Chapter 14
The huge car door slams shut, cutting off the chaos of the villa, and the silence that follows is heavy and thick.
Rhys doesn't even let me sit in my own seat; he hauls me straight onto his lap, his arms locking around me like iron bands.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of gunpowder and that dark, expensive cologne clinging to his skin.
He grabs my face, forcing my forehead against his. His breathing is ragged, his eyes searching mine with a frantic, predatory intensity.
"Did he touch you?" he growls, his voice a low vibration that rattles my bones. "Tell me now, Ophelia. Because if that cunt laid a fucking finger on you, I’m going back in there to peel the skin off his face, and you’re going straight home."
I know exactly what he means. He’s not talking about a handshake or a brush of the shoulder; he’s talking about the kind of touch that leaves a stain. I shake my head immediately, my hair brushing against his cheeks.
"No," I breathe, leaning into him. "He didn't do anything. He was... weirdly friendly, actually. Creepy as fuck. Not the good kind of creepy that I adore from you, but just... wrong."
The moment the words leave my lips, the car jerks forward. The driver and the bodyguard in the front hadn't even put the car in gear; they were waiting for the confirmation. They knew as well as I did that if the answer had been 'yes,' the villa would have become a fucking slaughterhouse.
Rhys lets out a sharp, jagged exhale, burying his face in the crook of my neck for a second. "I fucking hate that you were taken. I hate that someone thought they could just... pluck you away from me."
I shift in his lap, the black halo still resting heavy on my head. "Does it have a tracker?" I ask, my voice small. "The halo. Is that how you found me so fast?"
Rhys pulls back just enough to lock eyes with me. He nods slowly.
I stay still for a moment, my mind racing back to the cold room and the desperation I felt. "Then why the fuck did you tell me to hold it in my hands? To think of you and call for you? If you already knew where I was, why the theatrics?"
A dark, ghost of a smirk touches his lips.
"It’s not a simple GPS, darling. The halo contains a hidden emergency transmitter.
It is custom-built so it doesn't register as an ordinary tracking device and a hidden emergency beacon.
So to anyone who checks it, it's just jewelry.
When you hold it with both hands—when you grip it with that shaking, desperate need for me—it triggers a specific sensor.
It doesn't just tell me where you are; it tells me you're calling for me. "
I blink, staring at him. "So... it's not magic?"
"Technology," he corrects, his voice possessive. "My wealth, my planning, and my absolute refusal to let you slip through my fingers. I don't need spells to find what belongs to me."
I let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking my head. "And you still have the nerve to insist you're not some kind of guardian angel."
Rhys’s grip on my waist tightens, his fingers digging into my skin.
His gaze turns obsidian, devoid of any light.
"The black halo was for you, Ophelia. Not for me.
You are my black angel." He leans in, his lips brushing against mine, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"I, on the other hand... I am no fucking angel. "
I sigh, the tension finally draining out of me as I melt against his chest. "I missed you so much, you psychotic bastard."
He caresses my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip with a tenderness that contradicts the violence still simmering in his eyes. "I missed you more than I can put into words. And because of that, I am going to make Lucien pay in ways that will make him beg for the mercy of a quick death."
I remember Lucien’s arrogant smirk, the way he looked at me like I was a prize. "He was so sure of himself," I mutter. "He actually believed you'd hand over everything he asked for—entire territories, businesses—just to get me back."
Rhys doesn't even hesitate. He pulls me closer, as if trying to merge our bodies into one.
"He wasn't wrong. I would have burned every city I own to the ground and handed him the ashes if it meant you were safe in my arms. I would have given him the world on a silver platter just to ensure he never breathed your air again. "
He pulls back, looking at me with a devotion that is as terrifying as it is beautiful. His voice becomes a haunting melody, a vow whispered into the dim light of the car.
I’m about to answer him, my heart still hammering against my ribs from the sheer intensity of his vow, when the sharp ring of his phone cuts through the heavy silence of the car.
Rhys stiffens slightly, pulling back just an inch to glance at the screen.
He doesn't say a word for a few seconds, his expression shifting from that raw, obsessive devotion to something colder, more professional.
He answers the call, but he barely speaks—just a few clipped words, a grunt of acknowledgement, and then he ends it.
The silence that follows is different; it's purposeful. He doesn't look at me immediately. Instead, he leans forward, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"Change of plans. Head to the Manor," he tells the driver.
“Yes, Sir.”
I blink, shifting in his lap. The adrenaline is still humming in my veins, and I was craving the sanctuary of our bed, the privacy where he could finally devour me properly without a bodyguard staring at the rearview mirror.
"Wait, why aren't we going home?" I ask, my voice a bit raspy.
A small, dark smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s a tiny thing, but it carries a weight of possessiveness that makes my stomach flip. He likes it. He fucking loves that I called his place home. To him, that word isn't just a location; it's a claim.
"My mother wants to see you," he says, his voice returning to that smooth, haunting velvet. "She’s been... adamant. Quite a persistent woman when she wants something."
My heart skips a beat, but not in the good way. A cold spike of nervousness shoots through me. I know the kind of world Rhys comes from—the legacy of blood and power that built the Castellan name. The thought of facing the woman who birthed this beautiful, psychotic monster makes my skin prickle.
"Your mum?" I mutter, feeling a sudden wave of anxiety. "Now? Like, right fucking now?"
Rhys senses it immediately. He wraps his arm tighter around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest as if to remind me that no matter who is waiting at the Manor, I belong to him.
"Just a quick hello, little doll," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "A courtesy visit to stop her from throwing a fit. We’ll play the part for a bit, and then we can go home and I can spend the rest of the day and night making you forget anyone else even exists."
I chew on my lower lip, glancing out the window at the blurring English countryside. The idea of meeting her is terrifying, but the way Rhys is holding me—like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored to this earth—makes me feel like I can handle it.
"Fine," I sigh, nodding reluctantly. "But if she hates me, you're defending me. No matter what."
He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound in his chest. "I’d burn the Manor down with both of us inside before I let her say a word against you."
I lean back into him, letting out a shaky breath. The nervousness is still there, simmering under the surface, but the heat of him drowns it out. I reach up, threading my fingers through his messy hair and pulling his face down to mine.
We sink into a deep, desperate kiss, the kind that tastes of relief and lingering violence.
I cling to him, my nails digging into his shoulders, while he holds me with a grip that borders on bruising.
We stay like that, locked together in the back of the car, kissing with a feral hunger as we ride toward the Castellan Manor, two broken things heading straight into the lion's den.
We keep kissing, our mouths locked in a desperate, hungry rhythm that makes the rest of the world blur into nothing. It’s all heat and friction, the taste of him filling my senses until the car finally begins to slow. I pull back, breathless and dizzy, my lips swollen, and look out the window.
We’ve reached the perimeter. A massive, ornate iron gate slides smoothly to one side, disappearing into a towering stone pillar draped in ancient, clinging ivy.
As we pass through, the driveway stretches out before us—a long, winding ribbon of grey gravel flanked by towering, skeletal oaks that arch overhead like the ribs of some prehistoric beast. The atmosphere is oppressive yet grand, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old money.
Then, the trees break, and the compound opens up.
It’s fucking enormous. The Castellan Manor looms ahead of us, a gothic monstrosity of dark stone and jagged spires that seem to pierce the bruised purple of the evening sky.
It looks less like a home and more like a fortress designed to keep the world out—or keep something dangerous in.
The car comes to a halt, and before I can even move, Rhys’s men are there, snapping to attention and opening the doors with military precision. Rhys steps out first, his presence commanding the space around him, and then he reaches back, his hand firm and warm as he helps me out of the seat.
I don’t say a fucking word. I just stand there, staring up at the manor. It’s breathtaking and terrifying all at once, with its sweeping gables, narrow windows that look like watchful eyes, and a heavy, brooding silence that clings to the walls.
Rhys doesn't let go of my hand. He laces his fingers with mine, his grip possessive and grounding, as he leads me up the wide stone stairs toward the main entrance. The heavy oak doors swing open, welcoming us into a foyer that feels like a cathedral to excess.