Change 31
The morning light filters through the dusty windows of The Tin Heart, but outside, the street is a sea of black lace, velvet, and pale makeup. It’s Saturday of the goth weekend, and even in the daylight, the town looks like a funeral procession that’s forgotten where the cemetery is.
I’d begged Rhys to let me be alone today. Just for a few hours. I needed to feel the silence of my own shop, to breathe in the scent of old wood and paint without his suffocating presence looming over me. He’d agreed—or so I thought.
I gather the stack of mail from the slot, a thick pile of envelopes that’s been building up while my life has been descending into a psychotic fever dream. I carry them inside, the bell above the door giving a lonely little chime.
I head straight for the landline, my fingers itching to make a call I've been dreading for years.
But as I reach the desk, a bright red slip of paper catches my eye in the mail I have.
A final notice from the phone company. I rip it open, scanning the cold, formal text.
Payment due by yesterday evening or service will be terminated.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, leaning my forehead against the cool plastic of the phone. Of course. Just my luck. The line is dead. Cut off. I'm completely isolated in my own shop, a fitting metaphor for my entire miserable existence.
Then, I feel it. That sudden shift in the air, the prickle on the back of my neck that tells me I'm no longer alone. A familiar, heavy warmth settles behind me, the scent of expensive cologne and something metallic—something that smells like danger.
I don't even have to turn around to know it's him. I should've known better. There's no way in hell Rhys would leave me alone, not after that mental bitch Mary tried to drown me. Not while his men are still scouring the riverbanks, hunting for a corpse.
I turn slowly, looking up into those dark, obsessive eyes. He doesn't say a word; he just stands there, watching me with that predatory intensity that makes my knees feel like jelly.
"Can I use your phone?" I ask, my voice a bit raspy.
He doesn't ask why. He doesn't question who the hell I'm calling. He just reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
"I want to call a number," I whisper, glancing back at the dead landline. "But I think my bill's gone unpaid. It's probably been cut by now."
"Go ahead," he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble.
I take the device, my hands shaking slightly. I stare at the screen for a second, momentarily lost, before I find the phone icon and press it. I remember the number from the newspaper clipping—the Hansburg residence. I dial the digits slowly, each press feeling like a step toward a cliff.
I pull the phone away from my ear for a second, looking down at the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I'm terrified. I'm fucking petrified.
The line clicks open.
"Hansburg residence, how may I direct your call?" The voice is posh, clipped, and entirely devoid of emotion. A professional butler or a high-end secretary.
I swallow hard, my throat feeling like it's full of glass. "Hello... yes... I'd like to speak to... to Mrs. Hansburg, please?" I don't even know her name. I just know she's the matriarch. I just know she's the woman who birthed the mother who died giving birth to me and my sisters.
"And who is calling, please?" the voice asks, suspicious and cold.
"Someone... someone who has information regarding Marguerite Hansburg," I stammer, my voice sounding small and pathetic.
"One moment. Please hold."
The line goes quiet. I freeze, my breath hitching.
I start biting my fingers, a nervous habit I can't shake, my teeth sinking into the skin.
I feel Rhys's presence behind me, a solid wall of muscle and obsession.
Without thinking, I reach back and grip his hand, squeezing his fingers hard, anchoring myself to him while I wait to hear from the ghost of my family.
This is it. The source. The woman who knows where the bloodlines started and where they went wrong.
Suddenly, the voice returns. "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Hansburg is not at home at the moment. However, if you leave a message, I shall ensure she receives it."
The adrenaline crashes out of me, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted. "Thank you," I whisper, and I hang up.
I turn and place the phone back into Rhys's palm, looking up at him. The fear is still there, but it's being overtaken by something else—a desperate, aching need to feel something other than anxiety. I need to be grounded. I need to be owned.
Rhys holds out a single black rose, the petals so dark they look dipped in ink. My fingers brush his as I take it. I lift it to my nose and the scent is thick, almost metallic, like old blood and wilted velvet.
I reach up, grabbing the lapel of his coat and pulling him toward the stairs.
"I'm dragging you upstairs," I tell him, my voice growing firmer, more demanding. "To my bedroom."
He follows me without hesitation, his eyes locked on me, a dark smirk playing on his lips. I lead him up the creaky stairs and push open the door to the one room in this house that feels like a sanctuary and a prison all at once.
I stop by the bed—the old, heavy wooden frame with the faded linens. I look at him, my chest heaving.
"I want you to fuck me," I say, the words raw and honest. "Right here. In this bed."
I swallow, my eyes shimmering. "I started staying in this room after my sisters died. I moved out of the room we shared... that door has been locked for years. I've spent every night in this bed since then. Crying. Screaming. Having fucking nightmares that never end."
I step closer to him, pressing my body against his, feeling the hard line of his cock against my thigh.
"I want to overwrite it," I whisper, looking up at him with a mixture of desperation and lust. "I want you to fuck me in this bed. Right now. Make me forget everything but you.”
I don't just lead him into the room; I practically drag him, my nails digging into his skin, my breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches.
The moment the door slams shut behind us, the atmosphere shifts.
The air in this room is thick with the ghosts of my childhood—the scent of old dust, dried tears, and the lingering echo of screams that only I can hear.
I spin around and shove him toward the bed.
This fucking bed. The place where I spent years curling into a ball, shaking with a grief so profound it felt like my bones were turning to ash.
I want that memory incinerated. I want the ghost of my sisters’ laughter and the memory of my father’s madness to be drowned out by the sound of Rhys fucking the soul right out of my body.
"Do it," I hiss, my voice cracking. "Right fucking now, Rhys. Destroy it. Destroy everything in this room that isn't you."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His eyes are void-black, swirling with a psychotic hunger that mirrors my own.
He lunges, his hands slamming into my waist with enough force to knock the wind out of me, and he throws me back onto the mattress.
The old wooden frame groans, a sharp, metallic shriek that sounds like a dying animal.
He doesn't waste time with tenderness. He rips my clothes away with a violent urgency, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip that echoes through the silent house. I’m exposed, shivering not from cold, but from a manic, electric anticipation.
He looms over me, naked, a dark god of obsession, his presence filling every inch of the room.
"You want to overwrite the pain, Ophelia?" he growls, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that rattles my chest. "I'll give you something new to scream about. I'll carve my name into your fucking mind until there's no room left for anyone else."
He grabs my ankles and yanks me to the edge of the bed, my hips hitting the wood with a thud. He doesn't use any lubricant; he doesn't need to. I'm already soaking, my pussy aching and dripping for him. He lines himself up and drives into me in one brutal, unrestrained thrust.
I scream—a loud, guttural sound that rips through the ceiling—as his thick cock slams into my cervix. It’s not a gentle entry; it’s an invasion. It’s a conquest. The bed jolts violently, the headboard slamming against the wall with a rhythmic, deafening thwack.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The bed creaks and moans under the weight of his aggression, the springs screaming in protest. He’s fucking me with a psychotic intensity, his thrusts so deep and hard that I feel my internal organs shifting. Every time he hits the back of my womb, my vision blurs, and I see flashes of white light
"Tell me!" he bellows, his hand winding into my hair, pulling my head back until my neck is strained, forcing me to look into his insane eyes. "Tell me who owns this fucking body! Who owns every inch of this beautiful, broken girl?"
"You!" I shriek, my fingers clawing at the sheets, ripping the fabric. "You do, you psychotic bastard! Fuck me! Break me! Make me yours!"
He grunts, a primal, animalistic sound, and flips me over with a violent jerk. I’m slammed face-down into the mattress, my ass hiked high in the air. He doesn't pause for a second. He enters me from behind, his cock sliding back into my drenched heat with a wet, slapping sound.
The position is degrading, raw, and absolutely perfect. He reaches around, his large hand gripping my throat, squeezing just enough to make me gasp for air, while his other hand finds my clit, rubbing it with a brutal, fast friction that sends sparks of agony and pleasure shooting through my spine.
"My Ophelia," he whispers harshly into my ear, his breath hot and smelling of obsession. "A little cracked doll that I've found and claimed. I'll fuck the memories of your father out of you. I'll fuck the grief out of your blood. You belong to the dark now. You belong to me."