Chapter 25
The ride back to The Midnight Menagerie is suffocating.
Rhys doesn't say a fucking word. He just grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, the air in the car thick with a jealousy so potent I can practically taste it. He’s absolutely livid, but he’s doing that thing where he goes stone-cold silent, which is a thousand times worse than him shouting.
It’s the silence of a predator deciding exactly where to bite.
Once we're back in his chambers, the psychological warfare continues.
He has food brought in for me—lavish, expensive shit that I can barely eat because my stomach is in knots—and then he just...
ignores me. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even look at me.
He just moves around the room like a ghost, his presence a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I'm on edge, jumping at every sound, wondering when the fuck the hammer is going to drop.
Right before he leaves when the sun goes down, he stops at the door. He doesn't turn around.
"Find me at the carnival. Exactly nine o'clock," he commands, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Don't be late, Ophelia."
Then he's gone.
I collapse onto the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I'm absolutely terrified, but if I'm honest, there's a sick, buzzing excitement humming under my skin.
I love it when he's like this—possessive, dark, completely obsessed.
It makes me feel like I'm the only thing in his world, even if that world is a fucking nightmare.
I look over and see what he's left for me. A dress. Shoes. Makeup.
I strip off my clothes and slide into the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin, trying to wash away the lingering scent of that bitch Nicole and the chaos of the afternoon.
When I get out, I wrap myself in his oversized black silk robe, the fabric cool and heavy against my damp skin.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the offerings.
The dress is a masterpiece of gothic Victorian obsession.
It's deep, midnight black, made of heavy silk and intricate lace that looks like frozen spiderwebs. It’s not one of those stifling, high-neck gowns; the neckline is a daring, wide square that exposes the curve of my collarbones and a hint of my chest, trimmed with delicate black velvet.
The waist is cinched tight, flowing down into a voluminous skirt with layers of tulle and lace that would make any Victorian widow look like a fucking queen.
Beside it sit the shoes: pointed-toe black leather boots with laces that go all the way up to my calves, the heels sharp enough to draw blood.
A black gothic bow to tie my hair.
I start with his moisturizer, the scent of sandalwood and something dark—like rain on old stone—filling my nostrils as I rub it into my pale skin.
Then come the undergarments: a sheer, black lace bra that barely hides my nipples and matching thongs that dig into my hips, making me feel exposed and fragile.
I slide into the dress, the fabric hugging my curves before flaring out.
I tug the laces tight, feeling the corset-like grip of the bodice squeezing the breath out of me, molding me into something elegant and dangerous.
I step into the boots, lacing them up with shaking fingers, the click of the heels on the floor sounding like a countdown.
Then, I see the makeup.
Deep plums, charcoal blacks, and a lipstick so dark it looks like dried blood. To put this on, I need a mirror.
My stomach drops. My breath hitches. Just the thought of seeing my own reflection makes my skin crawl, a cold wave of panic washing over me.
I can almost feel the ghosts of my sisters hovering behind me, the memory of my father's bloody knife flashing in my mind.
I start to hyperventilate, my chest heaving.
Get a grip, Ophelia. You're not that scared little girl anymore.
I see a small, handheld makeup mirror resting on the duvet. I stare at it like it's a fucking landmine. Slowly, agonizingly, I reach out and pick it up. My hand is trembling so hard the mirror rattles.
I open it a fraction of an inch, raising it just enough to see my lips.
I gasp, jumping back, nearly dropping the glass. My heart is racing, a frantic drumming in my ears. I close my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Just the lips. Just the fucking lips.
I reach for the black lipstick. I open the tube and press the dark pigment against my bottom lip.
I force myself to look. I see the dark line forming, the stark contrast against my pale skin.
I don't look away. I keep going, my hand shaking, but I focus.
I apply it to the top lip, carefully defining the cupid's bow, making it sharp and predatory.
I stare at my reflection—just that small part of me—until the color is perfect, bold and unapologetic.
The moment it's done, I slam the lipstick shut and hurl the mirror across the bed as if it had burned me. I'm shaking, my lungs burning, but a wild, triumphant spark ignites in my gut.
I did it. I fucking did it. I looked at myself, and I didn't break.
I stand up, feeling the weight of the dress and the darkness of the lipstick, and I realize I'm ready. Now, I just have to survive whatever the fuck Rhys has planned for me at nine o'clock.
The clock hits nine, the chime echoing through the silent chambers like a funeral knell.
My heart is already doing a frantic dance against my ribs.
I don't hesitate; I head downstairs, the heavy silk of the dress rustling against my legs, the sharp click of my heels sounding like gunshots in the oppressive quiet of the castle.
As I step outside and begin the trek down the long, winding driveway path, the night air hits me—cold, damp, and smelling of ozone and decay.
But as I walk, the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I’m used to Rhys’s gaze; his eyes are like a physical weight, a possessive brand that tells me exactly where he is.
This is different. This feels oily. Cold.
Like something foul is sliding across my skin.
I push through the gates and enter the non-VIP section of the carnival. It’s a fucking madhouse. Neon lights clash with gothic architecture, and the air is thick with the smell of fried dough and sulfur. The feeling of being watched grows, intensifying until it’s a screaming alarm in my head.
I glance to my left.
There, standing on the periphery of a crowd gathered at the graveyard attraction, is a woman.
The crowd is losing their minds, screaming and laughing as animatronic zombies and costumed corpses lunged at them, but she’s stone-still.
She isn't laughing. She isn't screaming. She’s just staring at me through the swirling grey mist, her eyes wide and vacant, a long, serrated knife gripped tight in her hand.
My blood turns to ice. It’s her. The same fucking psycho who tried to gut me before the succubus stepped in. She looks like a ghost, a vengeful spirit carved out of the fog, and the way she looks at me... it's not just hate. It's a hunger to see me bleed.
Before I can even scream, before I can even think to turn and bolt, I feel it. That familiar, suffocating heat. Rhys.
I whip my head around and find him standing directly behind me.
He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on the shell of my ear.
His eyes are terrifying—dark, dilated, and shimmering with a predatory glee.
He isn't looking at the woman with the knife with fear; he's looking at me with a hunger that makes my knees weak. He looks like he’s watching a beautiful piece of art about to be shattered.
I snap my gaze back forward, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. I'm trapped between a murderer and a monster.
Then, his voice drops—a low, sinful rasp that vibrates through my entire spine. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a command wrapped in a haunting, psychotic promise.
"Run, my sweet, cracked doll," he whispers, the words dripping with a dark, erotic cruelty. "Run until your lungs burn and your heart screams for me. Run as if the devil himself is snapping at your heels... because I'm the only one who can save you from the dark."
I don't need to be told twice. I bolt.
I sprint into the crowd, my heavy skirts bunching up, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
But as I run, it becomes clear that this isn't a random flight.
It's a curated hunt. Every time I try to veer toward the exit or a crowded plaza, something is in my way.
A sudden surge of laughing patrons blocks my path; a heavy velvet curtain drops across an alleyway; a group of performers in grotesque masks step directly into my stride, forcing me to pivot.
He’s herding me. He’s playing with me like a fucking cat with a mouse, guiding my panic with surgical precision.
I'm sobbing now, the adrenaline turning my vision blurry, and before I can even realize where I am, I burst through a heavy oak door and slam into a wall of glass.
I've entered the Hall of Fractures.
It’s a fucking nightmare of a mirror maze.
The air is stagnant, smelling of old dust and silver polish.
It’s a gothic labyrinth where the mirrors are warped and twisted—some make me look eight feet tall and skeletal, others squash me down like a fucking pancake, distorting my body into something unrecognizable.
But the worst part is the cobwebs. Real, thick, grey webs drape across the glass in heavy sheets, clinging to the corners and veiling the reflections.
I catch glimpses of myself—a flash of black lipstick here, the curve of a pale shoulder there—but I can't see my whole reflection.
The webs break me apart, fracturing my image into a thousand jagged, incomplete pieces.
Panic surges, a cold wave that crashes over me. I'm lost in a house of lies, unable to see myself, unable to see the way out. I spin around, my heels clicking frantically, the sound echoing a dozen times over.