Chapter 14 #3
I feel a sudden surge of panic, a flicker of the old Ophelia who didn't belong in rooms like this, surrounded by people who treat death like a fashion statement.
I try to push the box back toward her, my palms sweating.
I don't know why I'm resisting; it's not like I'm some fucking saint.
My life is a goddamn graveyard. But there's something about the weight of it—the history and the darkness—that feels like a brand.
Meredith doesn't move the box. She just looks at me, her expression unreadable but firm. "Ophelia, darling, you don't understand. This isn't just jewelry. It's a testament to what remains when everything else is stripped away. It suits you. You have a darkness in you that recognizes this."
I glance at Rhys. He’s watching me with those predatory, obsessive eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He knows I’m lying to myself. He knows I love the macabre.
"Take it, love," he whispers, his voice a low vibration that settles right in my gut. "Embrace it. You're one of us now."
That’s the clincher. One of us. The feeling of belonging, even to something as fucked up as the Castellan legacy, is a drug I can't resist. I swallow hard, my resistance crumbling like wet paper. I reach out, my fingers trembling slightly as I touch the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian pendant.
"Alright," I breathe, a shiver of excitement racing down my spine. "I'll take it. Thank you."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel a strange sense of acceptance, as if by accepting the jewelry, I'm officially signing my soul over to this gothic nightmare. And honestly? I'm fucking here for it.
Meredith smiles—a thin, sharp expression—and reaches into the box. "Let me," she says.
She leans in and fastens the black pearl and obsidian necklace around my throat.
It rests next to the necklace of the carnival that Rhys gave me.
The stones are ice-cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from Rhys's body next to me.
The weight of the weeping willow pendant rests right against my collarbone, feeling like a heavy, dark anchor.
I feel marked. I feel like I'm wearing a collar of grief and elegance, and it makes me feel powerful in a way I can't explain.
I catch my reflection in a nearby mirror—pale skin, wide blue eyes, and this haunting black ornament clinging to my neck. I look like a gothic doll, a piece of art for Rhys to possess.
Just as I'm admiring the dark shimmer of the obsidian, the heavy oak doors creak open. The butler stands there, his face a mask of professional indifference.
"Later lunch is served in the dining hall, Madam. Master Rhys, Miss Ophelia," he announces in a dry, monotone drone.
I take one last look at the mourning jewelry in the box, then at Rhys, who is looking at me with a hunger that has nothing to do with the meal waiting for us. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
"You look fucking exquisite in black, Ophelia," he growls. "Almost makes me want to skip the 3 PM late lunch and eat you instead.”
The sun is starting to dip, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep oranges that match the mood of this fucking place.
I’m walking through the backyard with Meredith, our arms linked.
She’s tall, poised, and has this way of moving that makes me feel like a clumsy brat, but there’s a warmth to her that I didn't expect.
"I never thought my Rhys would be the type to bring home a woman he loves," she says, her voice smooth, almost like a confession. She stops for a second, turning her head to look at me. "Do you love him, Ophelia?"
I don't even have to think about it. I just nod, my throat feeling a bit tight. "I do," I whisper.
I love him more than I’ve ever admitted, even to myself in the middle of the night when I'm shaking from everything he's put me through.
The man is a fucking lunatic, a possessive, psychotic bastard, but he found me when I was in a hole so deep I couldn't see the light.
No one else in this godforsaken world would have bothered to reach down and pull me out.
Meredith watches me, her eyes searching mine. "Did he unbreak you, then?"
I let out a sharp, dry laugh. "No. It was more like... he broke me further, then put together the tight little pieces I had left."
Meredith doesn't look shocked. She doesn't pity me. Instead, a small, knowing smile touches her lips. "Then he knows exactly how you're made," she replies softly. "The Castellans don't do 'fixing,' darling. We just rebuild things into something stronger. Something more dangerous."
As we keep walking, I spot it. A garden. But not some colorful, cheerful shite. It’s a sea of black roses.
I stop dead, staring. They’re stunning—various shades of darkness. In the fading light, some look like the deepest burgundy or a crimson so dark it’s practically ebony. Others are just... black. Pure, haunting black.
Meredith notices me gaping. She smiles, a thin, elegant expression. "Rhys has been gifting you my flowers again."
I blink, confused. "Gifting?"
"Every black rose you've ever received came from my garden."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly, dozens of moments flash through my head—every single time he’d appeared with one of those dark blooms. I’d always just assumed he bought them.
I mean, this is Whitby, the fucking Dracula town; you can probably find a goth florist on every street corner selling "vampire roses" to tourists.
"I've always wondered where you got them," I mutter, feeling a strange flutter in my chest.
"I planted the first bush before Rhys was born," she says, leading me closer to the blooms. She points to a particularly thick, gnarled bush. "These bushes are older than Rhys himself."
She tells me then that Rhys has never given these roses to anyone else. Not a single one. Until me.
I’m stunned. The thought of it makes my stomach flip.
He didn't just stop at some shop on his way to see me. He came home. He went into his mother’s garden, carefully chose a bloom, cut it himself, and brought it to me as a trophy.
It wasn't an aesthetic choice for the Menagerie; it was a piece of his home, his family history, offered up to me.
"I planted those bushes just before my water broke," Meredith adds, her voice nostalgic. "After he could walk, tending those roses became something Rhys and I always did together."
She looks at me with a softness that feels genuine. "You were the first girl he ever cut one for."
I frown, looking at the dark petals. "Why would Rhys give me black roses, though? It can't just be because you grow them."
Meredith actually laughs—a light, melodic sound. "You're asking the wrong Castellan. But if I could answer... it's because red roses are for ordinary love stories." She pauses, her gaze intensifying. "Yours with Rhys was never going to be ordinary."
The realization settles in. Every flower wasn't just a gift; it was a ritual. A deliberate, quiet act of devotion from a man who doesn't know how to be "normal."
Meredith leads me through the greenhouse, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and floral decay. She gestures to the rows of obsidian blooms. "These are yours now. Pick as many as you like."
The weight of that offer hits me. Rhys has always brought me one rose at a time—a slow, steady drip of obsession. For his mother to offer me the entire garden... it’s like she’s handing me the keys to the kingdom.
"You're family now," she says.
I don't even think. I just lean in and hug her, squeezing tight. When I pull away, I turn back to the roses, feeling a surge of affection for that psychotic man. He’s been returning to this spot, over and over, just to bring me a piece of his world.
“Can I ask you something, Meredith?”
“Anything.”
I turn to her. “When was Rhys born?”
She smiles and caresses my cheek with the back of her fingers and whispers, “November 21st, 1996.”
I pause and think. It's not too far away.
"I have to check on something," Meredith says with a nod, leaving me alone in the quiet of the greenhouse.
I wander through the rows, my fingers brushing the velvet petals. Then, suddenly, I feel strong arms wrap around my waist from behind. I don't even need to look to know it's him. I can smell his scent—expensive cologne, old books, and a hint of something metallic.
I lean back into his chest, looking at a rose. "Why the roses?" I ask.
Rhys leans in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a shiver straight to my thighs. "They're impossible," he growls.
"How?"