this world."
We leave the bedroom after putting on our masks, the air between us thick with a shared, murderous electricity.
As we head downstairs, the muffled thrum of bass and the scent of expensive incense hit me.
The ground floor is packed—a goth party full of VIPs, trust-fund ghouls, and socialites dressed in velvet and lace, all being dark while they sip champagne.
The moment we step into the light, the music doesn't stop, but the atmosphere shifts. The chatter dies down into a low, frantic hum. We don't sneak; we don't hide. Rhys reaches down and grips my hand, his fingers interlocking with mine in a possessive, iron hold.
We walk through the crowd, the sea of people parting for us like we're royalty or plagues. I can hear the whispers starting, a ripple of fear and fascination flowing through the room.
"Look at her... those eyes... they're glowing like a doll's."
"And him... the blue tears... is that paint or something worse?"
I can feel them staring, documenting us in their minds.
We aren't just guests; we're a spectacle. The woman with the glowing doll eyes and the man with the blue tears. We’ve stopped being people to this town; we’ve become a fucking urban legend in real-time.
The new monsters in town, and we're wearing the titles like crowns.
Rhys doesn't spare a single glance for the crowd. He leads me straight out the front doors, his pace steady and purposeful.
Waiting for us in the driveway is his car—a massive, obsidian-black custom beast of a vehicle.
It’s a vintage luxury sedan that’s been modified into something sinister.
The paint is a deep, mirror-like black that seems to swallow the moonlight, the chrome accents polished to a blinding silver.
It looks less like a car and more like a hearse for the living, wide-bodied and menacing, with tinted windows that hide whatever horrors are kept inside.
Rhys opens the door for me, his hand resting on the small of my back. As I slide into the leather interior, which smells of expensive cologne and old blood, I look back at the mansion.
"Let's go," I mutter, my grip tightening on the axe. "I want to see him scream.”
The air in the ballroom is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, old money, and a suffocating layer of pretension.
It’s a masquerade, a sea of velvet, silk, and gold, where every posh cunt in the room is hiding behind a mask, pretending to be something they aren't. The music is a sweeping, orchestral swell that feels too loud, too manic, like it's trying to drown out the screams that haven't happened yet.
Rhys has me locked in his arms, our bodies pressed together in a slow, rhythmic glide across the polished marble floor. I can feel the heat of him through the lace of my dress, his grip on my waist possessive and iron-tight. We aren't just dancing; we're hunting.
The weapons are tucked away, hidden in plain sight.
My double-sided axe is concealed beneath a heavy, sweeping cloak of midnight silk that trails behind me, the weight of the steel pressing against my thigh, a cold comfort.
Rhys has his gun tucked into the small of his back, hidden by the sharp cut of his Ringmaster’s tailcoat.
To anyone else, we’re just another eccentric couple of goths playing dress-up.
To us, this party is just a fucking buffet of targets.
As we swirl through the crowd, I notice the shift.
The dancers around us are moving, but their eyes—visible through the slits of their ornate masks—are fixed on us.
They recognize the look. The glowing doll eyes.
The blue tears. We’re the monsters they’ve whispered about, the urban legends walking among them.
They don't dare stop us, but the air around us turns frigid, a wake of silent terror following our every step.
He holds me for a dance. I let him lead.
I lean in, my lips brushing against the shell of Rhys's ear, my voice a low, dangerous hiss. "Do you see the old bastard? Tell me you see him."
Rhys doesn't miss a beat, his eyes scanning the room with a predatory precision. A dark, cruel smile tugs at his lips. "I've had my eyes on the cunt since we walked in, love. He’s shaking in his boots, though he doesn't know why yet."
He steers me toward the edge of the room, his movements fluid and calculated.
The target is an old man in his sixties, dressed in a tuxedo that costs more than most people's houses, wearing a gold leaf mask that looks like a dying sun. He’s sipping champagne, trying to look composed, but his eyes are darting around, sensing the predator in the room.
Rhys doesn't make a scene. He doesn't have to. He simply catches the man's eye and gives a slight, commanding nod toward the corridor leading to the restrooms. It’s not an invitation; it’s a summons.
The old man freezes, the glass of champagne trembling in his hand.
He recognizes the blue tears. He knows exactly who we are, and the blood drains from his face, leaving him a ghostly, pathetic shade of grey.
We flank him, guiding him out of the ballroom with a terrifying politeness.
Rhys’s hand is on the man's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle like talons, while I walk beside him, the hem of my cloak brushing the floor with a sinister hiss.
The moment we hit the privacy of the opulent, marble-tiled bathroom, Rhys slams the door shut and bolts it with a heavy thud.
The old man stumbles back, his gold mask slipping sideways, revealing a face etched with cowardice and age. He looks at us—the doll and the monster—and he knows. He fucking knows.
"Please," he wheezes, his voice a pathetic crack. "I... I don't know who you are!"
Rhys steps forward, the gun appearing in his hand as if by magic, the muzzle cold against the man's forehead.
"Liar," Rhys purrs, his voice dripping with sadistic delight.
"You know exactly why we're here. You’re going to pay for every single scream, every tear, and every bit of agony you inflicted on Marguerite Hansburg. "
The man’s eyes widen. The mention of my mother’s name is the final nail in the coffin. He lets out a strangled sob and tries to bolt for the door, his frail legs scrambling for grip on the slick marble.
He doesn't even make it two steps.
I swing the axe with a guttural scream, the heavy blade whistling through the air before it bites deep into the back of his calf.
A sickening crunch of bone and a wet thwack echoes through the room.
He collapses with a shriek that would have brought the whole party running if the walls weren't so thick.
He’s on the floor now, crawling, sobbing, begging for a mercy that doesn't exist in our world. I stand over him, the axe dripping a dark, visceral crimson onto the white marble. I look down at him with those glowing eyes, feeling a surge of electric, murderous joy.
"This is for her, you piece of shit," I spit.
I raise the axe high and bring it down with everything I have, splitting the gold mask and the skull beneath it in one brutal, wet blow. Blood sprays across my face, warm and metallic, staining my red lips a deeper shade of gore.
Rhys doesn't let him die instantly. He wants the terror to linger. As the man gasps, half-dead and staring at the ceiling in shock, Rhys presses the gun to the man's open mouth.
BANG.
The sound is muffled by the man's own throat, a wet, explosive pop that paints the wall behind him in a spray of grey and red.
Silence returns to the bathroom, save for the sound of the man's final, rattling breath.
Rhys reaches out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge of blood from my cheek. He looks at me with such intense, psychotic adoration that it makes my skin prickle. "Well done, my lovely monster."
We don't panic. We don't rush. We take our time cleaning the spray off our clothes with a few dampened towels, adjusting our masks, and smoothing out the silk of my cloak. I feel light, purged, as if the weight of my mother's trauma has been lifted by the weight of the axe.
We unlock the door and step back into the ballroom, sliding seamlessly back into the crowd. We resume our dance, our bodies entwined, the music still swelling, the guests still whispering. To the world, we are just the beautiful, strange couple in the masks.
Nobody notices the faint scent of copper clinging to us as we glide across the floor, smiling at the guests, perfectly composed, and utterly fucking lethal.
The room is swallowed in a heavy, oppressive silence, broken only by the rhythmic, low rumble of Shadow’s snoring and the steady, deep breathing of Rhys. I’m standing at the edge of the bed, my skin prickling in the midnight chill, watching them.
Rhys looks almost peaceful when he’s out cold, his face devoid of that manic, predatory hunger that usually defines him.
He’s got one arm flung over Shadow, the great black beast curled up against him like some oversized, murderous kitten.
It’s a fucking domestic picture, if you ignore the fact that the man is a psychotic Ringmaster and the cat is a shadow-demon.
I feel a surge of something—love, terror, or maybe just a desperate need to breathe without his hand around my throat or my waist. He’s my anchor, but right now, he feels like a golden cage.
My mind is a fucking whirlwind. I can’t do this while he’s watching me, guiding me, molding me into his perfect little monster. I need to know who the fuck I am when I’m not just 'his' Ophelia.
The weight of what’s waiting for me in the attic is crushing.
My mother. My sisters. Those poor, broken things, preserved in a state of horrific stillness.
I have to face them. I have to look at the wreckage of my bloodline and decide if I want to bury them, burn them, or keep them as shrines to the agony that made me.
And then... there’s him. The old bastard.
My father. The man who turned my childhood into a slaughterhouse.
He’s the final boss in this fucked-up game, and I can’t face that demon while I’m still leaning on Rhys’s strength.
I need to be the one to swing the axe this time. Not for revenge, not for Rhys’s pleasure, but for me.
I move like a ghost, my footsteps silent on the cold floor.
I dress quickly, pulling on clothes that don't scream 'doll' or 'victim.
' Every rustle of fabric feels like a gunshot in the quiet room. I glance back at the bed one last time. Rhys stirs, a small groan escaping his lips, and for a second, my heart hammers against my ribs, thinking he’s woken up to drag me back into his arms. He doesn't. He just settles deeper into the pillows, oblivious.
I reach for the bedside table. My phone is there, glowing faintly. Next to it lies the halo—that shimmering, cursed bit of jewelry he loves so much.
I stare at them for a long moment. If I take the phone, he can track me. If I take the halo, he’ll track me. He’s too fucking clever, too obsessed; he’ll find me in an hour if I leave him a breadcrumb trail.
Fuck it.
I leave them both. I leave the phone, the halo, and the safety of his psychotic protection.
I slip out of the room, the air in the hallway feeling thinner, colder. As I head for the door, I don't look back. I can't. If I see his face again, I might just stay, and if I stay, I’ll never find out if there’s anything left of Ophelia that isn't stained by someone else's blood.
I step out into the night, the wind biting at my face, and I run. I run until my lungs burn and the house is nothing but a dark smudge against the horizon, disappearing into the woods where the ghosts are waiting.