Page 52 of Cracked Doll

Then, I stop dead.

Emerging from the gloom of the trees is a woman. She is a vision of misplaced elegance in the wild woods. Her hair is a shimmering, medium-length blonde, flowing behind her as she sprints toward Rhys. She’s dressed in a sophisticated, cream-colored silk ensemble that looks entirely too expensive for a forest, adorned with strings of lustrous, creamy pearls draped around her neck and wrists that catch the filtered sunlight. Gloves covering her hand.

She doesn't just approach him; she launches herself at him, throwing her entire body into his arms with a desperate, clinging intensity.

She hangs onto him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her face buried in his chest as she sobs into his skin.

Rhys wraps his arms around her, pulling her small frame tight against his chest. The protective instinct in his posture is palpable, a stark contrast to the cold killer I saw him become moments ago.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice low and laced with a genuine concern that makes my heart ache.

I can hear him clearly, the vibration of his chest against my ear. She nods frantically, her voice trembling as she speaks. "I barely escaped by the skin of my teeth," she whispers, the cadence of her panic sharp and jagged. She pulls back slightly, looking up at him. "What does she want?”

Rhys opens his mouth to respond, but the words are severed by a sound that rips through the morning silence.

Crack.

A single, deafening gunshot echoes through the trees.

The blonde woman goes rigid in his arms. For a heartbeat, everything freezes. Then, a thin, visceral stream of crimson leaks from the corner of her mouth, staining the pristine cream silk of her dress. Rhys’s grip tightens instinctively, holding her up as her body goes limp. He pulls his hand away from her back, and I gasp; his palm is slick, coated in a shocking, brilliant red.

My eyes dart instinctively toward the treeline, searching for the source of the noise. There, partially obscured by the dense foliage, I see her. A woman. She has medium-long black hair that blends into the shadows, and she's dressed in a stark black dress that makes her look like a mourning specter. She's holding a gun, her gaze fixed on Rhys, but she stays tucked away, hiding in the brush so he doesn't spot her.

Terror, cold and absolute, floods my veins. I can't breathe. I can't scream. I start backing away slowly, my bare feet silent on the forest floor, my eyes locked on the woman in black. The moment I feel I've put enough distance between us, I turn and bolt.

I run. I run like the devil himself is snapping at my heels. I scramble back through the forest, the branches clawing at the oversized black t-shirt, and burst into the backyard. I sprint across the grass, my feet pounding against the earth, and fly up the stairs and into the room.

Panic-stricken, I scramble for my things. I find my dress, but as I pull it from the heap, I see the jagged tears in the fabric—it's ruined, unwearable. I don't have time to think. I dive into my pockets, fingers trembling as I clutch my keys. I shove my feet into my boots, lacing them with frantic, clumsy movements, and then I rush out.

I don't take the back way. I fly through the front door, sprint down the long, imposing driveway, and burst through the gates. I find myself in the heart of the carnival. In the daylight, it's a ghost town—a skeletal landscape of silent rides and dormant stalls, stripped of the neon glamour and gothic horror of the night. It feels oppressive, a graveyard of entertainment.

I don't stop. I run out of the carnival grounds and keep pushing, my lungs burning, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I tear through the morning streets, a blur of desperation. I bump into commuters heading to work and students trudging toward school, their confused glances sliding off me as I push past them, barely aware of the world around me.

Finally, the familiar storefront of the Tin Heart toy shop comes into view. I reach the door, my hands shaking so violently that I fumble with the keys, the metal clinking uselessly against the lock for several agonizing seconds before it finally clicks.

I rush inside, the scent of old wood and paint greeting me, but I don't stop to look at the toys. I fly up the stairs, my boots thudding on the wood, until I reach my room. I slam the door shut and lock it with a definitive snap.

I lean my back against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. I'm breathing hard, my chest heaving, sweat slicking my skin and making the black t-shirt cling to me. I reach up, my fingers trembling as they touch my neck. The necklace is still there.

I close my eyes, but the image is burned into my retinas: the blonde woman's lifeless gaze, the blood on Rhys's hand, and the woman in black watching from the shadows. A violent shiver racks my entire body, leaving me trembling in the silence of my sanctuary.

Chapter 16

I sit on the edge of my bed, the dampness of the shower still clinging to my skin, though it did fuck all to wash away the feeling of blood and terror. I’m staring blankly at the wall, the rhythmic scritch-scratch of the brush through my hair the only sound in the room. My black hair is waist-long, a heavy, dark curtain that I don't remember ever being shorter. It feels like the only thing about me that hasn't changed, the only thing that isn't a lie.

And I did not once take off my necklace. Not when I found a black rose on my bed.

I take it, press it to my nose, and the wet petals release a sweeter, heavier fragrance. It has a note on black paper attached to it. I read the words.

‎Imagine this stem shoved inside you while the thorns kiss your clit. Would you come or would you bleed first?

I immediately close the note. I go the music box he gave me that's still in my room and place both the rose and and note inside.

My mind is a fucking whirlwind, spinning back to that board in Rhys's office—the photos, the haunting echoes of my sisters. Then the gold-walled chamber, the smell of iron and old death, and Abigail... God, the way she beheaded Jacob. The sheer, visceral brutality of it.

And then there's him.

I close my eyes and I can still feel it. The way he pulled the trigger, the cold authority in his voice, and the way he absolutely wrecked me in that bed. Four orgasms. Four times he pushed me over the edge until I was sobbing and shaking, my vision blurring as I watched our reflection in the mirrored ceiling. I remember looking into his eyes—those dark, possessive depths—and feeling a hunger for him that terrified me. Even this morning, just hours ago, I wanted him so badly it felt like a physical ache in my chest.