Chapter 28
The next few days are a fucking blur of emotions I can't even begin to untangle. Spending the whole day with my grandparents and the rest of the clan is... strange. It’s like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe where I’m not just a broken thing, but someone loved.
I get to know Julian’s sharp wit, Alistair’s quiet strength, and the chaotic energy of my cousins.
For the first time in my miserable life, the void in my chest doesn't feel quite so empty.
When we finally head back to the Menagerie, I turn to Rhys in the car, my voice small. "Thank you. For everything. For bringing me to them."
Rhys doesn't look at me, his hands steady on the wheel, but a dark, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Don't thank me with words, love," he purrs, his voice a low vibration that makes my thighs ache. "I want something a bit more... visceral."
He doesn't give me a choice once we hit the bedroom.
He wants me on top, riding him into the mattress until I can't remember my own name, only the way he feels filling me up.
The next two days are a cycle of obsession and art.
I spend hours painting the jagged, bleeding edges of my nightmares, splashing crimson and void-black onto canvases to get the demons out of my head.
I lounge with Shadow, the silent observer of our madness, and I get railed by Rhys in every possible angle he can put me in until my legs shake and my skin is a map of his possessive marks.
And for The Midnight Menagerie, it’s been nights of the carousel turning slowly by itself in the fog.
A performer lowering their head respectfully as Rhys passes.
Someone quietly calling him “Ringmaster.” Shadow walking silently through the grounds while everyone instinctively gives him space.
The carousel turning slowly on its own beneath the lights.
A knife thrower cleaning blades in the distance without speaking.
But then, tonight arrives.
The air in the bedroom is thick, charged with a lethal electricity.
I stand before the mirror, staring at the woman looking back.
I’m wearing a gothic black gown that is nothing short of a masterpiece—heavy silk and intricate lace that clings to my curves before flaring out into a dramatic, sweeping train.
It’s an architectural marvel of mourning and power.
My makeup is sharp; a pale, porcelain base contrasted by deep, blood-red lips and eyeshadow so dark it looks like bruises around my eyes.
I slide into my towering black heels, the click of the heel on the floor sounding like a countdown.
Finally, I fasten the halo on my head and the necklace, the cold metal a reminder of the divinity and the damnation I carry.
I feel him before I see him. Rhys steps up behind me, his massive frame dwarfing mine in the mirror.
He’s dressed in his finest black, looking every bit the dark sovereign of his domain.
He reaches for his mask—not the one from the first time I saw the chamber, but the hunting mask we wear when we stalk the streets together for our victims.
I turn to him, my brow furrowing. "Why that one? Why not the other mask?"
He leans down, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a dangerous rumble. "Because tonight isn't just a lesson in pain, Ophelia. Tonight is a hunt. And we are the predators."
He pulls back, his eyes glinting with a psychotic hunger. "Are you ready to kill Thomas?"
A cold, hard smile spreads across my lips. "I've been ready since I found out what he did."
I slide my own doll mask over my face, the blue eyes staring back at the world with a vacant, haunting stare. We leave the bedroom as a united front of madness, leaving Shadow sprawled across the bed, his gaze following us like a silent omen.
Rhys leads me down the long, dim hallway, his hand firm on my waist. We go through the first door and down the stairs.
We reach the secure door, and he punches in the code with a series of sharp clicks.
Beyond it lies a corridor drenched in gold—opulent, gaudy, and suffocating.
It’s a gilded path to a slaughterhouse. At the end, the heavy doors groan open on their own, admitting us into the torture room.
The atmosphere is electric. Staff members in plain black suits and featureless black masks glide through the little crowd, serving crystal glasses of amber liquid to the VVIP guests.
The guests are a small sea of gothic extravagance—expensive velvets, towering plumes, and masks that range from the grotesque to the divine.
I notice immediately that Rhys has added more seating. In a prime position, five figures sit in stony silence. They are dressed in funeral black, their masks hiding their faces, but I know the set of their shoulders. I know the aura of grief and rage radiating from them. My family.
As we step onto the stage, a murmur ripples through the crowd.
"Castellan!" one of the guests calls out, his voice muffled by a gold filigree mask. "It's been an eternity since you hosted this yourself. Usually, you send your lackeys to manage the festivities."
Another guest leans forward, intrigued. "Is today a special occasion, Rhys? A particular vintage of suffering?"
Rhys’s voice rings out, smooth and chilling. "Tonight is a family reunion. A closing of a circle."
The guests whisper, their eyes darting to our masks. "The new folklore... the woman with the glowing doll eyes and the man with the blue tears. We figured the new monsters in town were actually the master of the house and his partner."
"Is the doll with the blue eyes truly the Lady of the Night?" a woman asks, her voice dripping with curiosity.
I reach up, slowly peeling the mask from my face. I set it beside Rhys’s hand on the control panel on the stage, my gaze sweeping over the crowd with a cold, predatory indifference. "I am," I say, my voice steady and lethal.
A chorus of compliments on my beauty follows, but I ignore them. I walk to my designated position on the stage. Rhys presses a button, and with a heavy thud, the velvet curtains slide open.
The crowd gasps. There stands the guillotine, but the heavy blade is missing, leaving the frame looking like a skeletal ribcage.
Then, the music of the night changes. Two female staff members in plain masks drag Thomas onto the stage.
He is a fucking wreck. He’s filthy, his clothes torn and stained with his own waste, his skin a sickly, sallow grey.
He’s shaking so violently the chains rattling around his wrists and ankles sound like a frantic alarm. He looks small. Pathetic.
They force him down onto his knees in the center of the stage.
One of the staff members approaches me, holding my double-sided axe. She holds it like a holy relic, bowing low before offering the handle to me. I wrap my fingers around the cold grip, the weight of it feeling right in my hand.
The guests are enthralled. "More scotch!" someone shouts, the anticipation in the room reaching a fever pitch.
Behind their masks, my family remains deathly silent, their presence a heavy, judging weight.
And then, Thomas looks up. He sees me. He sees the axe. He begins to wail, a pathetic, guttural sound that makes my skin crawl.
"Ophelia! Please! Have mercy, daughter!" he screams, his voice cracking. "I'm your father! You can't do this to your own flesh and blood! Please, Ophelia!”
The air in the room is thick, tasting of expensive wine and anticipation.
I can feel the radiating heat of my family’s rage from where they sit—a heavy, suffocating pressure that mirrors the storm inside me.
Beside me, Rhys is a coiled spring. I can feel the vibration of his restraint, the way his muscles are locked tight.
He wants to rip this piece of shit apart with his bare hands, but he’s holding himself back.
He’s giving this to me. He’s letting me be the god of this particular hell.
I look down at Thomas. He looks like a fucking insect, twitching in the dirt. A sharp, jagged laugh rips from my throat, echoing through the silent chamber.
"Mercy?" I sneer, the word tasting like poison. "Tell me, Papa... did you show Marguerite any mercy? Did you show Cordelia and Rosalind any fucking mercy?"
Thomas lets out a pathetic, guttural wail.
He lunges forward, the chains snapping taut with a violent jerk, trying to reach for me, to touch me with those filthy hands.
The two women holding him slam him back down onto his knees, their grip iron-tight.
He’s sobbing now, a wet, disgusting sound that only makes me want to carve the skin off his face.
I turn away from him, stepping toward the edge of the stage to face the crowd. The VVIPs are leaning in, their masked faces hungry for the drama.
"My name is Ophelia Sorrell," I announce, my voice ringing out, cold and clear as a winter morning. "And this... this pathetic waste of skin is my father. Thomas Sorrell."
I feel the weight of the axe in my hand, but I don't use it yet. I want them to know. I want the world to see the monster beneath the mask.
"My father wanted my mother, Marguerite Hansburg," I begin, and my voice starts to tremble, not with fear, but with a decade of suppressed fury.
"And because she had the sense to want nothing to do with him, he kidnapped her.
He locked her in a basement like a fucking animal.
He raped her countless times, over and over, whenever she dared to resist. He beat her, starved her, kept her in chains. "
A collective gasp ripples through the room. I can see the guests shifting, their curiosity turning into a dark, visceral fascination.