Chapter 5 #2
Then she turns to me, and her voice breaks, sounding like wind through dead leaves. "My girl. My Ophelia. Look at what you've grown up to be."
I stare at her, tears blurring my vision, my voice trembling. "I... I grew up to look exactly like you."
A sad, ethereal smile touches her lips. "I am glad," she whispers. "I will get to live through you."
"You saved us," I sob, the tears finally spilling over. "You saved us when you decided to keep living... just to have us."
She drifts closer. I reach out, desperate to touch her, to feel the warmth of a mother I never knew, but as she reaches for me, all I feel is a cold, chilling wind brushing against my cheek. It’s a kiss made of ice and sorrow.
Marguerite begins to cry, though no tears fall. "I watched over you," she whispers. "After you lost your sisters... I watched over all of you. Even Cordelia and Rosalind, trapped in that attic. I saw how you were hurting, Ophelia. I saw the pain you carried."
She turns her gaze to Rhys, and for a moment, the air feels softer. "Thank you. For protecting my daughter."
I look at her, my heart breaking into a million pieces. "You didn't deserve any of this," I wail, the unfairness of it all crashing down on me. "None of this fucking horror!"
I step toward her, desperate. "How can I free you? How do I take you to peace, or heaven, or wherever the fuck you're supposed to go?"
Marguerite smiles through her ghostly tears. "All I need to move on... is for Harry to know I still love him. For my brothers and parents to know what happened to me. And for them to know you... to take care of you. That is all. That is all my soul needs to rest."
As she speaks, she begins to drift backward, fading into the wall that is still stained with the blood of her final moments.
"No! Don't go!" I scream, reaching out, but she vanishes into the stone, leaving nothing but the freezing air and the silence of the grave. “Mommy, please don't go.”
I collapse, my legs giving out, and Rhys is there instantly. He catches me, pulling me hard against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a vice. He holds me with a possessive, fierce intensity, burying his face in my hair.
The air in his chambers is thick, suffocating, and smells of old incense and Rhys’s oppressive, masculine scent.
I’m fucking losing it. The image of my mother’s ghost, the blood-soaked mattress, the sheer wrongness of my existence—it’s all swirling in my head like a goddamn storm.
I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and I sure as fuck can’t stay still.
I’m fighting him, scratching at his arms, trying to wrench myself away from his grip. "Let me go! Just fucking let me go, Rhys!" I scream, my voice raw and jagged.
He doesn't. He never fucking does.
His grip is like iron, his eyes dark and blown out, reflecting a madness that mirrors my own.
With one sudden, violent movement, he shoves me back.
I hit the mattress with a thud that knocks the wind out of me, and before I can even scramble away, he’s on top of me, his heavy weight pinning me down.
"You're not going anywhere, Ophelia," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You're mine. In this life, the next, and every fucking nightmare in between."
We struggle, a chaotic mess of limbs and desperation.
I’m kicking, twisting, trying to buck him off, but he’s too strong.
He starts ripping at my clothes, his movements frantic and aggressive.
Fabric tears—the sound of it like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He strips me bare, tossing my clothes aside like they're nothing, his hands bruising my skin as he forces my legs apart.
He leaves the black halo resting on my head and the necklace tight around my throat—the only things he deems worthy of staying.
As I fight him, my nails dig deep into his chest, dragging across his skin in a blind, panicked reflex.
I feel the skin give way, a sharp scratch carving a red line across his pectoral.
Rhys freezes. He seizes my wrists in one hand, pinning them violently above my head, his grip crushing. He looks down at the mark I left, a dark smear of blood beginning to bead on his skin. A slow, psychotic smile spreads across his face.
"I'm not going to let this fade, little cracked doll," he whispers, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying intensity. "I'll keep this mark as a reminder of exactly how much I belong to you."
I look up at him, my chest heaving, my mind fractured. I don't want comfort. I don't want tenderness. I want to disappear. I want the pain to drown out the ghosts.
"If you're going to fuck me," I hiss, my voice trembling but desperate, "then do it. Do it so fucking hard that I forget everything. Make me forget who I am. Just fucking destroy me."
Rhys’s expression shifts from possessive to predatory. "Careful what you wish for, Ophelia. Because I'm going to devour every single inch of you."
He doesn't waste another second. He doesn't use a condom; he doesn't use lube. He just rips his trousers down and slams into me with a brutal, jarring force.
FUCK.
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp as his thick cock buries itself deep inside me in one violent thrust. It’s too much, it’s too fast, it’s absolutely savage. He doesn't ease in; he claims me like a conqueror. I arch my back, my fingers clawing at the sheets, as he begins to hammer into me.
He’s not holding back. He’s fucking me with a rhythmic, punishing intensity, his hips slamming against mine with a wet, slapping sound that echoes through the room.
Every thrust is deep, hitting my cervix, sending shocks of raw, electric pleasure and pain through my entire body.
I’m sobbing, but I don’t know if it’s from the trauma or the sheer, overwhelming sensation of him filling me completely.
He flips me over with a rough jerk, shoving my face down into the pillows.
He grabs my hips, lifting my ass high in the air, and drives back into me from behind.
This position is even deeper, more invasive.
He’s fucking me like he wants to break me, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.
He reaches forward, one hand gripping my hair, pulling my head back so he can bite into the sensitive skin of my shoulder.
"You're mine!" he snarls, his voice a guttural animal sound. "Say it! Tell me you're mine!"
"I'm yours! I'm fucking yours!" I scream into the pillow, my body shaking.
The friction is intense, the heat building in my gut until it becomes an unbearable pressure.
I feel the first orgasm rip through me—a violent, crashing wave that makes my muscles seize and my vision go white.
I scream his name, my voice breaking, as I come hard, my walls clamping tight around his cock.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow down. He keeps fucking me through the climax, driving me further into the mattress.
He pulls out abruptly, the sudden absence leaving me feeling cold and empty for a split second, before he drags me back up. He sits back on his heels and pulls me onto his lap, facing him. My legs wrap around his waist, my arms locking around his neck.
In this position, we are chest to chest, skin to skin.
He enters me again, slow for only a heartbeat before he accelerates into a frantic, desperate pace.
We are grinding together, the friction of our bodies creating a heat that feels like it could set the room on fire.
I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs, his eyes locked onto mine with a terrifying, obsessive love.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice strained. "Look at me while I fuck you."
I stare into his dark eyes, seeing the reflection of my own madness.
I feel the second orgasm building, faster and sharper than the first. It hits me like a lightning strike, my body shuddering violently against him, my internal muscles pulsing rhythmically around him.
I moan, a long, broken sound, as I peak again, my head falling back, my throat exposed.
But Rhys is still going. He’s relentless. He shifts me one last time, pinning me against the headboard, my legs draped over his shoulders. He’s staring at me, his face a mask of raw, unhinged desire. He begins to drive into me with everything he has—fast, deep, and absolutely savage.
The pace is insane. It’s a blur of skin, sweat, and guttural groans. He’s hitting the deepest part of me over and over, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. I can feel him reaching his limit, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Now, Ophelia... now!" he roars.
As he delivers one final, bone-deep thrust, the world explodes. I feel my own climax trigger simultaneously with his. It’s a total collapse of the senses. I scream, my body arching in a violent spasm, as I feel the hot, thick jet of his cum flooding my womb, filling me to the brim.
We collapse together, a tangled heap of sweating, shaking limbs. He doesn't pull away; he stays buried deep inside me, his weight pressing me into the bed, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my chest.
The silence that follows is heavy, but for the first time in hours, the ghosts are quiet. There is only the sound of our breathing and the lingering heat of a love that is as violent as it is absolute.
We’re lying on our sides, skin still tacky with sweat and cum, the air in the room finally settling into a heavy, post-fuck haze.
I don’t look away. I refuse to. I keep my eyes locked on his, staring straight into that beautiful, psychotic void.
I’m not shaking anymore; the violence of the last hour has burned away the fear, leaving something cold and sharp in its place.
Rhys watches me, his gaze possessive, almost hungry, even now. "Tell me, Ophelia," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "What is it you truly want?"