Chapter 26
I’m sitting in a sticky leather booth at the back of The Rusty Anchor, my father’s favorite haunt.
The place is a proper shithole—dimly lit, smelling of stale tobacco, old piss, and cheap disinfectant.
A jukebox in the corner is belching out some scratchy, outdated rock anthem that barely drowns out the roar of the regulars, a bunch of weathered, miserable bastards nursing pints and shouting over each other.
It’s the kind of place where hope goes to die and the floor is permanently tacky under your boots.
I’m shaking, my fingers twitching against the tabletop. I feel like a fucking ghost in this place. Rhys is beside me, a stark contrast to the grime around us, looking far too polished and dangerous for a pub like this. He’s calm, almost bored, while I’m practically vibrating with nerves.
The waiter arrives, sliding a drink toward me that Rhys ordered. It’s a dark, thick cocktail—something with blackberries and a heavy pour of bourbon, topped with a single, blood-red cherry. It looks like a bruise in a glass.
I stare at the liquid, then look up at Rhys, my voice a shaky whisper. "You sure he's coming? I haven't been by the toy shop in days... he must be completely skint. No money for booze means he's got nothing to lose, but he might just be hiding in a hole somewhere."
Rhys doesn't even blink. "He'll come, love," he says, his voice a smooth, possessive hum. "I've been making sure some of the house staff 'accidentally' leave a few bottles around for him to find. He's hungry for it."
Then, Rhys’s gaze shifts, looking past my shoulder. "Here he is."
I whirl around. Coming through the door is Thomas.
He looks fucking pathetic. His clothes are rags, his hair a matted mess, and he reeks of desperation even from across the room.
He’s lugging that ancient, heavy TV, dragging it across the floor like it’s his last possession on earth.
He stumbles over to the owner, a burly man with a face like a slapped ham, and starts pleading.
I can't hear every word, but I see the desperation. He’s trying to trade the piece of junk for whiskey. The owner sneers, shaking his head at first, but eventually, he gives a reluctant nod. "One bottle," the man grunts. "This thing is a fucking relic. Not worth a drop more."
The owner signals a staff member to haul the TV away to the office, and my father practically lunges for the counter. "A bottle of Jameson! Now!" he bellows.
He doesn't even bother with a glass at first. He knocks back three shots in rapid succession, his throat bobbing, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
Then he demands a larger glass, and the bartender fills it to the absolute brim.
It takes him only a few minutes to drain the entire bottle, his movements frantic and greedy.
When it's gone, he just stares at the empty glass with a look of pure, wretched longing.
One bottle isn't enough to kill the demon in him; it just wakes it up.
And that’s when she walks in.
The succubus.
She enters the pub like she owns the air we breathe.
She’s wearing a dress that is less of a garment and more of a provocation—a skin-tight, black latex mini-dress that clings to every curve, the neckline plunging dangerously low to reveal the swell of her breasts.
On her feet are six-inch stiletto boots that click rhythmically against the floor, sounding like a countdown.
Her hair is a waterfall of midnight black, her makeup sharp and predatory, and those gray eyes...
they look like storm clouds reflecting a graveyard.
She glides toward the bar, stopping right next to the stool where my father is slumped. She doesn't look at him at first; she just leans against the mahogany, her hip cocked, exposing a tantalizing stretch of pale thigh through a slit in the dress.
"Two tequilas," she purrs, her voice like velvet dipped in poison.
When the drinks arrive, she doesn't drink hers immediately. Instead, she slides one glass toward Thomas. He looks up, startled, blinking through the alcoholic haze. He looks at her, then at the drink, then back at her. He drinks it in one go, his eyes locking onto hers.
I can't hear their conversation, but I don't need to. I watch, mesmerized and disgusted, as she begins her work.
She earns the name succubus in a matter of seconds.
She leans in close, her scent likely filling his head with hallucinations of paradise.
She doesn't touch him at first; she just uses her eyes, her gaze heavy and hungry, tracing the lines of his face with a predatory intensity.
She sips her own drink slowly, her tongue darting out to lick a drop of tequila from her upper lip, her eyes never leaving his.
Then, she moves. A slow, deliberate touch.
She lets her fingertips graze his shoulder, then slides them down his arm, her nails lightly scratching his skin.
She leans closer, her breast brushing against his arm, her voice a low, hypnotic murmur that seems to vibrate through the air.
She’s unapologetically bad, a siren calling a drowning man deeper into the ocean.
Thomas is completely entranced. He’s leaning toward her, his mouth hanging open, his pupils blown wide. He’s forgotten the whiskey, forgotten the pub, forgotten everything but the woman in front of him. He reaches out, trying to pull her in for a kiss, his movements clumsy and desperate.
She stops him with a single, delicate finger pressed against his lips. She smiles—a cruel, knowing thing—and whispers something in his ear that makes him shiver. She finishes the seduction with a final, lingering look, a promise of things he can't even imagine.
She stands up and begins to walk toward the exit. Without a second thought, Thomas scrambles off his stool and follows her, trailing after her like a dog on a leash, completely oblivious to the world.
Rhys stands up, offering me his hand and pulling me to my feet. We follow them out into the cool night air, staying in the shadows.
I watch as the succubus leads him straight into the waiting arms of Rhys’s men. The transition is brutal. One moment he’s in a trance; the next, the spell snaps. As the men grab him, the reality of the situation hits him. He looks around, panic surging in his eyes, and then he sees us.
He sees Rhys. And he sees me.
"Ophelia!" he screams, his voice raw and terrified. "Stop this! Tell them to let me go! Ophelia!"
He doesn't get another word out. A heavy hand slams over his mouth, a gag is shoved violently into his maw, and his wrists are bound tight with zip-ties. They hoist him up and throw him into the boot of the car like a sack of rotting meat. The door slams shut with a heavy, final thud.
The car peels away, taking him toward his doom. The succubus walks back to us, her expression bored. "Got your Papa," she says simply.
I can't even find the words. I just nod, my heart hammering against my ribs.
She turns to Rhys, a playful glint in her gray eyes. "Have I earned the night off, boss?"
Rhys looks at her, his expression cold. "Go ahead and lure more men into their doom. Have fun."
She rolls her eyes, lets out a soft, mocking chuckle, and saunters away into the darkness.
Rhys turns me to face him, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him. "Are you ready for what comes, Ophelia?"
My mind flashes immediately to the torture chamber—the smell of iron and old blood, the cold, gleaming blade of the guillotine. I shiver.
"You can have a moment to talk to him," Rhys whispers, his voice dark and reassuring. "You can get whatever answers you want beaten out of him before you kill him."
I lean into him, my voice trembling. "I... I'll wait. I won't see him until I find where he buried my mother and sister. I can't kill him until I know."
"Do you want that information tortured out of him?" Rhys asks.
I nod slowly. "Yes. But... I don't know if he'll tell the truth. Even under torture, he might lie just to fuck with me. We should investigate on our own, too."
Rhys doesn't judge me. He just understands.
He pulls me tightly into his arms, wrapping me in his scent and his strength.
I bury my face in his chest, taking sharp, jagged breaths, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over.
I'm terrified, I'm broken, but for the first time in my life, I'm not alone in the dark.