Change 31 #3
My hands wander over his shoulders, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the tension still humming through him. I caress the expanse of his back, my palms sliding over his sweat-slicked skin, pulling him closer, wanting to anchor myself to this beautiful, broken man.
He moves to the other breast, his mouth hot and demanding. He kneads the soft flesh with his hand, squeezing and molding me, while he sucks the nipple with a desperate, starving greed. I let out a long, fluttering sigh, my eyes closing for a moment as I lose myself in the sensation.
There’s no more screaming, no more crashing wood—just the sound of his wet, rhythmic sucking and the heavy, synchronized sound of our breathing.
In the ruins of my bedroom, surrounded by the shards of my past, I just lay there, letting him worship me in his own twisted way, feeling completely and utterly owned.
Hours have passed since the bed collapsed beneath us, and the adrenaline has finally ebbed, leaving me in a state of raw, aching vulnerability.
I’m fully dressed now, so is he, but every movement is a struggle.
My thighs are trembling, and there's a deep, throbbing soreness between my legs that makes every step feel like I'm walking through wet cement. I can feel the slickness of him still clinging to me, a constant, heavy reminder of how he’s spent the last few hours breaking me open.
Rhys, however, looks like a man who has just conquered a kingdom.
He walks with a predatory ease, his eyes dark and glimmering with a terrifying level of satisfaction.
He doesn't even try to hide the smugness in his gaze; he loves that I'm hobbling, loves that he's the reason I can barely stand.
He keeps a possessive hand anchored on the small of my back, guiding me toward the attic stairs, his touch both a support and a claim.
We spent our time together talking, devoted to each other. I even found the music box he gave me. We opened it together, every rose and note left for me while I was here tucked carefully inside. I put the new rose in.
The attic is cold, smelling of stale dust and ancient, forgotten things.
As we reach the top, my eyes immediately lock onto it—the big, rusted box tucked away in the far corner, half-hidden by moth-eaten tarps and stacks of rotting furniture.
It’s been haunting the periphery of my mind, a silent, heavy secret waiting to be unearthed.
"I want to know," I whisper, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the oppressive silence. "I need to know what's in there, Rhys."
The box is buried under a mountain of junk.
Together, we begin to clear it, tossing aside old trunks and broken chairs.
I’m breathless, the effort making my sore muscles scream, but I can't stop.
I have to see. Once the top of the massive iron chest is exposed, I stop, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Rhys senses my terror. He steps closer, pulling me into him for a brief, searing kiss—a promise of protection, or perhaps just a reminder that no matter what we find, I belong to him.
He doesn't bother with a key. He pulls his gun, the metallic clack echoing through the rafters, and fires two precise shots into the heavy locks.
The sound is deafening, leaving a ringing in my ears.
He grips the lid, his muscles bulging under his shirt as he heaves against the rusted metal.
It resists at first, the hinges screaming in a high-pitched, metallic wail, but with one final, violent shove, the lid flies open.
The smell hits me first.
It isn't just the scent of death; it's a cloying, thick miasma of ancient decay, metallic blood, and something sickly sweet, like rotting lilies. It’s a scent that doesn't just enter your nose—it coats your tongue, filling your throat with the taste of a grave.
I lean forward, and the world tilts.
Three bodies.
They aren't bodies anymore—not really. They are husks, skeletal remains wrapped in the tattered remnants of fabric, preserved in a horrific, airless tomb.
The woman at the bottom is the worst; she's more bone than flesh, her skin a parchment-grey, stretched tight over a skull that stares up with empty, hollow sockets. She’s been dead far longer than the others, her form partially collapsed into a heap of dried sinew and dust.
And on top of her, like a grotesque blanket, lie two girls.
My breath hitches. I feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me cold and dizzy.
The girls are wearing dresses—bloody, stained, tattered dresses.
I recognize them instantly. They are the exact same dresses that Rosalind, Cordelia, and I wore on our twelfth birthday.
The same lace, the same cut, now blackened by time and soaked in the dried, brown crust of old blood.
I look down at the woman beneath them. My eyes fixate on her hands.
She is wearing white gloves, pristine despite the decay, and there, embossed clearly on the fabric, is the Chanel logo.
The dress, the gloves, the poise even in death—it is the exact image from the newspaper clippings of my missing mother.
The realization crashes over me like a tidal wave, suffocating and violent.
These aren't just remains. This is my family. This is the physical manifestation of every nightmare I've ever had. Rosalind. Cordelia. And my mother, Marguerite. All of them, tucked away in a rusted box in the dark, hidden by the man who claimed to be my father.
The horror is too much to contain. It rips through my chest, tearing through the fragile shell of my sanity. I throw my head back, my lungs expanding with a sudden, violent force, and I let out a blood-curdling scream that echoes through the attic, shaking the very foundations of the house.