Chapter 23
The Midnight Menagerie sprawls before us like a nightmare dressed in velvet and bone.
Rhys leads me through the winding paths, his hand warm and steady around mine.
What he dressed me in, I'm wearing an elegant gothic dress of deep crimson silk that clings to my curves, the bodice boned and low-cut, with long sheer sleeves that trail like shadows.
The skirt parts at the front to reveal black lace petticoats, and the whole thing moves like liquid blood when I walk.
Black velvet ribbons lace up the back, and the neckline dips low enough to show the marks he's left on my skin.
The necklace he gave me, on my neck, going to my cleavage where the pendant rests.
Rhys himself cuts a striking figure beside me.
He's in a tailored black frock coat with silver buttons, the fabric catching the carnival lights like oil on water.
Beneath it, a deep burgundy waistcoat embroidered with thorny vines, and a crisp black shirt open at the collar.
His trousers are fitted black wool, tucked into polished leather boots that click against the cobblestones.
A silver chain hangs from his waistcoat pocket, and his dark hair falls across his forehead in that careless way that makes him look both dangerous and beautiful.
"You look fuckin' edible in that dress," he murmurs, squeezing my hand. "Like sin wrapped in silk."
"And you look like death's own tailor," I reply, but I'm smiling. "Proper scary bastard, you are."
Suddenly, arms wrap around me from behind. I spin, heart hammering, and find myself face to face with Amara's grinning face.
"Ophelia! You absolute wanker!" she exclaims, pulling back to look at me. "I've been looking everywhere for you! Went to your place twice—twice!—and you weren't there. I wanted us to come here together. But you disappear worse than the ghosts in your attic."
I turn to face her properly, and her eyes go wide as she spots Rhys standing just behind me.
"Oh," she says slowly, understanding dawning. "Now I see where you've been disappearing to."
"Amara, this is Rhys," I say, gesturing between them. "Rhys Castellan. Rhys, this is my mate Amara Aldridge."
Rhys inclines his head slightly, his expression unreadable but not unfriendly. "Pleasure to meet you, Amara. Ophelia's spoken of you."
Amara studies him for a moment, then grins. "So you're the scary Rhys Castellan everyone's been whispering about. Gotta say, you're taller than the rumours."
"And you're braver than most for approaching me," he replies, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Most people tend to... keep their distance."
"Well, I'm not most people," Amara says, then turns back to me. "Ophelia, you have to get a phone. Seriously. I've been worried sick."
"Let me make it up to you," I tell her, then look at Rhys. "Could you help her get the succubus experience tonight? She's been wanting to try it. Again."
Rhys nods without hesitation and signals to a passing staff member. "Take this young lady to the succubus. She's our special guest tonight."
Amara's eyes light up like fireworks. "Really?
Oh my God, Ophelia, you're the best!" She throws her arms around me, squeezing tight.
"I forgive you for ghosting me, you absolute nightmare.
" Then she leans in close, her breath warm against my ear.
"Though I can see why you've been busy—your neck's covered in hickeys, you kinky bitch. "
She winks at me, then follows the staff member away, practically bouncing with excitement.
I had to work hard to hide my blush, hoping Rhys doesn't see it.
I turn to Rhys, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "She's a character, isn't she?"
"She seems... spirited," he says, pulling me closer. "I'm glad you have someone who cares about you. Other than me, of course."
"She means well," I reply. "Just a bit loud about it."
"Come on," he says, taking my hand again. "The coven awaits."
We continue through the carnival until we reach the black tent of the six who speak as one. The entrance flaps part like a mouth, and we step inside together.
The interior is pitch black except for a single lamp hanging high above, its light dim as an ember.
In front of me sits a low table ringed with unlit red candles, and around it, the six of them, veiled as ever.
Items that look like they're used in spellcasting hang from the walls—dried herbs, bones, crystals, and things I can't name.
"Rhys Castellan," they all say at once, their voices perfectly synchronized. "Ophelia Sorrell. Welcome."
The silence that follows is absolute, pressing against my ears like cotton wool. I look back at Rhys, and these women give me chills still—the way they move as one, speak as one, exist as one. But Rhys is calm, steady as stone. He kisses my forehead, his lips warm against my skin.
"I'm right here, love," he whispers. "You're safe with me."
Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, one of the women strikes a match. She touches it to a single wick, and the instant the flame catches, every other candle around the table ignites at once. A dozen small fires bloom in perfect unison, casting dancing shadows across their veiled faces.
Rhys guides me to sit on the red-laced chair. As I settle into it, the coven begins to speak.
"Your aura," one starts.
"It's coming to place," the next continues.
"Fractures fading," another adds.
Then they speak together as the one closest to me pushes her arm forward. "Your palm, bring it here."
I place my palm on the woman's cold hand. Her fingers trace the lines of my palm, reading something I can't see. She looks at the others, then releases my hand. All six of them remove their veils at once.
Pale faces with sharp, shark-like teeth smile at me. Their skin is deathly white, their hair black as midnight.
"You have remembered," they say together, "what your father did. Your father's actions."
One begins, "We have waited for this moment."
"Fate foretold," another continues.
"Your arrival with this news," a third adds.
"Will lead to a binding ritual," they finish together.
My stomach drops. A binding ritual. The words hang in the air like smoke, and I can feel the weight of their collective gaze on me.
My hands tremble slightly in my lap, and I have to fight the urge to reach for Rhys.
The thought of being bound to something—some force or entity I don't understand—makes my skin crawl.
But beneath the fear, there's something else.
Something that feels like recognition. Like this is what I've been waiting for without knowing it.
My hands start shaking before I even know what I'm doing. "I don't know what the fuck you're on about," I say, voice cracking. "But if this is about my dad—"
"I want what the others got," I blurt out. "I want him to pay. All the way to the end of it."
"Necessity makes strange bedfellows," they say together—the third time now, and this time it doesn't sound like a warning. It sounds like a door opening.
"Your father," one begins.
"Who fed you lies," another continues.
"Who fed himself first," a third adds, colder.
"Blood remembers what the mind buries," says a fourth. "And yours has been remembering all along."
"We told you once," the fifth murmurs.
"Your stalker is your remedy," they say together, and something in those words repeated to me makes the hair on my arms rise. "He had given you your first stitch. You need his needle now."
Rhys's hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the silk.
"I'm here to talk about how to get revenge on my dad," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's what this is about."
"All that is already," they answer as one. "But before then... this is not about Thomas. Not this part. This part is about the fate of Ophelia."
"What exactly are you saying?" I ask, feeling Rhys's fingers trace slow circles on my spine.
They begin to speak, one at a time.
"It is a ritual-binding," the first says.
"Our power runs on blood, breath, and pleasure as currency," the second continues.
"Older folk-magic traditions use bodily offerings to seal a pact," the third adds.
"When a woman comes to us wanting vengeance," the fourth murmurs, "we don't offer this to them."
"But you are not just a random woman seeking vengeance," the fifth says.
"You belong to Rhys," they finish together. "So we are not going to listen to your troubles then take the message to him. We want to perform a ritual between you."
"What ritual?" I ask.
"The consummation," they say as one.
My eyes go wide. Do they want me to fuck them?
As though reading my mind, they say in perfect chilling unison, "The sex is not between you and the coven—it is between you and Rhys, on our table, in our space, with us casting a spell—because we need to witness and consume the moment your desire crystallizes into intent. Pleasure and vow become the same act."
"We will bind your souls in dark magic," they continue. "And the sex is the ritual for the magic to work."
My eyes go wide. I look up at Rhys, and he seems very ready—his gaze dark, hungry, like he's been waiting for this moment all night.
I stand and turn to him. "Did you know they were going to say this?"
Rhys's smile is slow, dangerous. "I knew they would see what we are, love.
What we could be." He steps closer, his voice dropping to that obsessive, gothic tone that makes my stomach flip.
"You think this is about them? It's about us.
About claiming what was always meant to be mine.
Your pain, your pleasure, your vengeance—they all belong to me now.
And I will give you everything in return.
Your father's blood on my hands. Your body beneath mine.
Your soul bound to mine in ways that will make the dead turn with envy. "