Chapter 27 #2
He wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight, his voice a broken, ragged rumble in my ear.
"My little one," he chokes out. "My little one. You're home. You've come back to us. You've finally come home.”
My grandfather doesn't let go. He holds me for what feels like an eternity, his grip surprisingly strong for a man of his age. I can feel his chest heaving with silent sobs, the fabric of his tweed jacket damp against my cheek.
"My brave, beautiful girl," he rasps, his voice thick with emotion.
"I can't believe you're actually here. We never stopped looking, never stopped hoping that Marguerite could have left a little something behind that has a piece of her.
You're safe now, Ophelia. No one is ever going to hurt you again. I swear it on my life."
I just cling to him, sobbing into his shoulder, feeling a strange, foreign sensation in my chest. It’s not the suffocating grip of fear or the jagged edge of panic—it’s something softer. Something that feels like belonging.
Eventually, he pulls back, though he keeps a protective arm around my shoulders. He gestures toward two middle-aged men standing nearby. They both have the same soft eyes as my grandmother, though they look a bit more rugged.
"These are your uncles, Ophelia," he says. "Julian and Alistair."
Julian is the first to step forward. He’s got a kind face and a mischievous glint in his eye.
He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my clothes.
"Blimey, look at you," he says with a warm, crooked smile.
"You even like the Victorian dresses, don't you?
Just like Marguerite. A proper little goth, eh? "
I can't find the words, so I just give him a small, shaky smile. He doesn't wait for a response; he pulls me into a hug that smells of tobacco and expensive cologne. It’s a firm, grounding embrace, the kind that tells me I’m part of a pack now.
Then Alistair steps in. He’s the more reserved of the two, his expression solemn. He reaches out, his thumb gently brushing away the stray tears on my cheeks with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.
"You've had a hard road, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice like velvet. "But you're not walking it alone anymore." He pulls me into a hug, and I lean into him, feeling the sheer weight of the family I never knew I had.
Then comes the chaos. They introduce me to my cousins—three boys and a girl, all of them between nineteen and twenty-two.
"I'm Leo," the oldest says, grinning as he gives me a quick, friendly squeeze. "This is Marcus, Toby, and the menace over here is Clara."
Clara, who looks about my age, beams at me. "Finally! A girl in this house who doesn't look like she's heading to a board meeting. You're absolutely stunning, Ophelia. We're going to have so much fun raiding the wardrobes."
Toby chuckles, leaning back. "Careful, Clara, you'll scare her off before she's even had a cuppa. Welcome home, Ophelia. Sorry about the posh atmosphere; we try to keep the boredom to a minimum."
I actually let out a small, wet laugh. It feels weird—laughing in a room full of strangers who aren't strangers.
Then, the room goes quiet as they introduce me to Harry Jackson.
He’s a distinguished-looking man, probably in his late forties, with silvering hair and eyes that look like they've seen a lifetime of longing. He was my mother's fiancé. The way he looks at me... it's like he's seeing a ghost, but a ghost he's desperately in love with.
He walks toward me slowly, as if I might vanish if he moves too fast. When he reaches me, he wraps me in a hug that feels like a sanctuary. He holds me close, his voice a steady, comforting hum in my ear.
"You're home, Ophelia," he whispers. "Everything is okay now. I promise you, everything is going to be okay."
I pull back, and my grandfather turns to Rhys. The old man’s face is solemn, filled with a profound gratitude. "Mr. Castellan... Rhys. I don't have the words to thank you for bringing our granddaughter back to us. We are forever grateful. You've given us back a piece of our souls."
Rhys just gives a curt, enigmatic nod, his hand still possessively resting on the small of my back.
My grandmother, Eleanor, reaches for me again, her eyes searching mine. "Come here, my baby. Let me look at you some more." She pulls me close, her voice dropping to a heartbroken whisper. "You must have lived in such terror all your life. My poor, sweet girl."
I hold her, but the weight of the secret I'm carrying becomes too much. I can't just be the "saved" granddaughter. I have to tell them.
"Grandma," I whisper, my voice trembling. "My mom... her body is in the attic at the Tin Heart toy shop. We have to bury her."
The room goes ice-cold. A collective gasp ripples through the family, but I keep going, the words spilling out of me like a flood.
"This is going to sound crazy," I say, a sob catching in my throat, "but I've seen her.
I've seen her ghost. She told me... she told me that all she needs to move on, to finally rest...
is for Harry to know she still loves him.
And for her brothers and parents to know what happened to her.
And for them to know me... to take care of me.
That's all. That's all Marguerite's soul needs. "
Eleanor nods slowly, tears streaming down her face. "Rhys already told us, darling. He told us everything. The horrific things that monster Thomas did to Marguerite... the cruelty, the pain. What happened to your sisters…"
"We'll organize a funeral," my grandfather says, his voice turning hard as flint. "A proper one. But Marguerite deserves more than a grave. She deserves justice."
"I want to do that," I say, my voice gaining strength. I glance up at Rhys. "With Rhys's help."
Immediately, Uncle Julian speaks up, his tone surprisingly casual. "Does that mean Rhys is going to put Thomas in the torture chamber?"
I blink, completely floored. "You... you know about that?"
My grandparents look confused. "The torture chamber?" Eleanor asks. "What on earth is a torture chamber?"
Rhys steps forward, his voice smooth and devoid of apology.
He explains it with a chilling calmness—how he owns The Midnight Menagerie, and how there is a specific place designed for women who have been broken by abusive men.
He describes how the men are brought in, and how the victims are given the chance to execute their tormentors in front of a gallery of VVIP guests.
I expect them to be horrified. I expect them to call him a psychopath and kick us out. Instead, they just stare at him. There isn't a flicker of disgust on their faces.
My grandfather looks at me, his eyes cold and calculating. "Is this something you would consider, Ophelia?"
I nod, a dark, satisfying thrill running through my veins. "Thomas is already locked in the dungeon. He's just waiting for his execution."
The atmosphere in the room shifts. The "polite" British aristocracy vanishes, replaced by a raw, ancestral hunger for blood.
"I want to be there," my grandmother says, her voice devoid of its previous fragility. "I want to be a VVIP when you kill him."
"I'll be there too," my grandfather adds, his grip tightening on his cane.
"We'll be there too," Julian and Alistair say in unison, their faces grim.
“Count me in,” Harry says.
They all turn to Rhys, their expressions expectant. "Is that possible? Can you arrange it?"
Rhys lets out a low, dark chuckle. He pulls me tighter against his side, his voice a possessive purr.
"Of course. I can certainly arrange a few more front-row seats for the show.”