Chapter 10 #2
She looks fucking lethal. She’s wearing a dress that’s less of a garment and more of a suggestion—a skin-tight, midnight-black latex number that clings to every curve of her body like a second skin.
It’s cut dangerously low at the chest and has a slit running all the way up her thigh, revealing stockings held up by intricate lace garters.
Her heels are towering spikes, and her makeup is sharp enough to draw blood.
She looks like a dream and a nightmare all wrapped into one.
I smirk at her, leaning in. "Tell me something. This Robert prick hurt you so bad that you're this keen to see him dead, right? So, wouldn't he recognize you? Wouldn't that break your little seductive spell the moment he sees your face?"
She doesn't blink, her eyes shimmering with a hidden, hungry light. "Trust me, love. That man won't recognize me. Not until it's far too late to scream."
She starts strutting toward the entrance.
I turn back to Rhys. He’s leaning against his car, the silhouette of him framed by the dim streetlights.
He’s lighting a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating the sharp lines of his face.
He’s got this new stubble—a rough, dark shadow along his jawline that makes him look even more rugged, more dangerous.
His hair is a beautiful mess right now, wind-swept and chaotic, a few dark strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes me want to reach out and tangle my fingers in them.
I lean closer, my fingertips grazing the rough texture of his beard. He doesn't move, just exhales a cloud of smoke that swirls around us.
"Look at me," he commands. His voice is a low, velvet vibration.
I look up, locking my gaze with his.
"Don't look away," he whispers.
I stare into those bottomless black eyes. Even in the dead of night, in the shadows of this concrete jungle, I can see my own reflection mirrored in his pupils. I look small, haunted, and utterly consumed by him. My breath hitches in my throat, a sudden spike of anxiety fluttering in my chest.
Rhys crushes the cigarette out with a slow, deliberate motion. He reaches out, his large hands cupping my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheek. The halo is still perched on my head, a strange, ethereal contrast to the blood on my hands.
"Keep looking at me, Ophelia. Do not stop," he murmurs.
"I don't understand," I whisper, my voice trembling slightly. "I'm supposed to be better now. I'm not... I'm not that broken girl anymore."
Rhys leans in, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my lips. When he speaks, his voice is a haunting melody, dark and dripping with an obsession that would terrify anyone who wasn't me.
"Better? My sweet, darling girl, I don't want you 'better.
' I don't want you healed or whole or scrubbed clean of your pain.
I want every shattered piece of you. I want the trauma, the rage, the blood under your nails and the screams that echo in your sleep.
You are a masterpiece of ruin, Ophelia, and I am the only man alive who knows how to worship the wreckage.
Your darkness isn't a flaw—it's the bridge that leads you straight to me.
You belong in the shadows, draped in my arms, where the world can't touch you, and where I can devour every single part of your beautiful, broken soul until there is nothing left of you that isn't mine. "
I shiver, a wave of heat crashing through me. He doesn't just love me; he's obsessed with the very things that should have destroyed me. It's psychotic. It's insane. And it's the only thing that makes me feel alive.
He pulls back just an inch, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Now, come. Let's go to the spot."
He leads me away from the neon glare of the casino and into a narrow, damp alleyway.
The smell of garbage and rain fills the air.
Rhys pulls out his mask—the melting blue face—and slips it on, instantly transforming back into the demon of the Menagerie.
He leans back against the brick wall, the shadows swallowing him, and suddenly he's pulling me flush against his chest, his arms locking around me.
He chuckles, a dark, vibrating sound. "You know, I almost miss making you run, love. The way you used to scramble away from me... it was quite an aphrodisiac."
I huff, leaning back just enough to look him in the eye, my hand resting on the handle of my axe. I give him a challenging smirk. "Dream on, Mr. Castellan. Look at me. I'm a woman with a bloody axe and a taste for carnage. If anything, I'm the one who'll be making you run."
Rhys lets out a genuine laugh, his grip tightening possessively around my waist. "Is that so? A little huntress, are we?"
"Fucking right," I snap, though there's a playful glint in my eyes. "Don't get too comfortable, Rhys. I might just decide you're the next target if you keep talking shit."
"God, I love it when you're violent," he purrs, kissing me hard and deep, tasting of tobacco and obsession, before letting me go. "Now go on. Get to Robert. I'll be right here waiting to help you carve him open.”
I smile, a slow, predatory thing, and slide my mask over my face.
The world shifts, the neon lights of the casino blurring into the periphery as I become the monster.
Just as the mask settles, Rhys reaches into his coat and produces a single black rose.
Its petals are like velvet dipped in ink, smelling of damp earth and expensive decay.
He holds it out to me, his voice a low, dangerous rumble behind his own mask. "A flower for my little reaper. Go and paint the pavement red, love."
I take the stem, my fingers brushing his. "I'll make sure he screams loud enough for you to hear it from here, you posh bastard."
The sharp, rhythmic click-clack of stilettos echoes against the brick walls.
The succubus is back. I don't say a word; I simply tuck the black rose deep into my cleavage, feeling the cool petals against my skin, and slip into the shadows of the alley.
I find my spot, pressing my back against the cold stone, blending into the darkness with my axe resting heavily on my shoulder.
Then, he appears.
Robert. He’s a pathetic sight, completely mesmerized by the succubus.
He’s practically drooling, his eyes glazed over with a hunger that makes my skin crawl.
He’s following her like a dog in heat, stumbling over his own feet as she leads him deeper into the alley.
He’s so far gone he’s already fumbling with his belt, his trousers sagging as he groans, desperate to get inside her.
The succubus isn't even looking at him; she’s just gripping his tie, pulling him along like a piece of livestock being led to slaughter.
By the time they reach me, his pants are around his ankles, leaving him shivering and exposed in the midnight chill.
He’s a sorry excuse for a man—balding, with a few pathetic strands of grey hair clinging to the sides of a scalp that looks like a polished stone.
He blinks, finally noticing me standing there in the dark, mask on, axe ready.
He looks confused, a stupid, hopeful grin still twitching on his lips. "What's this then?" he wheezes. "A threesome? Why's there a girl here in a mask with an axe? Some kind of... kinky foreplay?"
The succubus’s grip on his tie tightens, jerking his head forward. Her voice drops, losing the playful purr and becoming something cold and razor-sharp. "Do you really not remember me, you piece of shit?"
The man freezes.