Chapter 21
The last twenty-four hours have been a blur of silence and waiting. Rhys took the butcher’s knife from my hands without a word, just a slow nod like he already knew what it meant. Then he said he had to prepare everything, and that I’d get the Sandman tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is now tonight.
I’ve been stuck in his chambers since he dragged me out of that attic and back to the carnival.
We've been holed up in his chambers inside the carnival castle since he dragged me out of that attic.
No looking out the window. No looking at the clock.
Just the low thrum of distant carnival music bleeding through the walls and the smell of his cologne on everything.
The castle walls feel like they’re breathing around me. I’ve paced, I’ve smoked half a pack of his cigarettes, and I’ve stared at the same bloody knife he locked away until my eyes went blurry. Every time I asked what he was planning he just told me to wait until midnight.
Midnight comes like a fucking executioner.
Rhys finally steps out of the shadows wearing a long black Victorian coat with silver buttons running down the front, the fabric heavy and old like something dug up from a grave.
Underneath he’s got a blood-red shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and black trousers that fit too well.
His dark hair’s slicked back, jaw clean-shaven for once, but those ice-blue eyes still look half-feral.
Rhys finally moves. He pulls out a brand new black crop top and black sweatpants from a drawer and hands them to me without ceremony. "Get dressed."
I do. My fingers are clumsy with nerves.
He leads me out of the bedroom, down a corridor I haven't seen before, and stops at a heavy black door.
I stop, heart hammering.
“Are you the Sandman?” I ask, voice cracking.
He glances over his shoulder, mouth twitching. “I am.”
“What exactly are you going to do to me?”
“I’ll show you.”
When he opens it, my stomach drops.
It's nothing like I would have expected.
It's a circular room. Small. The walls are curved and covered in black quilted velvet, like the inside of a coffin or a womb.
Black sand covers the floor, shifting under my bare feet.
A single brass lamp hangs from the ceiling, its smoked-glass shade casting a dim amber glow that barely reaches the edges.
In the centre sits a low cushioned platform, like something from an old opium den. Next to it, a small table holds a glass jar with a live scorpion inside—dark, glistening, legs twitching. There's also a ledger, pages filled with handwritten names and dates.
"Why's there a fucking scorpion?" I ask, voice thin.
Rhys steps inside and closes the door behind us. "It's not for letting it run wild. There's a slender silver instrument for precision. The ledger tracks the six-month cooldown. Can't have people dying from overdosing."
The air feels thick, sweet with incense. A low, continuous hum starts somewhere beneath my skin the moment the door shuts—like tinnitus made audible.
Rhys looks different tonight. His dark hair is slicked back, and his eyes—those terrifying black eyes—look even darker in this light. He looks like death dressed for a funeral.
"The room's whole purpose is dissolving the boundary between what's real and what's buried," he says.
"What are you going to do to me?"
"I'm going to use venom from that scorpion. It puts you in a state where you see the world as it really is. Gothic, not happy. It should feel like walking into your own subconscious. Not a pleasant dream."
Rhys’s voice drops lower, thick with something colder than hate.
“Listen close, Ophelia. Once you see that bastard’s face in the dark and you let me know, he’s finished.
Thomas is already a corpse for raising his hand to you.
But now? Now I’m going to carve him apart so slowly the devil himself will fucking weep.
I’ll peel the skin from his fingers first, make him watch.
Then I’ll take his tongue, his eyes, every piece he used to hurt you or your sisters.
I’ll keep him breathing while I do it, stitch the wounds just enough to stop him dying too soon.
He’ll beg, and I’ll laugh, and when there’s nothing left but screams, I’ll bury what’s left in the same black sand you’re standing on. That’s my promise to you.”
My breath catches. I want to argue, to scream, but the promise in his tone roots me to the spot. He gestures to the platform. “Lay down.”
I do. My body won't stop shivering. The black sand crunches softly beneath the platform's legs.
Nerves making my whole body shiver as I stretch out on the velvet cushions. The air feels thick, sweet with incense that reminds me of the coven’s tent. A low, continuous hum starts somewhere beneath the floor, like tinnitus made audible.
Rhys picks up the jar, unscrews the lid, and turns it upside down.
He presses the open end against my exposed stomach.
The scorpion drops onto my skin inside the jar.
Its legs are cold and prickly, each one tapping against me like tiny needles.
Its weight is light but alien, and I can feel every movement—the way its body shifts, the scrape of its pincers against the glass.
I flinch, breath stuttering.
"Try to relax, my cracked doll," Rhys murmurs, his hand steady on my hip. Then, while watching me, he begins to pat the jar repeatedly at the bottom that's now up. "I'm going to take care of you."
"Why are you tapping the jar?" I ask, voice shaking.
"To provoke it, love. Get it to sting."
Before he finishes the sentence, the scorpion strikes.
I squeal. The pain is white-hot, a needle driving straight into my gut.
Pain explodes through my belly like a white-hot needle driving straight into muscle.
I squeal again, back arching off the cushions.The venom floods my veins instantly—burning, then freezing, then burning again.
My limbs go rigid, then slack. Venom floods my system like liquid fire, burning through my veins.
My back arches off the platform. My muscles seize, then tremble uncontrollably.
Sweat breaks out across my skin. My vision blurs at the edges, colours bleeding into one another.
The hum grows louder, filling my skull until I can’t tell if it’s inside or outside my head. Rhys’s face blurs above me, ice-blue eyes the only fixed point as everything else dissolves into gothic nightmare.
The hum in the room gets louder, vibrating through my bones.
My mind starts to drift—slowly at first, like I'm being pulled underwater.
The world tilts on its axis. The velvet walls ripple.
The black sand on the floor begins to move, swirling like it's alive.
Rhys's face above me stretches and warps, his eyes becoming bottomless pits.
Everything is slipping away. Reality is unravelling, thread by thread.
My mind starts to drift, slow and inevitable, pulled under by whatever the venom is showing me next.
I wake up on black sand, the same gritty stuff that covered the floor of Rhys’s ritual room. My fingers sink into it, still warm. Am I dreaming? Awake? My head spins, but the stars above are too sharp, too real. A full moon hangs low, silver light spilling everywhere.
I push up and the fabric around me shifts—heavy, layered, beautiful.
A gothic Victorian gown clings to my body, deep blood-red velvet with black lace overlays.
The bodice is low-cut, pushing my tits up, the neckline trimmed with delicate onyx beading that catches the moonlight.
The sleeves are long and sheer, ending in cuffs of black lace, while the skirt flares wide, split up one side to show flashes of pale thigh.
Tiny jet buttons run down the front, and the train trails behind me like spilled ink.
My shoes are black leather ankle boots, pointed toes, with tiny silver buckles shaped like tiny scorpions.
I stand, gather the heavy skirt in both hands, and walk. The path ahead turns to grass, rocks rising like jagged teeth on either side. The air smells of wet stone and night-blooming flowers.
A lake opens on my left, its surface black glass except where the moon cuts a perfect silver path across it. Mist clings low, curling around the reeds like ghostly fingers. The water is so still it looks solid, yet something moves beneath—slow, deliberate, as if the lake itself is breathing.
Beyond the lake, the landscape turns even more gothic.
Crumbling stone walls rise from the earth like broken teeth.
The ruins of a castle stand half-swallowed by ivy and shadow, its towers shattered, windows empty sockets staring at the sky.
Moonlight paints the stones bone-white, and the wind whistles through the gaps like a dying choir.
I run toward it, dress trailing, heart hammering. Inside, there’s no roof—only open sky and moonlight pouring down on cracked flagstones. Vines crawl up the remaining walls, and shattered columns lie where they fell centuries ago.
Hands close around my waist from behind.
I know those hands—long fingers, callused palms, possessive grip.
Rhys. I turn and there he is, dressed in a Victorian frock coat of black brocade shot through with silver thread.
The coat hugs his broad shoulders, falls to mid-thigh, open to reveal a blood-red waistcoat and crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat.
Moonlight catches in his dark hair and reflects in his eyes, turning them into mirrors of liquid silver.
I meet his gaze and smile. The shock hits me like cold water—I’m looking him dead in the eye without flinching. How?
Rhys’s mouth curves. “There’s my cracked doll,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my tits through the velvet. “Been waiting for you to look at me like that. Like you finally see who owns you.”