Change 28
Midnight. The Rolls-Royce Phantom glides through the darkness like a hearse, its black paint so deep it swallows the streetlights whole.
I'm wearing the gothic Victorian gown Rhys gave me—black silk with intricate lace at the throat and cuffs, a high collar that brushes my jaw, the heavy fabric rustling with every movement.
My hair's pinned up with those antique silver combs, and the whole thing makes me feel like I'm dressed for my own funeral.
Rhys sits beside me in a tailored black frock coat, Victorian in cut but modern in menace, his shirt open at the collar to reveal the pale line of his throat. He looks like death in evening wear.
He parks the Phantom at the edge of the cliff road, engine purring to silence.
The door clicks open and he offers his hand, helping me out into the cold night air.
I have no bloody clue why we're here until I see it—the abbey rising from the darkness like a wound in the sky.
Even without light, it glows somehow, the pale stone catching the moonlight in a way that makes it look half-alive, half-dead.
The great west window gapes like a skull's eye socket, empty and staring.
The walls lean inward, as if the building itself is trying to collapse inward and crush whatever dares to enter.
The abbey looks haunted as fuck. The broken arches twist like ribs, the fallen stones scattered like bones.
Ivy claws up the remaining walls, black and withered.
The whole place reeks of salt and decay and something older, something that watches.
I can feel it—the weight of centuries pressing down, the ghosts of monks and pilgrims and whatever else died here screaming.
Rhys leans across, slides the black rose between his fingers. I pluck it up, inhale, and the scent makes my head swim.
“Keep breathing that in,” he whispers, “and one night you’ll wake up with the petals stuffed down your throat and my name carved into your thigh.”
Rhys wraps his arm around my waist as we cross the grounds, the iron gates already open despite the "closed to the public" sign. We stop beneath the massive ruined west window, the wind howling through the empty frame like a dying animal. He moves behind me, his breath warm against my ear.
"Run," he whispers, voice low and chilling.
"Run like you mean it, Ophelia. I want you to try to get away from me.
I want to hunt you through these ruins, watch you stumble and fall and scramble back up again.
I want to chase you until your heart's pounding and your legs are shaking, until you think you've lost me—then I'll find you. Run, darling. Make it worth my while."
My pulse spikes. I gather the heavy skirts of my gown in both hands and bolt, racing through the roofless nave, dodging broken pillars and fallen stone blocks that litter the ground like teeth.
I glance back once—he's standing still, watching, a dark silhouette against the moonlight.
Then he moves, and I run faster, slipping through a ruined side arch into the open grounds beyond.
The churchyard stretches ahead, a sea of leaning headstones and Celtic crosses.
I choose it without thinking, weaving between the graves, ducking behind monuments, disappearing beneath the shadow of ancient yew trees.
The mist rolls in from the sea, blanketing the lower graves in white, making everything hazy and dreamlike.
The wind howls. Waves crash against the cliffs below.
I can't see him anymore. I think I've lost him.
I slow, breathing hard, my gown dragging through the wet grass. The cemetery is silent except for the wind and the distant sea.
Then hands grab me from behind—strong, unyielding, yanking me back against a hard chest. Rhys's voice is at my ear again, dark with satisfaction.
Midnight clings to everything like a second skin. The wind howls through the leaning headstones and the mist thickens until the world feels half-drowned. Rhys’s arms clamp around me like iron bands, his chest solid against my back, and his voice slides into my ear like poison wrapped in silk.
"Look at you, my cracked little doll," he murmurs, breath hot against my neck.
"Running through the graves like a frightened ghost. I can smell your fear, Ophelia. It’s sweet, like rot and roses.
I want to fuck you right here, on top of the dead.
I want to bury my cock so deep inside you that your screams wake every soul beneath us.
I want to fuck you until your cunt drips down onto their bones and they taste what belongs to me. "
I twist hard, elbow catching him in the ribs.
He grunts, grip loosening for half a second, and I bolt again.
My gown tangles around my legs as I sprint between the graves, heart hammering so loud I can barely hear the sea.
A root catches my foot and I go down hard, palms scraping stone, knees jarring against wet earth.
I scramble up, breath tearing out of me, only to trip again over a fallen cross.
I land on my arse, gown soaked, hair coming loose.
I sit up, panting, and look behind me. Nothing. Just mist and stone and silence. Real fear starts to crawl up my spine, cold and sharp. Then I feel him. The air shifts. A shadow falls over me.
I scream and spin on the ground. He’s standing there, tall and terrible in the moonlight.
His frock coat hangs open, shirt clinging to his lean chest, dark hair wild from the wind.
His eyes are black pits, pupils blown wide with hunger, lips curved in that unhinged smile that makes my stomach twist. He looks like death come to claim its bride—beautiful, deranged, unstoppable.
I start crawling backwards on my hands, gown dragging through the mud.
He follows, slow and deliberate, boots crunching over grass and bone.
I flip onto my knees and hands, trying to push myself up, but his hands seize my waist from behind.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me through the mist until he lays me down on the cold stone of an altar tomb.
The marble is freezing against my back, hard and unyielding, carved with ancient symbols that press into my spine.
Rhys looms over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other already sliding up my thigh beneath the heavy silk.
"This tomb was made for kings and priests, Ophelia. And tonight it’s ours.
I’m going to fuck you on the grave of a holy man who spent his life praying for salvation.
I’m going to desecrate every inch of it with your cunt and my cum. "
His fingers hook into my underwear and yank them down my legs.
He balls the damp fabric and slips it into his coat pocket with a wicked grin.
Then he reads the inscription carved into the stone above my head, voice low and reverent, almost mocking.
I know it's in latin so he must know latin to translate it.
"Pray for the soul of the Right Reverend Father in God, Abbot Thomas de Kirkby, sometime Lord Abbot and faithful shepherd of this Holy Monastery, who departed this transitory life on the Feast of Saint Hilda, in the Year of our Lord 1422.
Through his devotion, this sacred choir was vaulted in stone, and the Great Altar adorned.
May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, rest in the eternal peace of Christ. Amen. "
He laughs, dark and delighted. "Hear that, Father? I’m about to fuck my little cracked doll right on top of you. I’m going to spread her legs on your holy stone and bury myself so deep she’ll never forget who owns her. Your prayers won’t save her. They’ll only make it sweeter."
He pushes my gown higher, bunching the silk around my waist, exposing me to the cold night air and the watching dead. His hand slides between my thighs, fingers parting me, and his eyes never leave mine as he positions himself between my legs, the hard line of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Scream for me, Ophelia," he whispers, voice shaking with lust and madness. "Let the abbot hear every filthy sound you make while I fuck you on his grave.”
Midnight presses down like a curse. The altar tomb is freezing beneath me, marble carved with forgotten prayers and the weight of centuries.
Rhys stands over me, coat open, shirt half-unbuttoned, and the look in his eyes is pure madness.
He reaches down, unfastens his trousers with deliberate slowness, and pulls his cock free.
It’s thick, heavy, already flushed dark with blood.
He wraps his hand around it and strokes once, twice, slow and obscene, letting me watch every movement.
"I belong to you, Ophelia," he says, voice low and shaking with something unholy. "Just as you belong to me. Every inch of this cock is yours. Every drop of cum I spill tonight is yours. I’m going to fuck you on the grave of a holy man who spent his life in chastity, and I’m going to make you scream so loud his bones rattle. I’m going to desecrate this sacred stone with your cunt and my seed until the abbot himself rises to watch. "
He leans over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my thigh. He pushes my legs wider than he ever has before, spreading me until my hips ache, until I’m completely open beneath him. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and insistent.
"I’m going to fuck you like I want to kill you," he whispers, eyes black and wild. "I’m going to bury myself so deep you’ll feel me in your soul.
On the grave of a high priest, in the ruins of an abbey, while the dead listen and the sea howls.
You’re mine, Ophelia. Mine to break. Mine to ruin.
Mine to fuck until you forget your own name. "