Chapter 8 #2
Rhys’s eyes snap back to mine, the flinty coldness melting into something far more dangerous. A slow, wicked smirk spreads across his face, and he pulls me closer, his hand sliding down to grip my hip with a bruising force.
"Do they now, love?" he purrs, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my marrow. "You're a twisted little thing, aren't you? Most girls would be shaking in their boots, but you... you just want your monster to bite."
"I'm not your most girls," I retort, leaning into him, my breath hitching. "And you're not exactly a fucking saint, are you?"
"Saint? Fuck that," he chuckles, the sound dark and guttural.
"I'm the devil you invited in, Ophelia. And I'm going to devour every single piece of you until there's nothing left I haven't claimed.
You're mine. Every tear, every scream, every filthy little thought in that head of yours. I own the lot."
I shiver, a giddy, psychotic thrill rushing through me. I love it. I fucking love how he claims me like I'm a piece of property he's spent a lifetime craving. I pull back just an inch, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes.
"Tell me," I murmur. "Tell me exactly how it started.
When did you first see me? When did you first know you wanted me?
And why the fuck did you stalk me instead of just talking to me?
Not that I would've answered you—I was the town freak, remember?
Never spoke a word, never looked anyone in the eye. I was a ghost before I even died."
Rhys’s expression softens, but it’s a predatory kind of softness. He looks at me as if I’m the most precious, fragile thing he’s ever wanted to break.
"It was your birthday," he says, his voice distant, like he's reliving it.
"I remember the air was crisp, smelling of damp earth and dying summer.
You were walking down the street, looking like you wanted to vanish into the pavement.
And then... a single autumn leaf, bright red and gold, drifted down and landed right in your palm. "
I freeze. The memory hits me like a physical blow. I remember that day. I remember the weight of that leaf, the way the color seemed to be the only vibrant thing in a grey, miserable world.
"You stopped," he continues, his thumb tracing my lower lip.
"You just stood there, staring at that leaf with such a profound, quiet sadness that it nearly knocked the wind out of me.
I saw you, and in that heartbeat, I didn't just want you.
I needed you. It was like a switch flipped in my brain.
I knew right then that you belonged to me, even if you didn't know I existed. "
He lets out a soft, dark laugh. "As for talking to you...
why would I want to ruin the mystery? I wanted to know everything about you before you even knew my name.
I wanted to see how you breathed when you thought you were alone.
I followed you that day—watched you wander into that little shop, watched the way you avoided every single gaze, the way you shrunk into yourself.
Then I trailed you all the way back to the Tin Heart, staying just far enough in the shadows that you couldn't see me, but close enough to smell the scent of your skin on the wind. "
A chill runs down my spine, but it's not fear.
It's recognition. I remember that feeling.
I remember standing there with the leaf, feeling a gaze on the back of my neck that felt...
different. The townspeople looked at me with judgment, disgust, or pity.
But this? This was intense. It was heavy, like a physical weight pressing against me.
It felt like I was being hunted, but for the first time in my life, the feeling didn't make me want to hide. It made me feel seen.
"I felt you," I whisper, my eyes searching his. "I remember. I felt someone watching me, but it wasn't like the others. It was... hungry."
"Starving," Rhys corrects me, his grip tightening on my hip, pulling me flush against his hard frame.
"I was fucking starving for you, Ophelia.
I spent days in those shadows, memorizing the rhythm of your life, the way you walked, the way you sighed.
I didn't want to just 'talk' to you. I wanted to possess you.
I wanted to weave myself into the very fabric of your existence until you couldn't imagine a world without me in it. "
He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a possessive growl. "I didn't just stalk you, love. I curated you. I waited until you were broken enough, lonely enough, that when I finally stepped out of the dark, I wouldn't just be a man. I'd be your entire fucking world."
I let out a shaky breath, my head tilting back to give him better access to my neck. The sheer, unadulterated psychosis of it all sends a jolt of electricity through me. He’s a monster, a fucking lunatic, and he’s spent time obsessing over me from the dark.
And god, I've never felt more loved in my entire life.
I lean back against him, my heart hammering a frantic, needy rhythm. I want more. I want to hear how he saw me through those predatory eyes, how he cataloged every single inch of me while I was nothing more than a lonely girl in a grey town.
"Describe me," I whisper, my voice trembling with a mix of arousal and desperation. "Tell me exactly how I looked to you. Don't leave a fucking thing out, Rhys."
Rhys lets out a low, humming sound in his throat, his grip on my hip tightening until it almost hurts.
He shifts, pulling me around so I'm pinned between his body and the cold surface behind us, forcing me to look up at him.
His eyes are dark, swirling with a possessive hunger that makes my toes curl.
"You want to know how you looked, love?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. "You looked like a fucking funeral in the middle of a daydream. You were a vision of grief and grace, and I was absolutely ruined by it."
He reaches up, his long fingers tangling in my hair, tugging my head back just enough to expose the line of my throat.
"That hair... that endless, ink-black river of it, falling all the way down to your waist. It was so dark it seemed to swallow the light around you, a stark, violent contrast against the pale, moonlight glow of your skin.
You looked like you were carved from the finest marble, Ophelia—cold, pristine, and utterly fragile.
I wanted to touch you just to see if you'd shatter under my fingers, or if you'd bleed something as dark as your hair. "
His gaze drops to my face, his eyes tracing every contour with an intensity that feels like a physical touch.
"And your eyes... those ice-blue depths.
They weren't just blue; they were freezing, haunted, like a winter morning in a graveyard.
You didn't look at anyone, but when you looked at that leaf, I saw the storm inside you.
I saw a loneliness so profound it mirrored my own, and it made me want to lock you away in a gilded cage where only I could witness that sorrow. "
He slides a thumb over my nose, then down to my lips, pressing firmly against the plush skin.
"Your nose was so delicate, so perfectly sculpted, and your lips... those lips were a soft, bruised rose against the pallor of your face. I spent hours imagining the taste of them, wondering if you'd scream or moan if I finally decided to claim them for myself."
He lets his hand slide down, his fingers tracing the line of my collarbone before gripping my wrist, lifting my hand to inspect my fingers.
"Even your hands were poetry. Slender, tapering fingers that looked like they belonged to a pianist or a saint, though I knew better. I knew there was a darkness in you that matched mine."
He pulls me flush against him, his chest heaving against mine, his voice becoming a possessive rasp.
"You were standing there, 167 centimeters of pure, gothic perfection, draped in that Victorian dress that clung to you like a shroud.
You looked like a ghost that had wandered out of a century of mourning, a beautiful, broken thing that didn't belong in a shithole town like this.
You were too exquisite for the world, Ophelia.
That's why I knew I had to take you. I didn't just want to love you—I wanted to consume you, to wrap myself around you until the rest of the world vanished and there was nothing left but the two of us in the dark. "
I let out a shaky, broken moan, my eyes fluttering shut.
The way he describes me—not as a person, but as an obsession, a piece of art to be possessed and devoured—it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.
I feel completely stripped bare under his words, more naked than if he'd actually undressed me.
"You're a fucking lunatic," I breathe, arching my back against him.
"Only for you, my darling," he whispers, his lips grazing my ear. "Only ever for you."