Chapter 12 #2
I snatch the paper from her, my fingers trembling.
My heart skips a beat. I didn't feel him put it there.
When did he—? The realization hits me; he must have slipped it in while he was grinding against me, his hands roaming my waist and chest. The thought of his fingers grazing my skin to plant this thing makes a fresh wave of heat crash through me.
I unfold the black paper. The ink is stark white, the handwriting sharp, elegant, and utterly terrifying.
My sweet, cracked doll,
Run as far as you like, love. It only makes the scent of your fear sweeter. I’ll be watching you sleep tonight, counting your breaths until I can feel them against my own skin again.
I am the only one who can fix you. And I will break you a thousand more times just to be the one who puts you back together.
Yours. Always.
I feel a violent shiver race down my spine, settling deep in my marrow. It’s not just fear—it’s a sickening, magnetic pull. He’s not just stalking me; he’s weaving himself into the very fabric of my existence.
"Well?" Amara prompts, leaning in to try and peek. "What's it say? Is it some secret admirer or some posh bloke from the carnival?"
I quickly crumple the note in my fist, my knuckles turning white. "Nothing," I snap, my voice shaking. "Just some rubbish.”
Amara gives me a look of pure skepticism, her eyes narrowed. She clearly doesn't believe a word of my "just some rubbish" excuse. But before she can press me further, her entire demeanor shifts. She stiffens, her gaze snapping to something behind me.
"Fuck... there he is," she breathes, her voice dropping an octave.
Before I can even react, she grabs my shoulder and spins me around. My heart leaps into my throat. Rhys is right there. He’s standing just a few paces away, framed by the swirling mist of the carnival, looking like a predator who’s just watched his prey walk right back into the trap.
I immediately put the note in my pocket.
Amara doesn't even seem to notice my panic; she's too busy staring, her voice turning into a hushed, appreciative drone. "Bloody hell, look at him. That hair... dark as a coal mine. And those eyes, Ophelia, they're like two black holes, aren't they? Proper haunting."
She lets out a low whistle, her eyes roaming over his frame.
"He's towering, isn't he? Built like a brick shithouse.
Look at those shoulders... those muscles look like they're meant for something violent.
Like he spends his days breaking things—or people.
He doesn't just look like a man, love; he looks like absolute sin wrapped in a suit. "
Rhys isn't listening to her. He’s staring at me.
It’s that same heavy, possessive gaze that feels like a physical weight on my skin, stripping me bare right there in front of Amara.
I can feel the heat of his obsession radiating off him, and I immediately jerk my head away, unable to maintain eye contact, terrified of what I might see in the reflection of those dark pupils.
Amara notices my sudden avoidance. "Is he looking at us?" she asks, then pauses, her voice trailing off. "Wait... is he looking at you?"
She lets out a long, shaky sigh, sounding completely smitten. "I'll tell you one thing, Ophelia. That is a man who almost makes me think men may not be so bloody bad."
The words hit me like a cold splash of water. I freeze, slowly turning my head toward Amara, though I still can't bring myself to look her directly in the eye.
"Are you... are you gay?" I ask, my voice sounding small and confused.
Amara blinks at me, looking genuinely baffled. "Isn't it bleeding obvious with how I look at you sometimes?"
"Not really," I mutter.
But before the conversation can go any further, Amara suddenly stops dead. She lets out a sharp gasp, her grip tightening on my arm. "Oh my god... there she is! The succubus!"
I look forward, away from Rhys, and my breath catches.
Walking toward him is a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fever dream.
She's draped in a dress of the deepest, most violent red, clinging to every curve of her tall, statuesque frame.
Her black hair is a shimmering waterfall cascading down her back, and she moves with a lethal grace on towering high heels that click rhythmically against the ground.
As she gets closer, I see her face—she is breathtakingly gorgeous, with a predatory beauty that feels almost dangerous.
When I saw her before, I didn't really look at her keenly.
She glides toward Rhys, her lips curving into a seductive smile as she begins to speak to him in a low, melodic tone.
Behind me, Amara has gone completely feral.
She starts shaking my arm violently, her voice rising in excitement.
"Ophelia! Look at her! Isn't she absolutely hot?
Look at those legs, that waist... she's a proper dark goddess!
She is literally the nightmare I've been dreaming of having.
I want her to ruin my life, I swear to god! "
I look at Amara’s desperation and a small, mischievous thought crosses my mind. I turn around to face her. "Do you want the VIP experience with the succubus?"
Amara’s jaw practically hits the floor. "Hell yeah! Absolutely! That is the one thing that could make me pay every penny I own for that necklace!"
I reach into my pocket and pull out the piece of jewelry. The black skull, intricately surrounded by black roses—the emblem of The Midnight Menagerie—glints in the dim light.
Amara gasps, reaching out to touch the dangling pendant as if it’s a holy relic. "How the fuck did you get one of those? Where did you find it?"
"Someone gave it to me," I say vaguely, not wanting to mention the monster currently staring a hole through my back. "Where do we go to find the VIP area?"
"I'll take you, love!" Amara exclaims, practically vibrating with anticipation. "Thank god they allow a plus one for this. I am so getting the succubus seduction package. I can already feel my knees shaking."
I manage a small, thin smile. As we start to walk away, I feel Rhys’s eyes lingering on me, a silent promise that this isn't over.
But for now, I have a plan. If Amara is occupied being devoured by a succubus in the VIP lounge, maybe I can finally slip away, look around, and find some actual information about who the fuck Rhys Castellan really is.
Amara is practically vibrating beside me, her excitement bordering on manic as we make our way to the south side of the carnival.
The atmosphere shifts abruptly; the chaotic, neon-lit madness of the Menagerie fades, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence and a level of security that makes the rest of the park look like a bloody playground.
The private quarters sit through a separate gate on the south side of the grounds, and the moment we reach it, the whole atmosphere shifts — no more flashing lights, no more screaming, no more manufactured horror.
Just two enormous security guards, all in black, standing before a gate of wrought iron so tall it swallows the mist above us whole.
A massive, wrought-iron gate looms over us, guarded by men who look more like mercenaries than carnival staff. Their eyes are cold, scanning us with a clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl. As we approach, one of them steps forward, his hand resting on a holster.
"Identification," he grunts.
My fingers tremble as I reach into my pocket and pull out the necklace. I hold the black skull and roses up to the dim light.
One of them takes it, turns it over in gloved hands, inspecting the craftsmanship with a practiced eye, comparing it to some kind of ledger, checks it against something on a small tablet, and hands it back without a word.
"Who are you here for tonight?" the other asks.
Amara doesn't even let him finish. "The succubus experience," she chirps, her voice echoing in the quiet night. "The full package,” Amara says, breathless.
"Names."
"Names," the guard demands.
"Amara Aldridge," she says proudly.
"Ophelia Sorrell," I whisper, the sound of my own name feeling like a confession.
We each give first and last, and I feel my own name land strangely in my mouth, like handing over something private to men who already seem to know exactly who I am.
They wave us through.
Once cleared, the gates groan open, and we are escorted down a long, winding driveway.
The drive beyond the gate curves long and dark through bare trees, and then it rises up ahead of us out of the mist — not a house.
A castle. Proper Victorian Gothic stonework, spires clawing up into the grey sky, windows glowing amber from within like a hundred watching eyes.
At the end of the path stands a Victorian-era castle, a monolithic slab of grey stone and jagged spires that pierces the midnight sky.
It’s breathtaking and terrifying all at once, looking like a place where secrets go to be buried alive.
Expensive cars—sleek, black, and costing more than my entire shop—are parked in a neat row outside, likely belonging to the elite filth who pay for these kinds of depravities.
They line the gravel drive — the kind of cars that belong to people who've never had to think about money the way I have.
A member of security leads us to the massive oak doors and performs a signature knock—a rhythmic, coded sequence that sounds like a heartbeat.
The doors swing open, and we are immediately hit by a wave of perfume, expensive wine, and the low hum of conversation.
It opens onto a party already fully alive.