Page 46 of Cracked Doll

I finally pull back, blinking as my eyes adjust to the room. It’s a bedroom, but it looks more like a sanctuary for a decadent demon. The walls are a deep, oppressive charcoal grey, adorned with ornate black wainscoting that looks like frozen vines. The ceiling is vaulted, painted a matte black with a gold-leaf fresco of falling stars that makes me feel like I’m lying under a dead sky.

And then there’s the bed. It’s monstrous—a massive, four-poster beast of carved ebony wood. The sheets are a heavy, midnight-purple velvet that looks so soft it could swallow me whole, topped with a mountain of silk pillows in shades of bruised plum and obsidian. It’s gothic, dark, and terrifyingly inviting, like a velvet-lined coffin.

Then I see it.

Right in the center of the purple velvet, stark and cold, lies a gun. A sleek, black handgun, looking completely out of place and yet perfectly at home in this den of sin.

Panic surges through me, mixing with the nausea. I jump out of Rhys's arms, my boots clicking frantically on the dark hardwood as I rush toward a door I hope leads to a bathroom. I don't look at him. I can't.

I burst into the bathroom and barely have time to register the luxury before I’m on my knees in front of the toilet. I rip the mask from my face, throwing it aside, and heave. I vomit violently, my stomach cramping as I throw up everything I've eaten, the memory of the guillotine's blade slicing through flesh triggering a fresh wave of sickness. I gag, my throat burning, until there’s nothing left but bitter bile.

I flush the toilet and scramble up to the sink. I keep my head down, splashing cold water onto my face and rinsing my mouth, carefully avoiding the mirrors. I can't look. I won't look. I refuse to see the reflection of a girl who just watched a man get beheaded for sport.

Once my mouth is clean, I slowly look around the bathroom. It’s an architectural scream of extreme wealth. The floors are black marble with white veins like cracked ice. The sink is a single piece of carved onyx, the faucets gold and shaped like twisting serpents. There are plush, charcoal-colored towels and expensive scents that smell of sandalwood and musk. There’s nothing here—no letters, no photos, no clues—just the oppressive silence of a man who has enough money to buy the world and the power to break it.

I put my mask back on, feeling the fabric press against my skin, and step back into the bedroom.

Rhys is waiting for me by the door. He hasn't moved. He’s still wearing that fucking mask, his silhouette tall and imposing against the dim light. As he reaches for me, I instinctively recoil, stepping back with a sharp gasp.

"What the fuck was that?" I demand, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound strong. "People actually die in your carnival, Rhys? You just... you just kill them for fun?"

He doesn't move for a moment, then he speaks, his voice a low, melodic rumble that sends a shiver of pure dread down my spine. "People are fragile, Ophelia. They spend their lives pretending to be saints while they rot from the inside out. They love dark things because it matches the darkness that looms over their own pathetic lives."

He takes a slow step toward me, his tone becoming more obsessive, more focused. "They crave the Midnight Menagerie because I give them the only thing that feels honest in this world: a glimpse of the abyss. I give them the blood, the screams, the exquisite purity of a final breath. I give them the darkness they hunger for... and I enjoy every second of their hunger."

I let out a sharp, jagged laugh, my sarcasm acting as a shield. "Oh, brilliant. So you're a borderline psychopath. I'm so fucking surprised. Truly. Under your bizarre, mysterious exterior, there is still just this terrifying, unhinged freak who built a playground where people can watch heads get lopped off? Yeah, I didn't notice. My mistake."

He doesn't laugh. He takes another step.

I back away, my heart hammering against my ribs. He steps closer again, his presence filling the room, suffocating me. I keep retreating until my calves hit the edge of the bed. I lose my balance and fall backward, landing hard on the purple velvet sheets.

Rhys smirks—I can feel it even through the mask. He leans over me, his muscular frame hovering over mine, pinning me down with nothing but his shadow. He brings his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin.

"You have such a sharp tongue, my little cracked doll," he whispers, his voice dripping with a dangerous kind of hunger. "I wonder if you'll be this sarcastic when you're begging me to stop."

My hand fumbles blindly behind me, and my fingers wrap around the cold metal of the gun. In one swift motion, I snatch it up and point it straight at his forehead.

The click of the safety coming off echoes in the silent room.

Rhys doesn't even flinch. He doesn't move a muscle. Instead, he slowly leans forward, pressing his forehead firmly against the muzzle of the gun. He looks into my eyes, his gaze dark and predatory.

"Go ahead," he dares me, his voice a velvet threat. "Pull the trigger, Ophelia. If you truly want nothing to do with me, if you want to end this game right now... pull the trigger and send me to hell."

I freeze, my finger trembling on the trigger.

"But," he continues, his voice dropping to a guttural, erotic growl, "if you don't... I am going to fuck you into oblivion. I'm going to masturbate you right here on these sheets, and I'm going to do it so thoroughly that your screams will be heard all the way back to the graveyard.”

Chapter 14

I’m shaking, the cold steel of the gun digging into my palm, my finger white-knuckled against the trigger. I stare at him—or rather, I stare at that fucking mask. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them. He’s hunting me even while he’s standing still, his presence like a heavy shroud over the room.

"Want me to count for you, love?" he asks, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

I don't say a word. I can't. My throat is tight, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I want to do it. I want to blow a hole right through his skull and end this fucking nightmare.

"Five," he begins, his tone almost bored, as if my hesitation is the most predictable thing in the world.

"Four."