Chapter 34
The first snow of the year falls over Whitby on Rhys Castellan's birthday.
It isn't enough to bury the world, just a thin, ghostly dusting that makes the abbey ruins look like something forgotten and haunted. Outside the window, thin snowflakes drift over the cliffs, and a layer of frost coats the castle stones in a shimmering, cold skin. The sea wind is biting, carrying a mixture of snow and salt-heavy mist that clings to the graveyard surrounding the abbey. It’s poetic, really—dark and cold, just like him.
I head downstairs, my bare feet hitting the cold floors, and find the kitchen already buzzing.
I’ve got the staff working like a well-oiled machine.
I love these people; they’re always there to help, making sure everything is fucking perfect, though I can't wait until we move into the new house.
Once we're settled there, we'll have all the privacy in the world, and I can cook for him without a dozen chefs hovering over my shoulder like I'm some sort of amateur.
I spend the next hour meticulously arranging the breakfast tray. I want it to be indulgent, the kind of meal that feels like a reward. Once it's ready, I start making my way up the grand staircase, the tray balanced carefully in my hands.
"Keep him distracted," I whisper to the head steward, my eyes on Shadow. "Feed him enough of his favorite food to keep him in the lounge. Don't let him come looking for me until I ask for him."
Just as I'm nearing the bedroom wing, one of the maids intercepts me, holding a sleek, elegantly wrapped box.
"This arrived for Mr. Castellan, Miss Ophelia," she says softly. "A gift from Mrs. Castellan."
"Cheers," I mutter, taking the box and tucking it under my arm.
I reach the bedroom door and take a deep breath, a smirk playing on my lips.
I push the door open and find Rhys just waking up.
He’s sprawled across the bed, half-buried in charcoal sheets, his dark hair a mess and his eyes heavy with sleep.
He looks devastatingly handsome when he's drowsy—less like a predator and more like a king who knows exactly how much power he holds.
"Happy birthday, love," I chirp, stepping into the room.
Rhys doesn't move at first. He just watches me, his gaze sliding from my face down to my body and back up again. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face. He is still naked under those sheets from last night.
"What did I say I wanted for my birthday, Ophelia?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates right through me.
I kick the door shut behind me with my heel, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. "You said you wanted birthday sex," I tease, walking toward him. "And you're fucking getting it. But first, you have to eat. I'm not having you pass out from hunger while you're ruining me."
I lean over and place the tray right on his lap.
It’s a feast: thick-cut smoked salmon on toasted sourdough with capers and cream cheese, a stack of fluffy pancakes dripping in maple syrup and fresh berries, two perfectly poached eggs with runny yolks, and a pot of strong, black coffee that smells like heaven.
Rhys looks at the food, then at me, and takes a bite of the salmon. He closes his eyes, savoring it.
"Fuck," he mutters, swallowing. "This is incredible. Why the hell haven't you cooked for me before?"
I let out a little laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. "Because it wasn't your birthday, you greedy bastard."
He chuckles, his hand coming up to grip the back of my neck, pulling me closer until our noses are touching. "I'm a greedy man, darling. I want everything you have to offer, every single day."
"Keep talking like that and I might just make you wait until dinner," I banter, though we both know I'm lying.
“Like I would let you.” His eyes flicker to the box I've set on the nightstand. "Is that from you?"
I shake my head, pulling back slightly. "Nah, this one's from Meredith."
Rhys sighs, a flicker of something complex crossing his face—affection mixed with his usual guardedness.
He reaches for the box and pulls the ribbon away with a sharp tug.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, is a stunning, antique pocket watch made of blackened silver, engraved with intricate, gothic vines and a small, hidden compartment in the back.
He opens the small note tucked inside.
To my son, it reads in elegant script. Time is the only thing we cannot buy, yet you spend yours so wisely on the things you love. May this watch remind you that every second spent in obsession is a second well-lived. Happy Birthday, Rhys. Love, Mother.
Rhys stares at the watch for a long moment, his thumb tracing the silver vines. He doesn't say anything, but the look in his eyes softens. He looks up at me, the predatory glint returning as he tosses the watch onto the bedside table and grabs my waist, pulling me hard against him.
"Right," he growls, his voice dropping an octave. "I've had my breakfast. Now, give me my real present.”
"Wait," I laugh, pressing my palms against his chest to hold him back. "I've actually got a proper gift for you."
I reach down and snag the breakfast tray from his lap, sliding it onto the nightstand with a clatter. Rhys doesn't let go of me; instead, his grip tightens on my waist, pulling me flush against his hard chest. He lets out a low, hungry growl, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of my throat.
"I think I'd prefer some morning sex for my birthday, love," he murmurs, his voice thick and demanding. His hands slide up, kneading my breasts through my clothes with a possessive force that makes my breath hitch.
"Patience, Rhys," I gasp, squirming in his hold. "You're getting it, I promise. Just let me give you your gift first."
He nips at my earlobe, his hand sliding down to squeeze my arse. "The best gift you could give me is yourself, stripped bare and screaming my name."
I let out a shaky laugh and manage to wrench myself away from him, stepping back just out of reach. "You're getting all of me, you toss. Just give me one fucking second."
I turn and walk toward the closet, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I’ve spent so many days on this, sneaking away, hiding it behind other paintings, and lying through my teeth to keep him from finding it.
I reach into the depths of the wardrobe and pull out the massive canvas, keeping the face of it pressed against my body so he can't see a thing.
I walk back to the edge of the bed, standing right in front of him. He’s watching me with those predatory eyes, leaning back against the pillows, looking like a king waiting for his tribute.
"I did my best to paint this without you finding it and spoiling the surprise," I tell him, my voice softening. "You're a man who has everything, Rhys. There isn't a fucking thing in this world I could buy you that you don't already own or know about. So... I decided to give you my soul instead."
With a sudden, fluid motion, I whirl the canvas around.
The painting is a masterpiece of darkness. The Black Rose Garden.
It’s a moonless midnight sky, a void of ink and shadow where endless black roses climb over twisted stone pillars and iron gates. The roses are beautiful but lethal, their long, wicked thorns curling around the edges of the frame as if they're trying to bleed into the real world.
At the center are the two of us. We're naked, our bodies entwined in a way that screams possession.
He is behind me, his massive frame shielding me from the dark, one arm wrapped firmly around my waist, his fingers intertwined with mine.
I'm leaning back into him, my head resting on his shoulder, looking hauntingly peaceful—like I've finally found the only place in this godforsaken world where I don't have to pretend I'm not broken.
I've painted every detail. The delicate thorn marks from the garden are etched across my porcelain skin like jewelry. My skull-and-roses necklace rests against my collarbone, and a black halo floats above my head, marking me as his dark saint.
Rhys is painted with a raw, terrifying devotion. His own thorn marks mirror the ones he got, and the scorpion on his shoulder stands out in sharp, dark relief. Most importantly, I painted the scratch—the tattoo of my mark on his skin—a permanent reminder that he carries my pain as his own.
The symbolism is everywhere. A small, cracked porcelain doll hides among the roots; a black scorpion lurks in the shadows; and tiny blue flowers—his "blue tears"—bloom amidst the black roses.
I even painted hairline cracks into the canvas around my figure, as if the world itself is shattering just to keep us together.
The room goes dead silent.
Rhys doesn't move for a long time. He just stares at the canvas, his expression shifting from curiosity to something so intense it feels like he's stripping me naked with his eyes. He reaches out, his large hand trembling slightly as he touches the edge of the obsidian frame.
He pulls the painting closer, his gaze scanning every inch—the thorns, the tattoos, the way I've captured the look in his eyes. It's not the cold, distant mask he wears for the world; it's the look of a monster who has found his only sanctuary.
"Fuck," he whispers, his voice cracking.
He looks up at me, and for a second, the possessive predator is gone, replaced by a man who looks completely undone. He reaches out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me hard onto the bed, the painting sliding to the bed as he pins me beneath next to the painting.
"You've captured it," he growls, his eyes burning with a mixture of worship and lust. "The madness, the blood... everything. You really are my little doll, aren't you?"
He kisses me then, a brutal, starving thing that tastes of desperation and obsession. He isn't just kissing me; he's claiming me, as if the painting has awakened a hunger in him that only my body can sate.