Chapter 12
I gasp, my lungs suddenly burning as I bolt awake, the ghost of a dozen orgasms still vibrating in my nerves. For a second, I’m disoriented, the black sand and the clicking of scorpions still echoing in my mind, but as my vision clears, I realize the nightmare—or the dream—is over.
I’m back in the bedroom. The air is cool, the lighting dim and gothic, and I’m lying naked under the heavy covers. I shift, feeling a dull, throbbing ache between my thighs and a soreness in my chest and neck that makes me wince. I pull the duvet down, glancing over my skin, and my breath hitches.
I’m a fucking mess.
Dark purple bruises bloom across my breasts and thighs, and the unmistakable prints of his large hands are stamped all over my pale skin, marking me like a piece of property. He didn't just fuck me; he tried to merge his soul with mine through sheer, violent force.
Rhys is right there, watching me with those predatory eyes, his expression a mixture of hunger and a terrifying kind of tenderness.
"Look at you," he purrs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. "Marked. Ruined. Absolutely fucking mine. I could spend an eternity carving my name into your skin, Ophelia, and it still wouldn't be enough to show the world who you belong to."
I sit up abruptly and immediately regret it when that soreness stings but I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince, the sheets sliding down to my waist. I don't say a word.
I just glare at him, my chest heaving, my ice-blue eyes narrowed into slits.
I'm fucking fuming, even if a part of me is still humming from the memory of him losing his mind inside me.
He chuckles, a dark, amused sound, and slides into bed beside me. He props himself up on one elbow, looking at me with an infuriatingly calm smirk.
"What's the matter, love?" he asks, his tone mocking. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"You absolute fucking lunatic!" I snap, my voice raspy. "You didn't just fuck me, Rhys, you practically tried to kill me! You overwhelmed me with so much fear and pleasure that I fucking fainted! Who the fuck does that?"
He doesn't look sorry. Not one fucking bit. In fact, he looks proud. "I told you I was obsessed with you. I don't do things by halves, darling. If I'm going to love you, I'm going to do it until you can't remember your own name."
"There's a difference between love and trying to break my fucking pelvis!" I retort, shoving his shoulder. "You went mental! You were possessed by some fucking scorpion venom and decided to turn me into your personal fucking bag!"
"And you loved every second of it," he counters, his eyes darkening. "Don't lie to me, Ophelia. You were screaming for more. You were begging for it."
"I was not begging! I was... I was caught up in the madness!"
"Same fucking thing," he grins.
I try to push him away, starting a proper row, cursing him out with every term I can think of, calling him a psychotic tosser and a madman. I'm mid-sentence, probably calling him a degenerate prick, when he suddenly lunges.
Before I can react, he climbs on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head. I freeze, still glaring at him, expecting another round of that feral intensity, but his expression has shifted. He looks mischievous.
Then, his fingers find my ribs.
"Don't you fucking dare," I warn, but it's too late.
He begins to tickle me, his fingers dancing across my most sensitive spots with ruthless precision. I try to resist, twisting and turning under him, trying to keep my face stern, but it's a losing battle. A small snort escapes me, and then, the dam breaks.
I burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, my body arching off the bed. "Stop! Rhys, stop it! You fucking prick, stop!"
He doesn't stop. He doubles down, digging into my sides, making me shriek and gasp for air. I'm laughing so hard that tears are pricking my eyes, my anger evaporating into pure, chaotic joy.
"Still want to fight me, love?" he asks, his voice teasing as he continues to torture me.
I shake my head violently, unable to even form words. "No! No! Stop! I give up!"
He finally relents, pulling back but remaining straddled over me. I lie there for a moment, panting, my chest heaving, still giggling uncontrollably as I try to catch my breath. The tension has snapped, replaced by a strange, intimate warmth.
Then, he reaches for the bedside table.
I freeze. He picks up the camera—the same fucking camera he used to watch me with when I was trapped in the Tin Heart. The very tool of his stalking. He raises it to my face, the lens staring at me like a cold, glass eye.
My first instinct is to hide, to turn away from the gaze of the man who hunted me. But as I look up at him, seeing the raw, unhinged devotion in his eyes, I don't feel the urge to run.
I don't hide. Instead, I nod. I let out a soft giggle and smile, a genuine, messy smile, and click.
He captures the moment.
Rhys lowers the camera and looks at the screen, a look of absolute satisfaction crossing his face. "Perfect," he whispers.
He turns the camera around to show me.
In the photo, I look wrecked. My hair is a wild, black tangle across the pillow, my lips are swollen and flushed, and my eyes are wide, shimmering with a mixture of exhaustion and lingering ecstasy.
I look vulnerable, exposed, and completely consumed by the experience.
I look like a woman who has been loved by a monster and found she liked it.
I stare at the image for a long time. For the first time since this whole twisted journey began, I realize something.
I'm not scared of my own picture. I'm not scared of the girl in the photo, and I'm not scared of the man who took it.
"I look like a fucking disaster," I whisper, though I'm smiling.
"You look like mine," he corrects, leaning down to kiss me with a possessiveness that tells me he's still not nearly finished with me.
I push open the door to the Aldridge shop, the little bell above chiming with a cheerful ring that feels completely out of place with the storm brewing in my head.
I’m dressed in a way that would probably make a Victorian ghost blush—a tight, black lace corset that cinches my waist until I can barely breathe, paired with a sheer, flowing black skirt that clings to my hips and swirls around my ankles.
My necklace is hanging on my neck perfectly.
I’ve got on my heavy platform boots, the kind that make me feel like I could stomp a man’s windpipe in if I felt like it.
My waist-long black hair is loose, cascading down my back like a dark river, and my ice-blue eyes are probably looking a bit too haunted for a Tuesday morning.
Especially when I made sure I didn't forget my halo.
Well, Rhys made sure. It was the only way to let me out without him stalking behind me.
"Morning, Mrs. Aldridge," I mutter, giving the older woman a quick nod as I pass the counter. She gives me a knowing, slightly worried look, but I don't stop. I've got a mission. I already know why she looks worried. It's probably worrying Amara too.
I head straight for the back room, the scent of old paper and incense getting stronger.
That's where I find Amara. She’s a proper goth icon, looking like she stepped straight out of a dark fantasy novel.
She’s wearing an oversized band tee with some obscure doom-metal logo, ripped fishnets under a pleated plaid skirt, and enough silver chains around her neck to anchor a small boat.
Her afro is styled perfectly, a magnificent, dark halo that frames her face, adorned with a few silver rings clipped into the curls.
"Hey," I say softly.
Amara stops whatever she’s tinkering with and spins around. The second she sees me, her face lights up, and she practically launches herself at me, wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug.
"Fucking hell, Ophelia! Where have you been?
" she exclaims, pulling back but keeping her hands on my shoulders.
"Last time I saw you, some mental case had thrown you into the water and you nearly drowned before Rhys fished you out.
And my throat was sore from screaming for someone to help because I can't fucking swim.
Fuck! I went to the Tin Heart a dozen times, but the place was dead.
Empty. I figured you were tucked away with Rhys, but I couldn't get into the VIP areas without one of those fucking necklaces.
I've been worried sick, Ophelia! Are you alright? "
I offer her a small, tired smile. "I'm okay now, Amara. Really."
She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is exactly why you need a fucking phone, Ophelia. A basic piece of tech! You could have sent a simple text—'I'm alive, not dead in a ditch'—and I wouldn't have spent days wondering if you'd been murdered or kidnapped by a cult—"
She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes widen, and she freezes, staring at me with a look of absolute shock.
"Ophelia..." she whispers, leaning in. "Did you just... did you just look me in the eye?"
Before I can even blink, she’s reaching up, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead to check my temperature. "Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever? Have you had a stroke? You never do that."
I nod, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "I'm... I'm getting better with the eye contact. I'm trying."
Amara pulls back, her expression shifting from concern to intense curiosity.
A smirk plays on her lips. "Right. I see.
Is this the 'Rhys Castellan effect'? Is the Whitby billionaire the reason you've suddenly found your spine?
Did he brainwash you into being a functioning human, or is he just that fucking hypnotic? "
I roll my eyes, though I can't help the giggle that escapes. "Shut up. He's just... persistent. And psychotic. But yeah, maybe he's had something to do with it."
"Speaking of the devil," Amara says, leaning against a table. "Where is he? I didn't think he was the type to let his precious little love wander off alone. I figured he'd have you on a golden leash."
I snort, thinking of the chaos of the last few hours. "Believe me, it took a lot of convincing. And a few threats. And... a fair bit of sex to get him to let me out of the house for an hour. He’s a clingy bastard when he wants to be."
Amara cackles, her eyes gleaming. "God, I love that for you. Absolute madness. Anyway, you mentioned the Midnight Menagerie tonight? Please tell me I'm invited. I would fucking kill to go."
I lean in, a teasing glint in my eyes. "Oh? Is that so? Or do you just want to see the succubus?"
Amara doesn't even hesitate. "Obviously! I mean, who wouldn't? A real-life demon of lust? Sign me the fuck up."
I start to laugh, about to tell her she's a degenerate, when a blood-curdling scream rips through the air. It's Mrs. Aldridge.
"Mom!" Amara screams, her face instantly pale. She bolts toward the front of the shop, and I'm right on her heels, my heart hammering against my ribs.
We round the corner and stop dead in our tracks.
The shop is crawling with men in black. Tactical gear, cold expressions, and—most importantly—guns. They've got the customers pinned against the walls, faces pressed into the dusty shelves. Mrs. Aldridge is shaking violently behind the counter, her eyes wide with terror.
"Is this a robbery?" Amara whispers, her voice trembling.
But then, one man steps forward. He isn't in tactical gear. He's wearing an expensive, charcoal-grey suit that probably costs more than the entire shop. He's tall, with sharp features, jet-black hair, and eyes the color of a winter storm—cold, piercing grey.
He walks toward us with a slow, predatory confidence, stopping right in front of me. He looks me up and down, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips.
"So," he purrs, his voice smooth as silk and just as cold. "This is the gorgeous Ophelia Sorrell that has Rhys Castellan so utterly obsessed. I can see why.” He looks me up and down. “Interesting. You’re much smaller than I imagined."
I don't answer. I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but I'm too slow.
In one fluid, violent motion, he lunges. His first hand comes around my waist. His second hand clamps over my mouth and nose, pressing a chemically-scented handkerchief firmly against my face. I gasp, but instead of air, I inhale a sharp, sweet, cloying scent that immediately makes my head swim.
I fight. I fight like a fucking animal. I claw at his arms, kicking at his shins, trying to twist away from his grip, but he's like a wall of granite. He holds me tight, pinning my arms to my sides, crushing my chest against his suit.
"Let her go!" Amara screams, trying to rush forward, but one of the gunmen slams the butt of a rifle into her shoulder and presses the barrel against her temple, forcing her to the floor.
I struggle harder, my vision starting to blur, the edges of the room fraying into darkness. I can see Mrs. Aldridge sobbing behind the counter, the world turning into a distorted smear of black and grey.
The man pulls me closer, his grip possessive and suffocating. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a psychotic, soothing whisper.
"Shhh... stop fighting, Snowdrop. Just let it happen. You're coming with me, and by the time Rhys finds you, I'll have already used you against him in more ways than he could possibly imagine."
The sweetness of the drug floods my brain, turning my limbs to lead. My struggles slow, my eyelids grow heavy, and slowly, the world vanishes, leaving me unconscious in the arms of a stranger.