Chapter 30 #2
I look at her, slightly weirded out but mostly amused.
I know a thing or two about being someone's obsession.
"Blimey, you're properly gone, aren't you?
A total goner." I chuckle, leaning in. "Maybe I could talk to Rhys about her.
Get you the necklace. Maybe she'd let you be a regular client.
Or maybe I'll just be bringing you to the VIP castle.
I'm basically living in Rhys’s room half the time anyway, so why not? "
Amara’s face lights up, her expression almost feral. "Fuck, that would be mental. Every single night. Just her, me, and that suffocating kind of hunger. If I'm there every night, she'll have to start liking me. She'll have to."
I laugh, shaking my head. "Isn't that a bit of an overdose? You'll be a husk in a week."
Amara snorts, glancing down at me with a wicked smirk.
She lets her eyes travel down my body, lingering on the way I'm walking.
"You're one to talk, darling. Look at you.
You're walking like your legs are made of jelly.
You're still sore, aren't you? It’s written all over your face—you've been railed raw every single night this week.
Rhys hasn't given you a moment's peace, has he? "
I feel the heat rush to my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and a sudden, sharp throb of arousal. "Shut it, you brat," I snap, though I'm grinning. "He's just... thorough."
"Thorough? Please. He's fucking obsessed," she teases, nudging me with her shoulder. "I can practically see the bruises through the velvet."
We reach the River Esk, and the atmosphere is thick with the smell of damp earth and incense.
The banks are lined with black-canopied stalls selling everything from obsidian crystals to hand-drawn tarot cards.
The crowd is denser here, a sea of black lace and leather.
Amara drifts toward a stall selling strange, iridescent vials, her eyes searching the crowd for a glimpse of the succubus.
I stop for a second to look at some silver rings, but suddenly, the air shifts.
A scream—high-pitched, piercing, and filled with pure hatred—rips through the ambient noise. I barely have time to turn around before something slams into me with the force of a freight train.
It's her. The woman from before. The one who looked at me like she wanted to skin me alive. Her face is twisted, eyes wide and bloodshot, completely unhinged. She doesn't say a word; she just screams again and lunges, her fingers clawing at my throat as she shoves me backward.
I lose my footing on the slippery bank and we both go over the edge. The rose falls from my grip and into the water, too.
The water of the Esk is freezing—a shocking, icy plunge that knocks the breath right out of my lungs. I hit the bottom with a heavy thud, and before I can even gasp, she's on me. Her hands are like iron, clamping around my neck and shoulders, shoving my head under the surface.
I panic. Bubbles explode from my mouth as I struggle, my heavy velvet dress dragging me down like a lead weight, pulling me deeper into the murky, dark water. I can't breathe. My lungs are burning, screaming for air, and all I can see is her face—distorted and murderous—above me.
I thrash wildly, kicking out with my platform boots. I manage to plant a hard kick into her ribs, and her grip slackens for a split second. It has been so long since I last swam. I do my best to remember. I scramble upward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, coughing up salty, dirty water.
I start to float on my back, treading water, and that's when I see it. The reflection.
The water is dark, but the moonlight hits it just right.
I see my own face staring back at me—pale, terrified, eyes wide.
For a heartbeat, I freeze. The mirror effect hits me like a physical blow.
I'm back in the living room with the butcher.
I'm back in the dark. The panic attack surges, locking my muscles, making my limbs feel heavy and useless.
I stop fighting. I just stare at the reflection of a broken girl, sinking.
But it force myself to fight it. I cannot let my reflection be the reason why I drown.
I cannot. Not after everything with Rhys.
I start to think about him. Remember his touch, his words. And slowly, I start floating again.
Then, the water erupts.
The woman is back, screaming a muffled curse as she grabs my hair and drags me under with her again. I fight, but I'm exhausted, my lungs screaming. I swallow a mouthful of river water, choking, the world turning grey at the edges. I'm slipping.
Then, a sudden, violent splash.
A strong, familiar arm wraps around my waist, yanking me upward with bruising force. I see a flash of charcoal fabric and then—BANG.
The sound of the gunshot is muffled by the water, but I feel the vibration. The woman lets go with a shriek, a red cloud blossoming in the water around her shoulder as she sinks away, disappearing into the dark current.
Rhys has me. He hauls me against his chest, his grip almost painful, his breathing ragged. My eyes flutter shut as the adrenaline crashes, and the world goes black.
I wake up coughing, hacking up river water onto a rough surface.
I lay back down and I realize I'm on the ground, Rhys next to who looks like he has been giving me CPR, staring at me in relief.
I'm shivering violently, my skin blue-cold. I feel a warm, heavy weight draped over me—Rhys’s long coat, smelling of expensive cologne and gunpowder.
I close my eyes as I feel his arms wrap around me.
I'm in his office at the castle. I'm lying on the leather couch, my wet clothes stripped away and replaced by a thick robe. A doctor—one of Rhys's private men—is finishing up a check-up. He's checking my pupils with a light and listening to my lungs with a stethoscope.
Rhys is standing right there, his face a mask of cold, simmering fury. He hasn't moved from my side, his hand gripping my ankle so hard it's almost bruising.
The doctor steps back, packing his kit. "She's stable, sir. A bit of aspiration, but her lungs are clear. She's mostly just in shock and suffering from mild hypothermia. Keep her warm and let her rest. She'll be fine."
As soon as the doctor leaves the room, the silence becomes heavy. Rhys leans over me, his shadow engulfing me. He doesn't say a word at first, but the look in his eyes is psychotic—a mixture of absolute relief and a murderous promise to whoever touched what belongs to him.
The silence in the office is thick, suffocating. Rhys is still looming over me, his eyes like two black holes ready to swallow me whole. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of gunpowder and rain still clinging to his skin. I shiver, but not from the cold this time.
I push myself up, sitting straight on the leather couch, the heavy fabric of his coat sliding slightly off my shoulder. I look him dead in the eye, my voice trembling just a fraction.