Chapter 10 #3
I take my book to the table and begin to eat, the pages my only sanctuary.
Reading is my escape, a way to slip out of my own skin and inhabit someone else's reality.
For a few hours, I'm not the girl haunted by mirrors and dead sisters; I'm someone else, somewhere else, far away from this messed-up life.
That's when I hear it.
A sound in the hallway.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. A heavy, deliberate footfall.
My heart leaps into my throat. He’s here. He’s actually in my fucking house.
I set the book down slowly, my breath hitching, and rise, reaching instead for the kitchen knife still resting by the cutting board.
I reach for the kitchen knife on the counter, my fingers curling around the handle.
"I know you're there," I call out, my voice far steadier than I feel. "I'm not afraid of you."
I stand straight, trying to summon a courage I don't possess, and shout into the gloom, "I know you're there! I'm not afraid of you, you fucking creep!”
I cross toward the door, my legs feeling like lead, and swing it open.
Rhys is standing there in the hallway, framed by the darkness.
He slowly turns his head to look at me. For a heartbeat, I find myself unable to look away.
In the flickering candlelight, his eyes look predatory, shimmering with a dark, obsessive hunger that makes my stomach flip.
The light dances in his pupils, making him look less like a man and more like something ancient and starving.
He's standing there in the hallway, lit gold and flickering by candlelight — dressed immaculately, all black, a coat cut so sharp it looks like something a monster might wear specifically to pass as a gentleman. Every line of him utterly still.
And when he turns his head toward me, it’s the kind of movement I'd expect from a film, not real life — unhurried, deliberate, his eyes finding mine in the wavering candlelight like something rising up out of an old nightmare.
And for one terrible, suspended moment, I can't look away.
I hold his gaze, the flame throwing shifting gold and shadow across his face, his eyes gone nearly black in the low light, and something in me both breaks and steadies all at once.
I tear my eyes away first.
I snap my gaze away, terror flooding back in a cold wave. I try to command my body to run—to bolt for the toy shop where I might find some semblance of safety—but I'm paralyzed. I move in slow motion, the room tilting faintly at the edges, my muscles locking up as if I'm about to faint outright.
He's already moving. I hear him. I feel him, close behind, unhurried, the way he always is, because he's never once needed to hurry for me.
He is walking. I don't have to look to know he's right behind me; I can feel the heat of him, the oppressive weight of his presence pressing against my back. I stumble, clutching the walls for support, the knife still shaking in my hand.
I claw my way along the wall toward the shop, the knife trembling in one hand, and by the time I reach the counter I'm gasping, my whole body shaking.
I finally burst into the shop, the familiar scent of wood and paint usually comforting, but now it feels like a cage.
I scramble to the black landline, my hand trembling so violently I nearly drop the receiver.
I snatch up the receiver and dial with a hand that barely cooperates, the knife still clutched in my other hand, nearly slipping from my palm entirely.
I glance behind me. He's there. Watching. Utterly calm.
Standing amidst the whimsical toys and colorful displays, he looks utterly terrifying—a dark stain on a childhood dream.
"Oh my God," I breathe.
"God can't save you from me, Ophelia," he purrs, quiet, almost gentle, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Not tonight. Not ever."
And then, faint and tinny through the receiver already pressed to my ear, a voice answers.
The operator's voice crackles through the line, urgent and professional. "Emergency services, what is your emergency?”
"There's a man in my shop!" I sob, my voice breaking. "He's been stalking me... please, he's here right now!"
"Are you in immediate danger, ma'am?"
"Yes! Yes, please hurry! Come save me! I'm Ophelia. I called before."
"What is your location?"
"The Tin Heart... I'm at The Tin Heart toy shop! Please, just hurry!"
"Help is on the way, Ophelia. We have dispatched officers to your location. Find somewhere safe to hide and do not hang up the phone. Stay on the line with me, I'm right here."
Before I can even breathe a sigh of relief, Rhys moves. He lunges forward and rips the receiver from my hand.
"Listen up, emergency service," he says into the phone, his tone mocking and cold. "You're going to hear it all. You can listen to every single thing I'm planning to do to Ophelia before your boys ever get through the door."
The operator begins to protest, her voice sounding nervous, trying to negotiate, but Rhys doesn't give her the chance. He places the receiver flat on the wooden counter, facing up, so the operator is forced to be a witness to everything.
I bring the knife up, pointing it at his chest. "Leave! Get the fuck out of my shop or I'll kill you! I swear to God, I'll fucking do it!"
Rhys just grins, a slow, twisted expression. "That's it, doll. Show me that fire."
I scream and charge at him, swinging the knife with everything I have. He's too fast. In one fluid motion, he catches my wrist, twists it until I gasp and drop the weapon, and suddenly, the cold steel of my own knife is pressed firmly against my throat.
"I love it when you fight back when it's me haunting you," he whispers, his lips almost touching my ear. "But I fucking hate how you crumble when it's your own reflection. I'm going to teach you how to bring that same fire to the mirror."
He drags the flat of the blade slowly down my throat, the metal chilling my skin. "I want to feel your throat... I want to feel it vibrate while you scream for me."
"What... what do you mean?" I whisper, trembling.
"Get on your knees," he commands.
In the background, the operator is still talking, her voice tinny and desperate from the phone on the counter. "Please, don't do anything! Ophelia, hold on, the police are almost there! Just stay calm!"
Rhys completely ignores her. He looks down at me, his eyes darkening. "Get on your knees willingly, Ophelia, or I'll put you there myself. And trust me, you won't like the way I do it."
I can't look him in the eye. I can't. I slowly sink to the floor, my knees hitting the hard wood of the shop.
"Good doll," he murmurs.
I hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the rasp of a zipper.
I look up, and my breath catches. He pulls his cock out, and it's fucking monstrous.
It's a huge, thick slab of meat, pulsing with a life of its own.
The head is a deep, angry purple, already glistening and oozing with thick, clear pre-cum that drips slowly down the shaft.
It looks vein-riven and heavy, a brutal contrast to the delicate toys surrounding us.
I stare at it, terrified and inexplicably aroused, as the operator continues to plead into the silence of the room.
I stare up at him without looking into his eyes, my breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps.
He doesn't give me a moment to recover. He reaches down and begins slapping his cock against my lips—thwack, thwack—the heavy, hot meat hitting my mouth with a rhythmic, humiliating force. I can feel him hardening further; he was already semi-erect, but now he’s pulsing, growing even larger, the veins standing out like cords under the skin.
It looks monstrous, an impossible amount of flesh that makes my stomach tighten with a fresh wave of terror.
"Even the thought of your soft little lips on me is enough to make me want to blow," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "I’ve spent every fucking night watching you sleep, jerking off to the sight of you, imagining this. But tonight... tonight I’m not doing it myself. You’re going to give me this orgasm, Ophelia. "
The cold steel of the knife returns, pressing firmly against the sensitive skin of my throat. I shiver, the metal biting in.
"I want to feel my cock deep in your throat while I hold this blade right here," he whispers. "One wrong move, one attempt to pull away, and I'll see if you bleed as beautifully as you scream."
I know exactly what he wants. I’ve never done this—never let a man inside me, let alone in my mouth—but I’ve read the classics.
I’ve read the descriptions of blowjobs in those old books, the longing and the heat.
I’m terrified, but there’s a dark, sick curiosity blooming in my chest, fueled by the sheer dominance he’s exerting over me.
He knows I’m a novice; he can see it in my wide, trembling eyes.
"First time, isn't it, love?" he sneers, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Your first time taking a real man's cock. Don't worry... I'll make sure you remember it."
The threat of the knife is the only thing keeping me here, but as I look at the glistening tip of him, I find myself moving.
I don't want to die. I want to survive. Slowly, tentatively, I stick out my tongue and lick the head of his cock. The taste of his pre-cum is salty and sharp, hitting my taste buds with an intensity that makes me recoil for a second, but it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It tastes like him—musk and heat.
"Hold it," he commands. "Use both hands, you clumsy thing. It'll be easier."
I reach out, my fingers shaking violently.
I wrap both hands around the shaft, but I gasp when I realize my fingers barely meet my thumb.
Even with both hands gripped tight, there is still so much of him left, towering over my grip.
I’ve never seen a cock in person; is it supposed to be this big? It feels like a warm, pulsing iron bar.