Page 40 of Cracked Doll

She lets out a low whistle, her eyes roaming over his frame. "He's towering, isn't he? Built like a brick shithouse. Look at those shoulders... those muscles look like they're meant for something violent. Like he spends his days breaking things—or people. He doesn't just look like a man, love; he looks like absolute sin wrapped in a suit."

Rhys isn't listening to her. He’s staring at me. It’s that same heavy, possessive gaze that feels like a physical weight on my skin, stripping me bare right there in front of Amara. I can feel the heat of his obsession radiating off him, and I immediately jerk my head away, unable to maintain eye contact, terrified of what I might see in the reflection of those dark pupils.

Amara notices my sudden avoidance. "Is he looking at us?" she asks, then pauses, her voice trailing off. "Wait... is he looking at you?"

She lets out a long, shaky sigh, sounding completely smitten. "I'll tell you one thing, Ophelia. That is a man who almost makes me think men may not be so bloody bad."

The words hit me like a cold splash of water. I freeze, slowly turning my head toward Amara, though I still can't bring myself to look her directly in the eye.

"Are you... are you gay?" I ask, my voice sounding small and confused.

Amara blinks at me, looking genuinely baffled. "Isn't it bleeding obvious with how I look at you sometimes?"

"Not really," I mutter.

But before the conversation can go any further, Amara suddenly stops dead. She lets out a sharp gasp, her grip tightening on my arm. "Oh my god... there she is! The succubus!"

I look forward, away from Rhys, and my breath catches. Walking toward him is a woman who looks like she stepped out of a fever dream. She's draped in a dress of the deepest, most violent red, clinging to every curve of her tall, statuesque frame. Her black hair is a shimmering waterfall cascading down her back, and she moves with a lethal grace on towering high heels that click rhythmically against the ground. As she gets closer, I see her face—she is breathtakingly gorgeous, with a predatory beauty that feels almost dangerous.

When I saw her before, I didn't really look at her keenly.

She glides toward Rhys, her lips curving into a seductive smile as she begins to speak to him in a low, melodic tone.

Behind me, Amara has gone completely feral. She starts shaking my arm violently, her voice rising in excitement. "Ophelia! Look at her! Isn't she absolutely hot? Look at those legs, that waist... she's a proper dark goddess! She is literally the nightmare I've been dreaming of having. I want her to ruin my life, I swear to god!"

I look at Amara’s desperation and a small, mischievous thought crosses my mind. I turn around to face her. "Do you want the VIP experience with the succubus?"

Amara’s jaw practically hits the floor. "Hell yeah! Absolutely! That is the one thing that could make me pay every penny I own for that necklace!"

I reach into my pocket and pull out the piece of jewelry. The black skull, intricately surrounded by black roses—the emblem of The Midnight Menagerie—glints in the dim light.

Amara gasps, reaching out to touch the dangling pendant as if it’s a holy relic. "How the fuck did you get one of those? Where did you find it?"

"Someone gave it to me," I say vaguely, not wanting to mention the monster currently staring a hole through my back. "Where do we go to find the VIP area?"

"I'll take you, love!" Amara exclaims, practically vibrating with anticipation. "Thank god they allow a plus one for this. I am so getting the succubus seduction package. I can already feel my knees shaking."

I manage a small, thin smile. As we start to walk away, I feel Rhys’s eyes lingering on me, a silent promise that this isn't over. But for now, I have a plan. If Amara is occupied being devoured by a succubus in the VIP lounge, maybe I can finally slip away, look around, and find some actual information about who the fuck Rhys Castellan really is.

‎Amara is practically vibrating beside me, her excitement bordering on manic as we make our way to the south side of the carnival. The atmosphere shifts abruptly; the chaotic, neon-lit madness of the Menagerie fades, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence and a level of security that makes the rest of the park look like a bloody playground.

The private quarters sit through a separate gate on the south side of the grounds, and the moment we reach it, the whole atmosphere shifts — no more flashing lights, no more screaming, no more manufactured horror. Just two enormous security guards, all in black, standing before a gate of wrought iron so tall it swallows the mist above us whole.

‎A massive, wrought-iron gate looms over us, guarded by men who look more like mercenaries than carnival staff. Their eyes are cold, scanning us with a clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl. As we approach, one of them steps forward, his hand resting on a holster.

‎"Identification," he grunts.

My fingers tremble as I reach into my pocket and pull out the necklace. I hold the black skull and roses up to the dim light.

One of them takes it, turns it over in gloved hands, inspecting the craftsmanship with a practiced eye, comparing it to some kind of ledger, checks it against something on a small tablet, and hands it back without a word.

"Who are you here for tonight?" the other asks.

Amara doesn't even let him finish. "The succubus experience," she chirps, her voice echoing in the quiet night. "The full package,” Amara says, breathless.

"Names."

‎"Names," the guard demands.