Chapter 22
Rhys is still holding me.
I’m still shaking when he gathers me up, his big body folding over mine like a bloody shroud.
My tears are hot and messy, streaking down my cheeks, and he doesn’t let them fall.
He leans in and kisses them away, tongue dragging slow over the salt, lips brushing the wet tracks like he’s tasting my pain and finding it sweet.
His breath ghosts over my temple, low and rough.
Mr. Sandman's song plays somewhere in the room.
Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream
“Shhh, little cracked doll,” he murmurs, voice dark as the bottom of a well. “Cry. Let it all out. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
I sob harder, the words tumbling out between hiccups.
“I saw myself… in his eyes. My own fucking face staring back while he held that knife, soaked in their blood. That’s why I can’t look people in the eye, Rhys.
I looked my own papa in the eye and saw my reflection while he butchered my sisters.
” I sniff, voice cracking. “Maybe that’s added to why I’m scared of my own reflection too. ”
His hands come up, palms rough and warm, cupping my face and forcing my gaze to lock with his.
I flinch, try to turn away, but he holds me steady.
My eyes are wide, red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears, and I stare into those silver depths like I’m drowning.
The fear twists in my gut, but I don’t look away this time.
“What do you see?” he asks, voice a low growl.
I swallow hard, voice trembling. “I see… darkness. Hunger. Something that wants to own me. Something that won’t let me go. And I see my reflection. How you are seeing me.”
A slow, savage smile curves his mouth. “Good girl. That’s exactly what you should see.
Because I’m going to dig that rot out of you, Ophelia.
I’m going to carve it out with my cock and my teeth and my hands until the only thing left is me.
I’ll replace every nightmare with the feel of me inside you.
Every time you close your eyes, you’ll see me.
Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember who you belong to. ”
He starts to move then, hips rolling slow at first, that thick cock dragging against my walls, stretching me open.
I break eye contact, eyes dropping to his body—broad shoulders gleaming with sweat, chest heaving, abs tight and flexing with every thrust. His cock is veined and glistening, buried deep, the base shiny with my slick as he pulls back and slams in again.
My back arches off the black sand, a broken moan tearing from my throat.
He fucks me like an animal. Feral. Desperate.
His mouth moves to my nipple, biting and laving until I’m gasping.
His nails rake down my sides, leaving red welts, then he grabs my hips and flips me onto my stomach, yanking my arse up.
Sand flies as he drives into me, the wet slap of skin echoing in the circular room.
He leans over, teeth sinking into my shoulder, sucking hard enough to bruise.
One big hand cracks across my arse, the sting blooming hot, and I cry out, fisting handfuls of sand.
“Fuck, Rhys—!”
His hand wraps around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my vision spark. He rams into me harder, the force jolting my whole body. “That’s it, love. Scream for me. Let the whole fucking world know who’s ruining this cunt.”
I scream his name, voice hoarse, as suddenly turn me around again.
As he shifts my legs wider, hooking one over his arm to get deeper.
The angle changes and he pounds into me, the head of his cock battering that spot that makes my toes curl.
I already came once when he was flipping me like a weightless doll, but he doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow.
I scratch his chest, placing my mark on him.
He pulls out, flips me onto my back again, and slams back in, the new angle making my eyes roll back.
He slaps my arse again, harder, then fists my hair and yanks my head to the side, exposing my neck.
“Mine,” he snarls, sucking bruises into the skin, then moves to my chest, teeth grazing my nipple before he fists both breasts, squeezing hard.
My orgasm crashes over me, body trembling, cunt clenching around him as I soak the sand beneath us.
But he doesn’t stop. He stays buried deep, one hand pinning my wrists above my head while the other finds my clit, rubbing merciless circles. I’m oversensitive, jerking, trying to twist away. I grab his hand to stop him. “Rhys—too much—fuck, you’re going to kill me!”
He laughs, low and dark, eyes wild. “Kill you? No, little dove. I’m going to fuck you back to life. You’re going to come until you forget your own name, until the only thing you remember is me.”
He doesn’t let up, fingers stroking my clit while his cock pistons in and out, relentless.
I come again, harder this time, vision going black at the edges, body convulsing as I scream his name.
He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me, hot pulses of cum marking me deep inside.
“Fuck, Ophelia,” he pants, voice rough with possession. “You’re going to carry my children. I’m going to fill you up until your belly swells with them.”
He licks my lips, then kisses me slow and deep, tongue claiming every inch of my mouth.
“I love you,” he says, the words heavy, obsessive, like a curse and a promise.
“I love you so fucking much it’s rotting me from the inside.
I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to you still beating.
You’re mine, Ophelia. Every scream, every tear, every drop of blood—mine. And I’ll never let you go.”
I wake up and the first thing I feel is the raw ache between my thighs, a deep, throbbing soreness that makes me wince the moment I try to sit up.
My body's marked, used, claimed, and it protests every movement.
I'm back in his chambers, sprawled across those black velvet sheets, naked beneath a heavy cover that's been draped over me with care.
I push it away only to spot dried dark blood on the sheet.
I freeze in my movements. I stare at the evidence.
A reminder of what I gave to my stalker last night.
My virginity.
I remember exactly how it was, the dream in my head that turned out to be real, and I bite my lower lip, close my eyes, and smile.
The room's quiet, empty. I turn my head toward the enormous French windows and see the first pale light of dawn bleeding across the sky.
I push myself up, legs shaky, and limp across the floor to the window.
Below, The Midnight Menagerie is winding down.
The dark gothic carnival looks like it's exhaling after a long, bloody night.
Stragglers in torn lace and smeared makeup file toward the iron gates, their faces pale in the grey light.
Amber lanterns flicker and gutter as the last of the night's excess drains away.
Performers strip off their masks, vendors pack up their stalls, and the whole place feels like it's shedding its skin, revealing something colder, quieter underneath.
Then I feel it—something soft and warm wrapping around my shoulders from behind. Velvet. Heavy. His scent clings to it. Rhys's arms follow, sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His chin rests on top of my head.
"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," he murmurs, voice low against my hair.
I stare down at the emptying carnival, the truth of last night settling into my bones like cold water. My father's face. The knife. The blood. Seven years of pretending I didn't see what I saw.
"Then let's cut the rot out together, shall we," he says, voice rough.
He kisses my hair, slow and deliberate. "Denmark fell because no one was willing to finish what needed finishing. I don't have that problem."
I pull the velvet tighter around me, still warm from wherever he kept it. "You've read Hamlet, then."
"Cover to cover. More than once." His voice stays low, unhurried. "Required reading, growing up in a house that liked its tragedies old and English."
"Then you know how it ends for her," I say, eyes fixed on the last lanterns winking out below. "Ophelia. The Shakespeare one."
"I do."
"She drowns." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Goes mad from grief, and no one saves her, and she drowns."
He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, there's no comfort in it. "She drowns," he agrees. His hand settles at my waist, possessive. "She was never given a knife of her own, Ophelia. Only ever handed someone else's."
I turn my head slightly, still not quite able to look at him properly. "And what would you have handed her?"
"The blade." No hesitation. "And I'd have stood exactly where I'm standing now, and let her decide who to use it on."
A shiver runs through me. "You're not going to tell me I'm not her. That I won't end up the same way."
"No," he says simply. "I'm going to make sure you never have to find out." A pause, his voice dropping lower, darker. "But make no mistake, love—if this story insists on ending the way that one did, I intend to burn Denmark to the ground long before I ever let the water take you."
A tear slips down my cheek. He feels it, I know he does. His arms tighten around me.
"How do you want me to kill Thomas Sorrell?" he asks, voice quiet but steady.
I go still in his arms. I knew he'd ask. He swore it to me. The question hangs there between us, heavy as the velvet draped over my shoulders.
I lean my head back against his chest, the velvet slipping a bit as I reach up and run my fingers along his forearms. His arms tighten around me, and I feel the hard press of his cock against my arse through his trousers.
The ache between my legs throbs harder at the reminder of what he did to me last night.
"Fuckin' hell, you're already hard again," I mutter, half a laugh, half a groan. "You're a right greedy bastard, aren't you?"
Rhys chuckles low against my hair, but his voice is rough when he answers. "Can't help it when you're stood here naked under my covers, love."
I stroke his arms slowly, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric.
My mind's racing, turning over what he asked me.
How do I want him to kill my father? The thought of watching Thomas Sorrell bleed out makes something dark and satisfied twist in my gut.
But I want more than that. I want the whole fucking process.
"Much as I'd love to watch you gut the bastard yourself," I say, voice quiet but steady, "I want to do it proper. The way the carnival handles abusive cunts like him."
His arms go still around me. I keep stroking his forearms, feeling the tension coil tighter beneath my touch.
"I want to go to the coven," I continue.
"Tell them everything. Let them take my case.
Send one of the succubus after him. I want to watch the whole bloody thing—how they decide, how she lures him in, how he realises it's his turn to die.
I want him to know it's Rhys Castellan's hands that are coming for him. "
Rhys exhales slowly, his breath hot against my scalp. His cock twitches against my arse, and I know the thought of it excites him as much as it does me.
"You want to see him piss himself when he realises," Rhys says, voice dark with approval. "Want him to know I came for him."
"Yeah." My fingers dig into his arms. "I want him terrified. I want him to remember every time he raised his hand to me, every time he drank our money away, every fucking bruise. And I want him to know there's no running from it."
Rhys presses his lips to my hair, then lower, to the side of my neck. "Then that's what you'll have, my cracked doll. We'll go to the coven tonight. You'll tell them your story, and they'll send the succubus to drag that piece of shit into the Menagerie."
"And you'll be there," I say, not a question.
"Every step," he promises, teeth grazing my skin. "Watching him break. Watching him beg."
I close my eyes, letting the weight of it settle. My father's face flashes behind my lids—drunk, furious, knife in hand. The memory makes me shiver, but Rhys's arms hold me steady.
"Good," I whisper. "Because that bastard's going to learn what it feels like to be hunted.”