Page 39 of Cracked Doll

"No!" I yell, wrenching my arm free. "I don't want to be your... your anything! I want nothing to do with you! I'm going to find a fucking gun and put a bullet in you!"

Rhys doesn't look bothered. He just stands there in the mist, a dark silhouette of obsession. "Go on then, run," he calls out, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "It only makes the hunt more delicious. You can try to kill me, Ophelia, but you'll find that I'm the only thing in this world that will never leave you."

He lets go of my hand, and I don't wait for another word. I bolt out of the graveyard, shivering violently as the cold night air hits me, the feeling of his teeth on my ear still burning like a brand.

I practically stumble out of the graveyard, my lungs burning and my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I can still feel the ghost of his teeth on my earlobe, a sharp, possessive mark that makes me want to scrub my skin raw. I'm shaking, absolutely rattling, as I spot Amara standing outside the black tent. She looks completely oblivious to the psychological warfare I've just been through.

I hurry toward her, trying to smooth down my dress and catch my breath so I don't look like I've just been pinned against a headstone by a lunatic.

"Blimey, Ophelia! Where've you wandered off to, then?" Amara asks, her eyebrows shooting up. "I've been standing here like a right lemon waiting for you."

"I... I went to the graveyard," I mutter, my voice still a bit breathless.

Amara's jaw drops, a look of genuine offense crossing her face. "The graveyard? Without me? You absolute traitor! You can't just go off and do the spooky bits on your own. That's proper rude, that is."

I roll my eyes, though my insides are still churning. "It wasn't a group excursion, Amara."

"Whatever," she huffs, then remembers something, gesturing to my empty hands. "Anyway, did you like that treat? Was it any good, or just a load of rubbish?"

I freeze. I look down at my palms, then frantically pat my dress. The snack—the weird, spooky treat I'd been clutching—is gone. I have no fucking clue when I lost it. Did it slip out when that rotting thing jumped at me? Or did it fall when Rhys had me pinned, my body arching into his while we were practically eating each other's faces?

The thought of it lying in the dirt of that graveyard makes my stomach flip.

"Yeah," I lie quickly, forcing a shrug. "Yeah, it was... it was good. Proper tasty."

"Right then," Amara says, sounding satisfied. "Fancy trying something else? There's a stall over there selling these deep-fried things that look absolutely mental, but they smell like heaven."

I open my mouth to answer, but Amara stops mid-sentence. Her eyes narrow, focusing on the front of my dress. Before I can even blink, she reaches out and deftly plucks a small, folded piece of black paper from the curve of my cleavage.

"What's this, then?" she asks, holding it up. "Since when do you carry secret notes in your knickers—or, well, your bodice?"

I snatch the paper from her, my fingers trembling. My heart skips a beat. I didn't feel him put it there. When did he—? The realization hits me; he must have slipped it in while he was grinding against me, his hands roaming my waist and chest. The thought of his fingers grazing my skin to plant this thing makes a fresh wave of heat crash through me.

I unfold the black paper. The ink is stark white, the handwriting sharp, elegant, and utterly terrifying.

My sweet, cracked doll,

Run as far as you like, love. It only makes the scent of your fear sweeter. I’ll be watching you sleep tonight, counting your breaths until I can feel them against my own skin again.

I am the only one who can fix you. And I will break you a thousand more times just to be the one who puts you back together.

Yours. Always.

I feel a violent shiver race down my spine, settling deep in my marrow. It’s not just fear—it’s a sickening, magnetic pull. He’s not just stalking me; he’s weaving himself into the very fabric of my existence.

"Well?" Amara prompts, leaning in to try and peek. "What's it say? Is it some secret admirer or some posh bloke from the carnival?"

I quickly crumple the note in my fist, my knuckles turning white. "Nothing," I snap, my voice shaking. "Just some rubbish.”

Amara gives me a look of pure skepticism, her eyes narrowed. She clearly doesn't believe a word of my "just some rubbish" excuse. But before she can press me further, her entire demeanor shifts. She stiffens, her gaze snapping to something behind me.

"Fuck... there he is," she breathes, her voice dropping an octave.

Before I can even react, she grabs my shoulder and spins me around. My heart leaps into my throat. Rhys is right there. He’s standing just a few paces away, framed by the swirling mist of the carnival, looking like a predator who’s just watched his prey walk right back into the trap.

I immediately put the note in my pocket.

Amara doesn't even seem to notice my panic; she's too busy staring, her voice turning into a hushed, appreciative drone. "Bloody hell, look at him. That hair... dark as a coal mine. And those eyes, Ophelia, they're like two black holes, aren't they? Proper haunting."