Chapter 32
The next morning, the sunlight is far too fucking bright for my liking.
I’m curled up in the passenger seat of Rhys’s car, feeling half-asleep and completely clueless.
Rhys is humming something low and dark under his breath, his eyes fixed on the road with that focused, predatory intensity he always has.
On my lap, Shadow is a heavy, purring weight. The big Jaguar is practically a rug with a heartbeat, kneading his paws into my thighs. I run my fingers through his thick fur, looking over at Rhys.
"Oi, love," I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep. "How old is this big fluff-ball anyway? He acts like a kitten but he's the size of a fully grown jaguar."
Rhys glances at me, a small, fond smirk playing on his lips. "Four years old, love. Fully grown. Still a menace, though."
I chuckle, scratching Shadow behind the ears. I have no fucking clue where we’re going. We’ve been driving for a while, leaving the familiar gothic sprawl of the town behind for something greener, quieter, and far more secluded.
Then, we pull up to a set of massive, wrought-iron gates. They’re intricate, swirling with black metal vines and thorns that look like they could rip the skin right off your bones. As we approach, the gates groan and swing open automatically, like the house is welcoming us home.
As we roll down a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, weeping willow trees that drape over the road like funeral veils, a house comes into view.
My breath catches. It’s stunning. A sprawling, gothic estate that looks like it was ripped straight out of one of my nightmares—but the beautiful kind.
It’s all dark stone and sharp gables, with towering windows that reflect the grey sky.
The front yard is a wild, overgrown expanse of deep green grass and clusters of dark red roses that look like splashes of blood against the lawn.
"Where are we, Rhys?" I ask, staring at the place.
"We're home, Ophie," he says simply.
I blink, completely baffled. "Home? What do you mean? We have the castle. Why would we need a new home?"
Rhys pulls the car to a stop and turns to me, his expression softening, though his eyes still burn with that possessive fire.
"The castle is a masterpiece, love, but it’s the VIP hub of the Midnight Menagerie.
Aside from my office and my bedroom, we have zero fucking privacy.
I’m tired of sharing our air with the ghosts of the elite and the stench of blood and luxury. "
He leans in, his voice dropping to a husky, dangerous velvet that makes my toes curl.
"And selfishly... I want you all to myself.
I want to be able to fuck you on the kitchen counter, pin you against the wall in the living room, or take you right there in the sunroom without worrying about some masked prick wandering in. "
I feel a heat bloom in my chest, my heart skipping a beat. But then he continues, and his voice goes tender, almost vulnerable.
"Besides... I want to build a real life with you. The Menagerie is a place of death and art, Ophelia. It’s not the place I want to raise our babies in."
I freeze. Babies? The word echoes in my head, sending a jolt of pure electricity through me.
I’ve spent so long being the broken girl, the victim, the haunted thing...
the idea of creating something new, something ours, makes my throat tighten.
I don't know whether to scream or cry, but for the first time, the thought of a future doesn't feel like a threat. It feels like a promise.
"You... you actually want that?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "With me? A fucking mess like me?"
Rhys reaches out, cupping my cheek with his hand, his thumb brushing over my skin. "I don't want anyone else. Just you. Always you."
He gets out of the car and opens my door. The second the door clicks, Shadow leaps out, letting out a loud mrow and sprinting toward the house, his tail twitching with excitement. Rhys takes my hand, his grip firm and grounding, and leads me toward the front door.
The entrance is a massive, arched oak door with heavy iron hinges. When he pushes it open, the smell of fresh wax and empty space hits me.
The house is completely empty. No furniture, no rugs, just polished dark hardwood floors that gleam under the light streaming through the tall windows.
It’s an echo chamber of potential. Shadow is already losing his mind, skidding across the floors and darting into every corner, his claws clicking rhythmically on the wood.
I walk through the first floor, my footsteps echoing.
The living room is cavernous, with a fireplace large enough to roast a whole pig in, and a sunroom that looks out over the wild garden, filled with light that makes the dust motes dance.
There’s a kitchen with a massive stone island—I can already imagine Rhys lifting me onto it, his hands gripping my thighs.
"It's... it's huge," I breathe, looking around. "But Rhys, there's nothing in here. It's a fucking shell."
He wraps his arms around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. "That's the point, love. I wanted it empty so you could design it. Every curtain, every painting, every piece of furniture... I want you to turn this place into whatever the fuck you want. Your sanctuary. Your kingdom."
I lean back into him, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips.
He leads me toward the stairs—a sweeping, grand spiral of dark wood and wrought iron. We climb to the second floor, where the hallway stretches out like a gallery. He opens a set of double doors at the end, revealing the master bedroom.
It’s enormous. A massive space with a balcony that overlooks the estate. The walls are a soft, muted grey, and the light hits the floor in long, golden strips. It feels peaceful. It feels safe.
Rhys turns me around to face him, his eyes searching mine. "What do you think, little doll? Is it enough?"
I look around the empty room, then back at the man who has dragged me through hell and back just to keep me. I throw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder.
"It's fucking perfect," I sob softly, the emotion finally breaking through.
He holds me tight, his voice a low, steady vow against my ear. "This is where we grow old together, love. This is where we'll raise our children. This is where we'll get married. No more running, no more hiding. Just us.”
I’m still buzzing from the emotion of the house, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Rhys is looking at me with that dark, hungry intensity, the kind that makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
"I've got something to show you, little doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
He leads me back into the master bedroom. I assume he’s just showing me where the wardrobes go or some hidden storage, but he reaches for a door I hadn't noticed—a seamless panel in the wall. When he pushes it open, it doesn't lead to a closet. It leads to a room.
I step inside and the air feels different—thick, heavy, and smelling faintly of his cologne and old paper. I look up, and my breath hitches.
The entire wall is covered. Every fucking inch of it.
Photographs. Hundreds of them. All of me.
I walk closer, my boots clicking softly on the floor, and I feel a chill race down my spine, but it isn't fear.
It's something far more electric. There are photos of me from the very beginning—the first time he saw me, captured from a distance, my face blurred and raw.
There are shots of me asleep, looking fragile and broken, and photos of me working at the shop, leaning over the counter, completely unaware that those predatory eyes were tracking my every move from the street.
Then, the images shift to the Menagerie. There I am in the Dracula effect room with him, my expression twisted in a mix of terror and curiosity. In the camera obscura, the house of mirrors... he’d captured every flicker of emotion, every shiver of my skin.
And then, the intimate ones. The naked photos I’d posed for, my body arched and offering, and the one where I’m actually smiling—a rare, genuine thing. There’s a photo of me painting, lost in my own dark world, my fingers stained with pigment.
It’s a wall of stalking. A chronicle of obsession. He had followed me, watched me, breathed me in long before I even knew his name.
My eyes drift down to the floor, and I see the music box he gave me.
I’d put all the notes and the now dried black roses he’d given me inside it.
I reach down and pick it up, the cool metal familiar in my hand.
I wind the key, the mechanism clicking, and as the haunting melody begins to play, the mirror flips open.
I don't jump this time. I don't recoil. I look at my reflection in the glass, then look back at the notes and the withered roses. I glance up at the wall and find the photo of the exact moment he gave me that first rose. Then of me first holding this box.
In the past, this would have been a nightmare. I would have seen a monster, a creep, a man who had stripped away my privacy. But looking at the sheer volume of it—the devotion, the meticulous care he took to document every second of my existence—it flips.
It isn't horror. It's fucking worship.
He didn't just want to own me; he worshipped every single version of me. The broken girl, the artist, the lover, the monster. I am his religion, and this room is his cathedral.
I set the music box down slowly, the melody still tinkling in the background. I turn to him, and before he can utter a single fucking word, I launch myself at him. I jump, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist, my arms locking around his neck.
Rhys lets out a guttural grunt of surprise and desire, his large hands instantly gripping my ass to hold me up. He doesn't waste a second. He slams me back against the wall of obsession, the photographs rattling behind me as my back hits the surface.
"Fuck, love," he growls, his voice sounding like gravel and sin.
I don't want romance. I want the madness. I start clawing at his clothes, my fingers frantic, desperate to get him out of everything. I’m ripping at his belt, my breath coming in jagged gasps, cursing under my breath as I struggle with the fabric.
"Hurry the fuck up, Rhys! Now!" I scream, my voice raw.
He doesn't need telling twice. He rips my dress up, the fabric screaming as it gives way. He doesn't bother with the lace of my knickers; he just hooks his fingers into the waistband and rips them clean off, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the small room.
He enters me in one brutal, merciless thrust.
I let out a loud, piercing moan, my head snapping back against the wall, knocking a few of the photos askew.
It’s a fucking assault of pleasure, a violent collision of two broken souls.
He isn't being gentle; he’s pounding into me with a psychotic intensity, his hips slamming against mine with a rhythmic, wet thud.
"You're mine," he snarls, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of my neck, nearly drawing blood. "Every inch of you. Every fucking breath. Mine."
"Yes! Fuck me, Rhys! Destroy me!" I shriek, my nails digging deep into his shoulders, drawing blood.
I can feel the wall behind me, the hundreds of eyes of my past selves watching us, and it only makes it hotter.
The obsession is tangible, a physical weight pressing us together.
He’s hitting my cervix with every thrust, a deep, punishing ache that sends sparks of white light through my vision.
I’m sobbing, laughing, and cursing all at once, my body shaking under the force of his onslaught.
He’s fucking me like he wants to merge our skin, to push himself so far inside me that there’s no longer a boundary between us.
His breath is hot and ragged in my ear, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, more insane.
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, locking him in, demanding every single drop of his madness.
We’re both on the edge, the tension coiled tight like a spring. I can feel his muscles bunching, his grip on my thighs bruising, his breath hitching in his throat.
"I love you, you crazy fucking doll," he groans, his voice breaking.
Just as the first wave of an explosive, toe-curling orgasm crashes over me, and Rhys lets out a roar, emptying himself deep inside me in a violent surge of heat, a movement at the door catches my eye.
Shadow.
The big black Jaguar is poking his head through the door, his golden eyes wide and curious.
He lets out a soft, inquisitive mrow and steps into the room, watching us with a detached, feline judgment as we collapse against each other, shaking and drenched in sweat, pinned against the wall of the man who worships me.