Chapter 2
Rhys. He doesn't wake me up gently. He pulls me from the depths of sleep with a possessive tug, his fingers digging into my skin. I blink, squinting against the dim light, my head feeling like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool.
"Wake up, my little cracked doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that sends a shiver straight down my spine. "Time to get dressed."
He doesn't give me a choice. He never fucking does. He’s already laid out the clothes, and for the next thirty minutes, he treats me like a living mannequin.
He slides me into a gothic Victorian gown that’s so intricate it feels like a fucking cage.
It’s heavy, midnight-black silk and layered lace that clings to my curves before flaring out into a dramatic, sweeping skirt.
The bodice is boned, cinching my waist until I can barely breathe, pushing my breasts up and out, topped with a high, ruffled collar that makes me feel like I’m being presented for a fucking sacrifice.
He finishes the look with a pair of pointed-toe black leather boots with laces that go all the way up to my calves, the heels clicking sharply against the floor.
Once I’m encased in lace and silk, he dresses himself. He looks like a fucking nightmare in a tailored black suit, a charcoal waistcoat, and a heavy overcoat that makes him look even broader, more imposing. He looks like the king of this twisted circus, and I’m just the prize he’s decided to keep.
He takes a gun and five bullets, which he puts in his pocket instead of loading them. I wonder what that's for.
"Are we going to Goth Weekend?" I ask, my voice still scratchy from sleep. The festival is still raging in town—today’s Sunday, the final day of the madness.
"We'll pass by," he says vaguely, his eyes scanning me with a hunger that makes my stomach flip. "But first, we’ll go to The Tin Heart."
My heart skips a fucking beat. The Tin Heart. The center of the rot.
"And," he adds, a smirk playing on his lips, "I'll let you talk to Thomas."
The mention of Thomas is the hook. He knows exactly how to manipulate me, how to dangle the truth in front of me just to keep me walking in his shadow. He reaches out, gripping my hand in a hold that's far too tight to be considered 'romantic,' and leads me out of the room.
As we walk down the hallway, the atmosphere is thick with the scent of incense and old blood. A few guests are drifting toward the succubus room, their faces pale, their eyes glazed with lust and curiosity. They stop dead when they see him.
"Mr. Castellan," they murmur, bowing their heads in a mixture of respect, love, and genuine fucking fear.
Then, their eyes shift to me. I can feel them scanning me, taking in the dress, the pale skin, the haunted look in my eyes.
"God, she's stunning," one woman whispers, her voice dripping with envy. "What's her name, sir?"
Rhys doesn't even look at her. He just tightens his grip on my hand, pulling me flush against his side. "Mine," he says.
Just one word. Simple. Absolute. He doesn't give me a name because in his head, I am just his. I'm his possession. His property.
We head downstairs, and I’m fucking floored.
I expected the place to be empty, everyone having flocked to the town festival, but the VIP party is still in full swing.
The room is a sea of black lace, velvet, and leather.
People are drinking deep red wine from crystal goblets, dancing in slow, hypnotic circles to music that sounds like a funeral march played at a disco.
It’s surreal, a pocket of decadent insanity tucked away inside The Midnight Menagerie.
Rhys moves through the crowd like a shark through water. People part for him, greeting him with hushed tones. He doesn't stop, just gives a curt nod to the masses, until a man in a sharp grey suit steps forward, looking desperate.
"Mr. Castellan, a moment? I need a private audience regarding the shipments," the man pleads.
Rhys doesn't even slow down. "Not now," he snaps, his voice cold as ice. "I'm with someone important."
I feel a flicker of something—pride? Fear?—as he steers me away from the party, the castle, and out toward the common area of the carnival.
The air outside is crisp, smelling of ozone and fried dough.
The common area is buzzing. People are scattered everywhere, dressed in their finest gothic gear, eating the carnival’s twisted take on street food.
I see trays of deep-fried blackened squid with a charcoal aioli, blood-red glazed ribs that look like they were ripped from a corpse, and strange, shimmering purple candies that look like crystallized amethyst. It’s a feast for the damned.
But Rhys isn't here for the food. He leads me away from the crowds, deeper into the Menagerie, to a part of the grounds I’ve never seen.
We stop in front of a massive, weathered banner.
It’s a terrifying image of a clown—not some colorful, birthday-party prick, but something ancient and sinister.
The clown on the banner has a wide, jagged grin that stretches too far across its face, eyes that are nothing but hollow black pits, and a single, oversized tear of blood running down its cheek.
The colors are muted, grays and deep reds, looking like a painting from a nightmare.
A sign hangs beside the entrance: CLOSED FOR ONE HOUR.
Rhys doesn't give a fuck about the sign. He pushes the doors open and leads me inside.
The interior is a stark, unsettling contrast to the chaos outside.
It’s an elegant, monochromatic void. The walls are draped in heavy black velvet, and the floor is a polished white marble that reflects everything like a mirror.
There are no bright lights, only dim, flickering candelabras that cast long, dancing shadows.
In the center of the room, there are two ornate, high-backed velvet chairs facing a small, empty stage.
Rhys pushes me into one of the chairs, sitting beside me, his presence suffocating. We sit in a heavy, oppressive silence for a moment, the only sound the distant thrum of the party we left behind.
Suddenly, a voice echoes through the room, smooth and devoid of emotion.
“Welcome, Boss. We cleared the place at exactly 3 am for you, as you requested.”
"Ready," Rhys says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like a fucking predator that’s finally cornered its prey.
Out of the oppressive black velvet shadows of the stage, he emerges. My breath hitches in my throat. This isn't some tacky, neon-colored prick from a fucking birthday party. This is something far more sinister.
He’s an elegant, Victorian nightmare. He’s dressed in a beautifully tailored costume of heavy black velvet—a long, sweeping coat that brushes the marble floor, cinched at the waist. No bright colors.
No oversized, floppy shoes. Just polished black boots and a stark, monochromatic palette that makes him look like a ghost from a funeral parlor.
His face is a mask of thick, white greasepaint, and beneath his eyes, two perfectly symmetrical black tears are painted, trailing down his cheeks like permanent mourning.
He doesn't just walk; he glides. He stops before us and drops into a dramatic, sweeping bow, his coat billowing around him like a shroud.
"We have been waiting for you, my lady," he purrs. His voice is unnervingly charming, a melodic, riddle-like cadence that makes my skin crawl. "The stars whispered of your arrival, and the shadows have been starving for a glimpse of such... exquisite fragility."
I shift in my seat, feeling the corset dig into my ribs. "Who the fuck is this?" I mutter, though I'm too mesmerized to actually move.
Rhys doesn't answer. He just watches me with that dark, obsessive glint in his eyes, looking like he’s enjoying my discomfort.
The clown begins to move, his hands a blur of motion.
He’s performing card tricks, but they aren't tricks—they're impossible.
He snaps his fingers, and a black rose—darker than the void—materializes out of thin air.
It doesn't just appear; it seems to bleed into existence. With a flick of his wrist, the flower lands perfectly in Rhys’s open palm.
Rhys takes the rose and leans in, the scent of the flower mixing with his expensive cologne and the metallic tang of the room. He presses the petals against my cheek, his voice a low, possessive growl. "I love you, Ophelia. Every broken, bleeding piece of you."
I want to tell him to fuck off, but my heart is hammering against my ribs, and the intensity of his gaze is fucking suffocating.
Then, the mood shifts. The charm vanishes, replaced by something cold and jagged. The clown produces a deck of cards, the edges looking sharp enough to draw blood. He fans them out in the air, the cards hovering for a second before he gestures toward me.
"Pick one, little love," he whispers. "Pick your fate."
My hand trembles as I reach out and pluck a card from the air. I turn it over, and the blood drains from my face.
It’s not a king. It’s not a queen. It’s a hand-painted porcelain illustration.
It’s me. A miniature, porcelain version of myself, looking terrified, trapped in a frame of ornate black lace.
And holding me—his fingers wrapped possessively around my waist, his face a mask of psychotic devotion—is a porcelain version of Rhys.
It’s a fucking mirror of our entire twisted relationship captured on a piece of cardstock.
"What the fuck..." I breathe, staring at the card. The detail is insane. It looks like it's watching me.
The clown suddenly breaks into a jarring, erratic dance—a series of sharp, twitching movements that look like a broken marionette.
As he spins, he throws the rest of the deck into the air.
The cards don't fall normally; they flutter down like dying birds, and as they hit the marble floor at my feet, they transform.