Chapter 14 #2
The entrance is a long, echoing hallway lined with polished marble and deep crimson carpets that swallow the sound of our footsteps.
On the walls, gold-framed portraits stare down at us—generations of Castellans, all with the same piercing eyes and arrogant tilts to their chins.
I spot one that makes me pause: a baby photo of Rhys.
He was a stunning child, with wide, innocent eyes and a mop of dark hair, looking far too beautiful and fragile to ever become the psychotic, obsessive man currently holding my hand.
We move further in, entering the living room. It’s a cavernous space, filled with velvet furniture in shades of midnight blue and emerald, a massive fireplace crackling with a low, orange glow.
Meredith Castellan is seated there, looking every bit the matriarch. She’s dressed in a sleek, charcoal-grey silk lounge suit that screams quiet luxury, her posture impeccable. In one hand, she holds a crystal glass of deep red wine; in the other, a leather-bound book.
The moment she hears us, she sets her glass down with a precise clink and stands.
She’s a tall woman, possessing the same imposing stature as her son, with a grace that feels almost predatory.
“Ophelia,” she smiles at me. “Rhys, honey. You brought her to me.” She glides across the room toward me, her eyes scanning me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink.
Then, she wraps me in a hug. She smells of expensive perfume and old paper.
"You are absolutely beautiful, darling," she murmurs, pulling back to look at me.
I give her a nervous, tight-lipped smile, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Thank you... it's lovely to meet you. Again," I stammer, feeling like a fucking imposter in this house of ghosts and gold.
Meredith turns to Rhys, and the tension softens. They hug, and she presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. It’s a rare glimpse of tenderness from two people who seem built from stone and shadow.
"Sit, please," she commands gently. She glances toward the door and calls out for the butler. "Arthur, bring in the finest vintage. Now."
As the butler arrives, moving like a ghost, he begins to pour the wine into delicate crystal glasses. Meredith watches me over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable.
"Have you two eaten?" she asks. Without waiting for me to answer, she adds, "What should we have the kitchen prepare for you? What do you like, Ophelia?"
I open my mouth to answer, but Rhys beats me to it. His voice is smooth, certain.
"She wants shepherd's pie. Proper one, with plenty of pepper and a burnt crust on the mash," he says.
I freeze, turning to look at him. I almost don't know what to say. I’ve never told him that was my favorite—not explicitly.
But then it hits me. The meals he’s provided for me since I’ve been under his thumb...
the flavors, the exact way things are seasoned.
It wasn't a coincidence. He’s been studying me, mapping out my cravings and my comforts like he maps out the city. He knows me better than I know myself.
Meredith smiles thinly. "And for dessert?"
"Sticky toffee pudding," Rhys answers instantly. "With extra cream."
Meredith turns to me, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Is he right, dear?"
I can't even find my voice. I just nod slowly and bring the wine glass to my lips, the tart liquid burning a path down my throat. I feel exposed, seen in a way that should be terrifying, but instead, it sends a shiver of heat straight to my core.
The butler bows slightly and excuses himself to prepare the meal, leaving me alone with the two most dangerous people I’ve ever met.
Meredith leans back, her eyes tracking me with a curiosity that feels like a dissection. "Tell me about yourself, Ophelia. Your history, your passions... who are you, really?"
I freeze, the wine glass suddenly feeling heavy in my hand. My history? My history is a fucking bloodbath of trauma, ghosts, and madness. I don't even know where to start without sounding like a complete lunatic.
"I... I truly don't like talking about myself," I mutter, my voice small.
I turn to Rhys, looking at him with a desperate, pleading expression, silently begging him to get me out of this spotlight.
Up close, he looks fucking immaculate. His jaw is clean-shaven and sharp enough to cut glass, and his hair is styled to perfection, not a single strand out of place.
He looks like a king, even if I know he’s a psychotic bastard underneath.
Rhys doesn't even blink. He just glances at his mother, his voice cool and possessive. "You'll know all about Ophelia in due time, Mother."
I let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. He’s got my back, even when he’s being cryptic as fuck. Meredith doesn't push; she simply nods, accepting his answer with a knowing look.
To fill the silence, I let my gaze wander around the room again.
My eyes land on a framed photograph on a side table.
It’s an older photo—Rhys as a toddler, looking plump and wide-eyed, standing between Meredith and a man who looks like a similar image of the man sitting next to me.
Same bone structure, same imposing presence.
"Is that... is that your father?" I ask softly.
The moment the words leave my lips, the air in the room shifts. It’s like the temperature drops ten degrees in a heartbeat. The atmosphere becomes heavy, suffocating, charged with a sudden, sharp tension.
Meredith turns to look at Rhys. I can't see exactly what she sees in his eyes, but whatever it is, it gives her the green light to continue.
"That is Rhys's father," she says, her voice devoid of any warmth. "He died five years ago. It was well overdue for him."
A chill runs down my spine. The way she says it—not with sadness, but with a cold, hard satisfaction—tells me everything I need to know. I glance at Rhys, then back to Meredith.
"He wasn't a good person, was he?" I venture.
Meredith shakes her head slowly, a flicker of something dark crossing her face. "I did my best to shield Rhys from his cruelty," she admits, "but he completely deserved what came to him."
I don't ask for details. In this house, "deserving what came to him" usually involves a lot of blood and a shallow grave. I reach over and squeeze Rhys’s hand, my fingers locking with his. He squeezes back, his grip tight, almost bruising.
"I have a gift for you, darling," Meredith says suddenly, breaking the gloom. "I'll be right back."
She stands up and glides out of the room, the rhythmic click-clack of her heels echoing against the marble floor as she disappears down the hall.
The second she's gone, Rhys leans in. I feel his hot breath against my skin before I feel his lips. He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the sensitive curve of my neck, his stubble-free skin smooth against mine.
"Meredith adores you," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating growl that makes my toes curl.
"Rhys, stop it," I whisper, though I'm leaning into him. "You shouldn't be kissing my neck right now. It’s fucking inappropriate to get me aroused while your mother is fetching a present."
He chuckles, a dark, amused sound, and nips at my earlobe. "Since when do I give a toss about what's appropriate, love?"
"Since we're in your mother's living room, you absolute menace," I hiss, though my heart is racing and a familiar heat is pooling between my thighs.
"The risk makes it better," he whispers, his hand sliding down to grip my thigh, squeezing firmly. "Does it? Does the thought of her walking back in and catching us make you wet, Ophelia?"
"You're a fucking deviant," I breathe, my head tilting back to give him more access.
"And you love every second of it."
Just as he's about to slide his hand further up, the sound of heels returns. I practically jump, shoving Rhys’s hand away from my body and straightening my dress in one frantic motion.
I'm breathless, my cheeks flushed, hoping to god Meredith can't tell I was seconds away from begging him to fuck me right there on the velvet sofa.
Meredith returns, carrying a small, exquisite black box. It’s made of polished ebony, inlaid with intricate silver filigree that looks like twisting vines and thorns. It’s heavy and dark, fitting perfectly into the gothic aesthetic of the manor.
She sits down beside me, the scent of her perfume enveloping me again. "I want you to have this, Ophelia."
She flips the lid open, and I catch my breath.
Inside, resting on a bed of deep crimson velvet, is a collection of Victorian mourning jewelry.
It is hauntingly beautiful and obscenely expensive.
There is a heavy brooch made of jet and gold, featuring a delicately carved skull surrounded by tiny, shimmering diamonds.
Beside it lies a ring—a thick band of black onyx with a small, transparent compartment on top, containing a meticulously braided lock of human hair.
There's also a necklace of black pearls and carved jet beads, with a pendant shaped like a weeping willow, crafted from the darkest obsidian I've ever seen.
It’s macabre, dark, and breathtakingly elegant. It’s the kind of jewelry designed to celebrate death, and as I stare at the shimmering black stones, I realize it’s the most perfect gift anyone has ever given me.
I stare at the jewelry, my heart hammering against my ribs. It’s breathtaking, yeah, but it’s also fucking morbid. I mean, a lock of someone's dead hair in a ring? A skull brooch? It’s the most twistedly beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and for a second, I actually recoil.
"I... I can't take this, Meredith," I stammer, shaking my head. "This is way too much. It's... it's far too expensive. And a bit... well, a bit grim, isn't it?"