Chapter 29
I’m practically floating in the sheets, my skin still humming from the shower sex. We’re tangled together, damp and warm, the scent of soap and sex clinging to us like a second skin. I shift my weight, resting my head on Rhys’s massive chest, listening to the steady, heavy thrum of his heart.
"So," I murmur, tracing a mindless pattern over his pec. Then to the tattoo. "Your birthday's coming up. What do you actually want to do? A fancy dinner? Some rare, fucked-up artifact? Just tell me what you want."
Rhys doesn't even blink. He just lets out a low, rumbling huff of a laugh that vibrates through my entire body. "Nothing, Ophelia. I don't do birthdays. Pointless shite."
I lift my head, giving him a skeptical look. "Nothing? Not even a cake? A bottle of the expensive scotch?"
He shifts, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard frame. His voice drops an octave, turning into that dark, velvet growl that always makes my stomach flip. "I wouldn't mind some birthday sex, though. Plenty of it."
I roll my eyes, a small, knowing smile tugging at my lips. "Typical. You have sex everyday. What would be different about having it on your birthday?”
“Because this will be on my birthday.”
Suddenly, his hand moves from my waist to my chin, his grip firm but not bruising.
He forces me to look him straight in the eye.
I stop joking, my breath hitching. We just stay like that, locked in a stare.
His eyes are like abysses—dark, obsessive, and completely consumed by me.
The silence in the room thickens, becoming heavy and electric.
"What?" I whisper, my voice sounding small in the quiet of the bedroom.
He doesn't answer. He just keeps staring, his gaze scanning every inch of my face as if he's memorizing me for the thousandth time. His thumb begins to caress my cheek, a slow, rhythmic motion that feels almost possessive.
"What is it?" I ask again, a bit more breathless this time.
"You look more beautiful tonight," he says, his voice a rough whisper. "Which I honestly thought was fucking impossible."
I feel a flush creep up my neck, a warmth that has nothing to do with the shower.
I lean into his touch, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You're such a liar," I breathe, though I'm beaming.
"I'm a mess. I've got blood under my nails from tonight and I'm probably still smelling like the blood that spat all over me. "
"You smell like mine," he corrects, his eyes darkening. "And that's the only thing that matters."
He doesn't give me a chance to respond. He crashes his lips onto mine, the kiss hungry and desperate, like he's trying to swallow me whole. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a claim.
His tongue slides into my mouth, tasting of mint and obsession, and I moan into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He flips me over with a sudden, violent grace, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. He looms over me, his huge frame blocking out the light, making me feel small and utterly possessed.
"Birthday sex," he growls against my skin, his mouth migrating down to my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. "I want you screaming my name until your throat is raw. I want to feel every inch of you shaking under me."
"Then stop talking about it and fucking show a trial run," I gasp, arching my back and pressing my hips up against his.
He lets out a guttural sound, a mix of a growl and a moan, and rips his boxers off in one motion. I watch him—the raw power of his body, the psychotic devotion in his eyes—and I know I'm completely fucked. In the best way possible.
He dives between my legs, his hands gripping my thighs and shoving them wide.
When he enters me in one deep, brutal thrust, I scream, my head hitting the pillow as the world narrows down to just the feeling of him filling me up, stretching me, claiming every single part of me.
He doesn't hold back, pounding into me with a rhythmic, animalistic intensity that leaves me sobbing and clawing at his back.
This isn't just sex; it's a ritual. Every thrust is a declaration, every gasp a surrender.
We're two broken, unhinged things fitting together perfectly in the dark, and as we climax together—a violent, shaking explosion of heat and sweat—I know there's nowhere else in this godforsaken world I'd rather be.
I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, staring at the creature looking back at me.
I look fucking ethereal, like some sort of gothic deity.
I’m wearing a floor-length gown of midnight-black silk that clings to every curve of my body, the bodice laced tight enough to make my breasts heave.
The skirt flares out at the bottom, trailing behind me like a pool of ink.
Around my neck is a heavy velvet choker with a single, blood-red ruby that looks like a drop of fresh gore.
And the crowning glory—my halo. It’s a delicate, spiked circle of blackened silver that sits atop my head, making me look like a fallen angel who’s finally embraced the pit.
Rhys steps up behind me, his reflection towering over mine.
He looks absolutely lethal. He’s in a bespoke black suit, the fabric so dark it seems to swallow the light in the room.
His shirt is a deep charcoal, open at the collar just enough to show the edge of his strength, and his cufflinks are silver skulls.
He doesn't wear a mask tonight; he wants the world to see exactly who owns me.
He wraps his massive arms around my waist, his hands splaying across my stomach, and kisses the curve of my neck.
"You look fucking divine, Ophelia," he growls, his voice vibrating through my spine. "Absolutely breathtaking."
"You don't look too bad yourself," I tease, leaning back into his chest.
"Ready to show these gits what real beauty looks like?" he asks.
I smirk. "Let's go."
We walk downstairs into the main living room of the castle, and the atmosphere is thick with the scent of expensive incense, old parchment, and desperation.
The room is packed with the elite of the goth scene—people draped in lace, leather, and velvet, their faces painted pale, their eyes rimmed in kohl.
As soon as we enter, the chatter dips. Heads turn.
"Mr. Castellan!" a man in a frock coat calls out, stepping forward with a polished smile. "A pleasure to see you again."
Rhys gives a curt, dominant nod, his hand never leaving the small of my back. "Good evening."
A man in a dramatic wide-brimmed hat glides toward me, his eyes wide with genuine admiration. "And who is this vision? Darling, your dress is exquisite, and that halo... simply inspired. It’s positively haunting."
"Thank you," I say, giving him a small, mysterious smile. I feel Rhys’s grip tighten slightly, a possessive reminder that while they can admire, I belong to him.
Without a word, Rhys leads me toward the ballroom, which opens up from the living room like a vast, shadowed cavern.
The music is slow, haunting—a cello and a violin weaving a melody that feels like a funeral march for a lover.
He pulls me onto the dance floor, his hand sliding firmly to my waist, the other locking with mine.
We move together in a slow, hypnotic swirl. The world around us blurs into a smear of black and grey, leaving only him. I look up into those abyssal eyes, and I can see the psychotic devotion swirling there. He isn't just dancing with me; he's claiming me in front of everyone.
"You're shaking," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
"I'm not shaking," I lie, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "I'm just... feeling the music."
"Liar," he murmurs, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "You're feeling me. You love it when everyone knows you're mine, don't you? You love being the prize of the monster."
"Maybe I do," I breathe, arching my back slightly, pressing my chest against his suit. "Maybe I like being the only thing in this room that actually matters to you."
He pulls me closer, erasing every millimeter of space between us. For a moment, the dance isn't about the music; it's about the friction, the heat, and the silent, violent love we share. He looks at me as if he wants to devour me right there on the marble floor, and I want him to.
As the song fades, he leans in close. "Come with me. I want to show you something. I'm taking you to The Cabinet of Lost Things."
I nod, my curiosity piqued. As we walk toward the wing of the castle that houses the museum, I notice a trail of guests following us, drawn by the gravity of Rhys’s presence.
The Cabinet of Lost Things is a masterpiece of misery.
It’s a long, dimly lit gallery filled with glass cases.
I walk past abandoned wedding rings that never saw a honeymoon, yellowed letters of love that were never answered, and cracked porcelain dolls that look like they’ve seen too many deaths.
Each object has a small card beneath it, detailing a tragic story of loss and abandonment. It’s beautiful in its bleakness.
But as I turn the corner into the next section, I stop dead. My heart skips a beat.
There, framed in heavy, ornate black wood and lit by a soft spotlight, is the first oil painting I ever did. The one from my nightmares.
I gasp, stepping closer. Then I see the next one. And the next.
Every single piece I’ve created is here.
The abandoned churches with their crumbling spires, the cracked porcelain dolls with their hollow eyes, the black roses bleeding into the canvas, the crows circling a dead field.
The sea beneath Whitby Abbey, churning and violent, the carnival lights blurring into a ghostly fog, and the skeletal saints staring back with empty sockets.
I whirl around to face Rhys, my eyes wide. "What the fuck is this? Rhys, why are my paintings here? You... you framed them? You put them on display?"