Chapter 23 #2
Oana smiles, her green eyes shimmering. "The people who have seen you from the sidelines—the witnesses who were lucky enough to stay hidden in the brush or behind a cracked window—they don't see a couple. They see monsters. They see folklore in the flesh."
She leans forward, mimicking the hushed, terrified tone of a street-dweller. "It was the same two again... the porcelain doll woman and the man with the blue tears..."
I freeze. The porcelain doll woman. I think of my mask. And the man with the blue tears—a reference to the psychotic, beautiful grief mask Rhys wears.
"You've become a ghost story, Ophelia," Oana continues, her voice dripping with amusement.
"An urban legend for the wicked. They say that if you're a monster, you hunt in the night with an even more terryfrying monster by her side.
They say the Porcelain Doll lures you in with a gaze of frozen glass, and the Man with Blue Tears finishes the job with a cruelty that would make the devil himself blush. "
The witches all chuckle, a low, guttural sound.
"You're not just hunters anymore," the fourth witch says, her voice like grinding stones. "You're the boogeymen. The folklore of the Midnight Menagerie. The stories told to keep the other predators in line. 'Behave,' they tell their pups, 'or the Doll and the Tear-Man will find you.'"
I stare at them, my mind racing. I’ve always known Rhys was insane, and I’ve felt myself slipping further into that dark, violent void he carved for me, the men who hurt my mother who we killed together, but hearing it—knowing that we've become a fucking myth to the outside world—does something to me.
It doesn't scare me. If anything, a cold, sharp thrill shoots through my gut.
"Fucking hell," I mutter, a slow, dark smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. "We're a goddamn fairy tale."
"A bloody one," Oana corrects, her eyes flashing. "And the best part, Ophelia, is that the legend is only just beginning. The more blood you spill for your revenge, the more the story grows. You aren't just living a nightmare anymore... you and Rhys are the thing the nightmare is afraid of.”
I push open the heavy oak doors to his office, the hinges giving a low, familiar groan. The room is drenched in that oppressive, gothic atmosphere he loves—shadows clinging to the corners, the scent of old parchment and expensive tobacco hanging thick in the air.
Rhys is hunched over his desk, the glow of a single lamp illuminating the sharp lines of his profile. He’s deep in whatever psychotic paperwork or planning he does at three in the morning. On the velvet couch nearby, Shadow is a heap of black fur, snoring softly, completely dead to the world.
The second I step into the room and close the door, Rhys freezes.
He stops mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the page, and just...
stares. It’s that look again. The one that makes me feel like I’m a piece of art he’s about to dismantle just to see how the gears work.
His eyes are dark, hungry, and entirely too focused.
"You going to carry Shadow to bed, then?" I ask, my voice cutting through the silence. "Or is he just part of the furniture now?"
Rhys doesn't blink. He slowly leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "I'm reconsidering the sleeping arrangements," he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
I frown, walking toward him, the click of my heels echoing on the hardwood. "The does that mean? Why?"
As I reach the desk, he lets his gaze travel slowly down my body and back up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Because you've been refusing a quickie in the middle of the night these days, Ophelia. It's becoming a bit of a tragedy, really."
I stop right in front of him, my palms flat against the cool, polished mahogany of his desk. I lean in, staring him down. "I'm not letting you fuck me while Shadow is in the room, Rhys. It's fucking weird. I don't care how much of a mental case you are, have some boundaries."
He lets out a soft, huffing laugh, his eyes darkening with a sudden, sharp spike of lust. He doesn't move, but the tension between us vibrates like a live wire.
"And if I were to take you right here," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he glances at the wide expanse of the mahogany desk, "right now, with the cat fast asleep across the room... would you still say no?"
I feel a heat flare in my gut, that traitorous thrill that always comes when he gets like this. I bite my lip, looking at the desk and then back at his predatory expression.
"Probably," I lie, though my voice is a bit breathier than I'd like. "But I might consider it if you stop being such a tosser for five minutes."
I quickly shift my weight, pulling back slightly to change the subject before he decides to test my resolve by pulling me over the wood. "The coven mentioned it... they call you the Ringmaster."
Rhys barely changes his expression; the lust is still there, simmering just under the surface, but a flicker of curiosity crosses his face. "Do they?"
I blink, genuinely surprised. "You didn't know?"
"I assumed they called me worse," he replies simply.
I can't help it; I let out a short, genuine laugh. "You don't hate it? Being the 'Ringmaster' of this whole madhouse?"
He shrugs, a slow, nonchalant movement of his shoulders. "Why would I? It's a fitting title for a man who enjoys watching the chaos he creates. Besides, as long as everything is right are fed and the show goes on, they can call me whatever the fuck they want."
I stare at him for a moment, the laughter dying down into a thoughtful silence.
That response says everything I need to know about him.
He doesn't give a toss about titles or prestige.
The employees created the name out of a mix of fear and respect, and he just let it happen, never bothering to correct them.
He isn't just a leader; he owns the circus.
I lean back against the mahogany, my eyes tracing the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
"The masks, the axe, your gun... the way we've been carving through those bastards who raped my mum," I murmur, a dark thrill humming in my veins.
"We've become a proper bit of folklore in Whitby, haven't we?
The porcelain doll woman and the man with the blue tears.
People are probably shitting themselves just thinking about us. "
Rhys doesn't smile, but his eyes glimmer with a psychotic sort of pride.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, and the only thing he ever wants to break.
"Let them fear us," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"I don't give a toss about the legends, Ophelia.
I only care that they know you belong to me.
If the whole fucking town has to tremble to keep you safe and adored, then I'll give them a reason to scream. "
He shifts in his chair, his gaze softening just a fraction. "Come here," he commands.
I stay where I am, shaking my head with a small, knowing smirk. "Nah. I know exactly what you're after. You just want to fuck me."