Chapter 29
I’m losing my fucking mind.
I’ve been trapped in this room all day, pacing the floor like a caged animal.
I’m wearing nothing but one of Rhys’s oversized black shirts and a pair of socks.
The fabric is soft, smelling of him—that dark, expensive scent of sandalwood and something metallic—but it doesn’t stop me from feeling completely stripped bare.
I look over at the porcelain doll I managed to save from The Tin Heart, the one that looks exactly like me and my sisters.
I stare into its glassy eyes and feel a surge of pure annoyance.
He won’t let me go back to the shop. He won’t let me work.
He’s just… kept me here, tucked away in this gilded cage while he spent the day in his office with a bunch of posh, fine-dressed men.
I’ve barely seen him. He’s popped in twice just to make sure I haven’t managed to claw my way through the walls, and that’s it.
Does he seriously expect me to just sit here and rot?
He gave me a remote, telling me that if I press the first button, the wall opposite the bed slides open to reveal a telly.
He’s subscribed to everything for me—Netflix, Disney, Hulu—whatever the fuck those are.
I’m so far behind the rest of the world I don’t even know what the current apps are.
I feel like a relic. I just want a phone.
I’m praying that once I’ve healed enough, I let me have one.
At least then I’ll have two numbers to text—Amara… and Rhys.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps in the hall. I rush to the door, peeking out just in time to see those suits leaving, heading down the corridor and toward the stairs. The house is quiet again.
I don’t even think. I bolt out of the room and sprint straight to his office door. I barely have my hand raised to knock when his voice rings out from inside, cold and knowing.
"Come in, Ophelia."
I freeze for a second, then push the door open. He’s sitting behind that massive, dark mahogany desk, leaning back in his chair, watching me with those predatory eyes. He looks like he’s been waiting for me to break.
"How the fuck did you know it was me?" I ask, breathless.
A slow, psychotic smirk curls his lips. "I can hear your heart beating from across the hall, love. It has a very specific rhythm when you're desperate for me. It sounds like a trapped bird hitting its wings against a cage."
I roll my eyes, though my stomach flips. I walk across the room, the shirt riding up my thighs, and I don't hesitate. I climb onto his lap, straddling him, my legs wrapping around his waist. His hands immediately find my hips, his grip tight, almost bruising.
"You look delicious in my shirt," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. He leans in, burying his nose in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. "You have this scent on you... it's intoxicating. I want to devour you. I want to eat you alive until there's nothing left but the memory of you."
I huff a little laugh, leaning back. "Really? I probably just smell like your fancy body wash because I used it this morning."
Rhys pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, his gaze dark and obsessive.
"The soap is nothing. I can smell you, Ophelia. I can smell the heat of your skin, the sweetness of your fear, and the way your body is already reacting to me. It’s a scent that belongs only to me.
I could find you in a crowd of a thousand women just by the smell of your skin. "
I shiver, the intensity of it making my pussy ache. "I missed you stalking me today," I tease, my voice trembling.
"Who says I stopped?"
He doesn't look away from me, but he points a finger toward the monitor on his desk. I turn my head, glancing at the screen, and my heart nearly stops. It’s a live CCTV feed. High definition. And it’s showing my bedroom. My bed. The exact spot where I was sitting with my doll a minute ago.
My mouth drops open. I whip my head back to him, horrified. "You creep! You absolute fucking psycho! What if I wanted to do something private?"
Rhys laughs, a low, dangerous sound. He pulls me closer, his hand sliding up under the shirt to squeeze my breast. "Private?
There is nothing about you that is private from me, Ophelia.
Every inch of your skin, every tear you shed, every time you touch yourself thinking you're alone...
it all belongs to me. I want to see every shudder.
I want to know exactly when you miss me so I can come and fuck you for it. "
Why would I even touch myself with how sore he keeps me?
"You're insane," I whisper, but I'm already leaning in.
"I'm obsessed," he corrects, his lips brushing mine.
He holds the rose out without a word. I take it, smell it, and the scent feels like a secret I’m not ready to keep.
“Every petal is a promise,” he says softly, “that if you ever try to leave, I’ll press you between glass and hang you on the wall like art.”
We crash together, the kiss violent and hungry. I grind my pelvis against him, feeling the hard, thick ridge of his cock pressing through his trousers into my heat. I moan into his mouth, desperate for him to just rip the shirt off and fuck me right there on the mahogany.
Knock. Knock.
I jump, breaking the kiss, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I start to scramble off his lap, but his arm locks around my waist like a vice, pinning me to him.
"What?" he snaps, his voice returning to that cold, commanding tone.
"Sir," a staff member calls from behind the door. "Mrs. Castellan is here to see you."
My eyes go wide. Mrs. Castellan? I freeze, my mind racing. Who the fuck is this? I didn't even know he had a family. Before I can even process the thought, the door opens.
A woman walks in. She’s tall—strikingly so—and looks to be in her fifties.
Her dark hair with strands of gray is pulled back into a severe, elegant bun, and she’s dressed in a tailored charcoal grey suit with a silk cream blouse and pointed black heels that click sharply on the floor.
She radiates power and a sort of cold, aristocratic grace.
"Good evening, son," she says, her voice smooth and poised.
I scramble off his lap as quickly as possible, standing there in nothing but a shirt and socks, feeling suddenly very small and very exposed.
I look at her, and she looks back at me, her gaze sweeping up and down my body with a clinical, judging intensity.
I immediately look away, my face flushing a deep red.
Rhys stands up, his expression softening in a way I’ve never seen. He walks over to her, and she pulls him into a hug. He kisses her cheek, then turns back to me.
"Mother, this is Ophelia Sorrell," he says, his voice possessive. He reaches out, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward them. "The girl I told you about. My obsession. My everything in one being."
“Ophelia, this is my mother. Meredith Castellan. The woman who raised me.”
Meredith Castellan looks at me again, then steps forward. Before I can react, she pulls me into a hug. She’s so tall in those heels that I feel like a child. I nervously hug her back, smelling a scent of expensive lilies and old money.
"You are absolutely beautiful, dear," Meredith says, pulling back to smile at me. "Finally, my son has found a girl he can actually settle down with."
I just offer a weak, awkward smile, my brain screaming. Settle down? With a man who watches me sleep on a CCTV monitor?
"I should probably give you two some privacy," I say as I watch her eyes twinkling with something I can't quite read.
As I turn to leave, I try to bolt for the door, wanting to get the fuck out of there, but Rhys catches me. He yanks me back against his chest, his hand gripping my waist, and plants a hard, claiming kiss on my lips.
"Wait for me in the bedroom," he whispers against my mouth, his voice a warning. "Don't move an inch."
I don't need telling twice. I rush out of the office and sprint back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I lean against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Rhys has a mother.
I mean, obviously, everyone has someone who gave birth to them, but this is different.
He’s been such a complete mystery—a ghost, a monster, a god—that finding out he has a human connection, someone who isn't part of his dark web or the horrors of The Midnight Menagerie, completely throws me. It’s terrifying.
Because if he’s this psychotic and he came from her, then would the madness run in the blood, or is it uniquely his?
I stay in the bedroom like he told me, pacing the floor for what feels like hours.
The sheets are still rumpled from this morning and his scent clings to everything.
I try waiting up, but my eyes keep drifting shut.
Eventually I crawl into bed wearing nothing but his black shirt, the fabric riding up my thighs as I curl onto my side. Sleep takes me before I can stop it.
“Ophelia.” A low, guttural groan drags me back to consciousness.
Something hot and hard is sliding between my legs, rubbing against my pussy with slow, sleepy thrusts.
The room is pitch black. I have no idea what time it is.
I blink, trying to make sense of the weight behind me, the arm draped over my waist.
Rhys.
His eyes are closed. He’s still asleep, but his hips keep rocking forward, pushing his cock between my thighs like he’s searching for something. My cunt is already soaked, slick coating the head of him every time he drags forward. I didn’t even realise I was this wet.
Is he dreaming about me?
The thought sends a rush of heat straight to my core. My psychotic, obsessive stalker is having a wet dream about me while I’m right here. I bite my lip to keep from moaning as he thrusts again, harder this time, the head of his cock nudging against my clit with every pass.