Chapter 11
I'm still shaking, my thighs trembling so violently I can barely keep my balance as Rhys stands up. He doesn't look like a man who's just been cornered by half a dozen armed officers; he looks like a king who's just finished a tedious chore.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he takes the knife—the same blade that had placed in my throat and terrified me into submission—and presses the handle back into my palm. His fingers linger against mine for a second, a ghost of a touch that sends a jolt of electricity through my spine.
"Keep it, love," he whispers, his voice smooth and devoid of any fear. "You might need it for when I come back for you."
He turns and walks toward the door, his stride confident, almost arrogant.
I scramble to my feet, clutching the knife, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I watch him step out into the strobe of red and blue lights.
I expect the shouting, the shouting of orders, the sound of handcuffs clicking shut.
I expect him to be slammed against the pavement.
Instead, I watch the impossible happen.
The moment the officers see his face, the atmosphere shifts.
It's instantaneous. The aggression vanishes, replaced by a visible, palpable wave of hesitation.
Their faces drop, eyes widening in a mixture of shock and immediate deference.
The guns, which had been leveled at the door with lethal intent, slowly lower.
"Mr. Castellan?" one of the officers stammers, his voice stripped of all authority. "We... we had no idea it was you, sir. Our apologies."
I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. Sir? They're apologizing to him?
Rhys doesn't even give them the satisfaction of a smile. He stands there, silhouetted against the flashing lights, looking down at them with a cold, piercing disdain.
"Leave," he says, his voice carrying across the street, low and dangerous. "And make sure you never bother me or Ophelia Sorrell again. Stay the fuck out of our business."
The officers don't argue. They don't ask for a statement.
They don't even look back at me. "Yes, sir.
Of course, sir," they mutter, backing away as if he were a predator they were terrified of provoking.
Within seconds, they are scrambling back into their cruisers, the sirens cutting off abruptly as they peel away from the curb, leaving the street in a sudden, ringing silence.
I stand in the doorway of The Tin Heart, clutching the knife, staring at the empty street. I can't breathe. The world feels like it's tilting on its axis.
Rhys doesn't come back inside. He doesn't need to.
He simply drifts back to his usual spot—the deep, oppressive shadows where he always watches me.
He blends into the darkness, becoming a ghost once more, though I can feel his gaze burning into me like a brand.
He pulls out a cigarette, the orange cherry glowing brightly for a moment before he draws in a long, slow breath.
He's just standing there, smoking, watching me with those predatory eyes, knowing exactly how broken and confused I am.
I can't stay here. I can't just stand here and let him win.
I turn and bolt back into the shop, my heels clicking frantically on the floor. I dive for the landline, my fingers fumbling with the receiver as I dial the emergency number again. My chest is heaving, my mind screaming for an explanation.
The line clicks open. This time, it's a man's voice—clipped, professional, and entirely cold.
"Emergency services, state your emergency," he says.
"I need help!" I sob, the words tumbling out of me. "I just called! There was a stalker in my shop, he... he attacked me! The police arrived, but they just let him go! Why wasn't I helped? Why did they let him walk away?"
There is a brief, heavy silence on the other end.
"What is your location, ma'am?"
"The Tin Heart," I gasp. "The toy shop in Whitby."
The moment the words leave my lips, the tone of the man's voice changes. The professional facade drops, replaced by a sharp, warning edge.
"Listen to me very carefully," the operator says, his voice devoid of any empathy. "Do not call this emergency line again. Do not attempt to report Rhys Castellan to any officer of the law. Be advised that attempting to file a report against Mr. Castellan is considered a felony offense."
I recoil from the phone, the receiver nearly slipping from my hand. "What? What are you talking about? That's... that's not possible! How can reporting a crime be a felony?"
Click.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the receiver in absolute shock, the dial tone humming a monotonous, mocking tune in my ear. My breath is shallow, my skin crawling. Who the fuck is this man? Who is Rhys Castellan that he can bend the police to his will and turn the law into a weapon against the people he hunts?
I slowly place the phone back on the hook, my heart beating so fast I can feel it in my throat. I look toward the window, toward the darkness where I know he's still standing, smoking his cigarette and watching me.
He isn't just a stalker. He's something much worse. He's a ghost in the machine, a man who owns the very people meant to protect me.
I grip the knife he gave me, my knuckles white. I don't know who he is or how he has this power, but I know one thing: I have to find out. I have to uncover the truth about Rhys Castellan before he decides that watching me from the shadows isn't enough anymore.
It's the next day. He watched me all night, I'd wager — I never once looked to check, refusing to give him the satisfaction of catching me peering nervously through the curtain.
Once I'm sure the shops along the high street have opened properly, I shower, brush my teeth without a mirror, same as always, and dress — a deep bottle-green Victorian gown today, high collar, cream lace at the cuffs, black boots laced to the ankle. Armor, same as ever.
I don't open the shop this morning. Instead I go straight to Aldridge's.
Mrs. Aldridge herself is behind the counter — a round, silver-haired woman somewhere past sixty, half-moon glasses perched on her nose, the kind of no-nonsense face that's seen every strange thing this town has to offer and stopped being impressed by any of it decades ago.
"Morning, love," she says warmly, not remotely put off that I don't meet her eye. "What can I do you for?"
"I'm looking for Amara," I say.
"Round the back, sorting stock. Go on through."
I find her crouched between two shelves of glass eyes, humming something under her breath, sorting little tins by size. "Hiya," I say, careful, eyes on her collar rather than her face.
She looks up and grins immediately. "Ophelia! God, I love that dress on you." She stands, brushing dust off her knees. "You look properly gorgeous today."
"You look lovely too," I say, and mean it — she's in ripped black jeans and a band tee I don't recognize, hair pinned up messy and perfect at once.
"I was actually about to come find you," she says. "Fancy The Midnight Menagerie tomorrow night?"
I busy my hands with a nearby display of wire spools, turning them over, anything to keep from looking directly at her. "Speaking of," I say, as casually as I can manage, "you know the owner, don't you?"
"Rhys Castellan." She says the name like it still delights her. "Saw him the other night, as I told you."
"Do you know much about him?"
She shrugs, thoughtful. "Not loads. There's rumors, though — that he and that whole carnival do something for women who need saving. Never been totally clear on what, exactly."
I try to fold that alongside what my father said. "How, though?"
"No idea on the how. But everyone says the first step is the coven. The Six Who Speak As One." She tilts her head at me, curious now. "Why — you thinking of getting yourself saved by the carnival, love?"
"No," I say quickly. "Just curious."
"We could go tonight, if you like." She's already reaching for her jacket. "I'll swing by and collect you."
I nod, and something in my chest tightens at how easily she's offered it — like she has no idea what she's actually walking me toward.
I spend the rest of the day at the shop's workbench, hands busy with wire and pigment, building a small tin fox with a hinged tail and a painted, knowing little smirk — something to keep my mind occupied while my thoughts circle endlessly back to what waits for me tonight.
I take most of the day's earnings up to my hiding spot beneath the wardrobe, same as before, leaving my father just enough coins to notice and grumble over.
He does, predictably, growling something about a proper man being able to trust his own daughter, and I say nothing back.
I bathe and change into black for the evening — full Victorian gothic, low-necked, the fabric heavy enough to feel like protection — and I'm waiting downstairs by candlelight when Amara arrives.
"Why on earth are you using candles?" she asks, stepping in.
"No power at the moment," I say, which is at least true.
She's dressed in her usual full black, hair styled into elaborate victory rolls that somehow suit the whole gothic effect perfectly. "Right," she says. "Let's get going, then."
I lock the shop door behind us, and there he is — standing exactly where I expect him, watching. I don't look at him. I simply walk.
Amara chats the whole way, easy and unbothered, telling me about deciding not to go to uni after sixth form, about her mum wanting her to be a solicitor and her wanting absolutely none of that — talking about herself in a way that feels, somehow, deliberately generous, like she's leaving space for me to fill in if I want to.
I mostly listen, asking a question here and there where I don't follow, grateful she doesn't push for more than I offer.
I feel him behind us the whole way. Amara stops suddenly, turning. "Is that bloke following us?"
I glance back. It's him, unmistakable, keeping pace in the dark. "Let's just keep walking," I say.