Page 57 of Cracked Doll

The voice is a low, dark velvet caress that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I freeze.

I spin around and see him. Rhys is standing in the deepest shadow of the room, leaning against the wall, watching me with those predatory eyes. My heart skips a beat, then hammers violently against my ribs. I can't look at him—I can't bring myself to meet that gaze—so I snap my head away, staring at the wall.

"Are you fucking crazy?" I hiss, my voice shaking. "Why are you in my friend's bedroom? How did you even get in here?"

"Because I missed you," he purrs.

I hear the slow, deliberate thud of his boots on the floorboards as he closes the distance. The air around him feels heavy, charged with an electricity that makes my skin prickle.

"Why did you disobey me, Ophelia?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating through my very bones. "I told you to wait for me in my bedroom. Instead, you ran off. You played a very dangerous game of hide-and-seek."

I swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "I am not someone you can just order around, Rhys. I'm not one of your... toys."

He chuckles, a dark, guttural sound. Suddenly, he's behind me. I feel the heat of his body radiating through my dress before his arms wrap around my waist, hauling me back against his hard chest. He leans in, his breath hot against the shell of my ear.

"I had planned for us to have so much more fun this morning," he whispers, his grip tightening possessively.

I stiffen, a spark of defiance flickering through my fear. "Really? Wouldn't that 'fun' have been interrupted by the woman who called you? The one who made you leave me alone in that room so you could run to her?"

He goes still. The muscle in his arm flexes against my side.

"And then," I continue, my voice gaining strength, "that woman throws herself at you, all scared and loving... and then she gets shot by another woman who was hiding in the trees."

Rhys doesn't say a word. He reaches forward, gripping my shoulders and forcing me to turn around. I keep my gaze lowered, my eyes landing on his lips—full, cruel, and inviting.

He smirks, noticing my gaze. "Still can't look me in the eye, can you, little cracked doll?"

I shrug, my heart racing.

"I didn't expect you to see that," he admits, his voice devoid of apology.

"What the fuck is going on?" I demand, finally snapping. "Who was Antoinette Smith? Who was that blonde woman who died in your arms? And who was the woman with the gun?"

Rhys's expression shifts. The smirk vanishes, replaced by an intensity that is almost suffocating. He steps closer, crowding me into the space between him and the bed.

"All you need to know," he says, his voice a low, obsessive growl, "is that I will never let anything happen to you. You are mine, Ophelia. Every breath you take, every tear you shed, every inch of your skin belongs to me. I would burn this entire town to the ground and salt the earth if it meant keeping you safe in my cage."

I shiver, the darkness of his obsession both terrifying and intoxicating. "I want to know what's going on with the man who is stalking me! Why are women dying around you? I deserve to know!"

"You deserve nothing but my protection and my pleasure," he counters, his eyes darkening. "The world is a filthy, violent place, Ophelia. I am the only thing standing between you and the monsters. Even if I have to be the biggest monster of them all to do it."

"Then who was she?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "The woman who hugged you?"

He shrugs, his tone turning dismissive. "A past fling. A few nights of nothing but pure, mindless sex. Nothing more."

The words hit me like a physical blow. A flash of something—jealousy, disgust, or perhaps just the realization of who he truly is—surges through me. I instinctively push against his chest, backing away from him.

Rhys raises an eyebrow, a mocking glint in his eyes. "What's this? Was I expecting you to think I was a virgin, or something?"

"I don't want to be with a stalker," I say, my voice cracking. I look at his lips again, a traitorous pull in my gut, before I jerk my head away.

In a blur of motion, Rhys lunges. He grabs my waist with bruising force and slams me back against him, his body pinning me firmly. He leans down, his lips brushing against mine, his voice a lethal promise.

"You don't get to decide, Ophelia. You have no choice here.”

I struggle against him, my palms flat against his chest, pushing with every ounce of strength I possess. But it’s like trying to move a mountain of granite. He doesn’t budge; he only tightens his grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my waist, anchoring me to him.

"Let me go!" I gasp, my voice cracking. "You're dangerous, Rhys. You're a fucking monster. I can see it now. You don't protect people—you attract death. You'll probably be the one to kill me yourself."