Page 58 of Cracked Doll

He doesn't flinch. Instead, he leans in closer, his nose brushing against mine, his eyes swirling with a dark, hypnotic hunger.

"Kill you?" he whispers, the sound like a blade sliding over silk. "My sweet, cracked doll... why would I destroy the only thing in this wretched world that makes my heart beat? I don't want your death. I want your absolute, shivering surrender. I want to be the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins."

"The women who died..." I choke out, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Antoinette... that blonde woman... they were tied to you. Whoever killed them, or whatever darkness follows you, it'll find me too. You're a magnet for slaughter, and I'm just the next victim in your wake."

Rhys lets out a low, humming sound, almost a purr, as he presses his body flush against mine, leaving no space for air between us. His voice drops to a lethal, unhinged register that makes my skin crawl and ignite at the same time.

"Then let the world burn around us, Ophelia. Let the blood rain from the sky and the earth split open to swallow us whole. I would happily walk through a thousand hells just to ensure you are the only thing left standing—and that you are standing right here, in my arms. You aren't a victim. You are my obsession. My religion. I will carve my name into your soul so deeply that even God wouldn't be able to find you."

I shiver, paralyzed by the sheer, poetic madness of his words. He is completely gone, lost in a void of his own making, and he wants to drag me into it with him.

His hand moves then, sliding upward from my waist. I gasp as his palm settles over my chest, his fingers splaying across my heart. He can feel it—the frantic, terrified rhythm. He doesn't stop there; his fingers slip beneath the neckline of my dress, grazing my skin with a searing heat until he finds the cold metal of my necklace. He rolls the pendant between his thumb and forefinger, a possessive gesture that feels like he's claiming the very essence of my history.

"I look forward to taking you to the Sandman soon," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity.

I blink, confused and breathless. "What... what is a Sandman?"

A ghost of a smirk touches his lips. "Don't you remember the Sandman from your childhood, Ophelia?"

"The mythical figure?" I ask, my voice trembling. "The one who visits children at night, sprinkling magical sand into their eyes to induce sleep and bring pleasant dreams? What? Are you the Sandman now? Are you going to sprinkle sand in my eyes? That sounds barbaric... and exactly like something you'd do."

Rhys actually laughs—a genuine, dark sound that vibrates through my chest. "Barbaric. Yes, perhaps. But I will give you a different version of the Sandman, little doll. And a very different type of dream."

"What does that mean?" I demand, my fear spiking.

"There was something you missed on that corkboard of you," he says, his voice turning cold and clinical. "The one with all your photographs. You were too overwhelmed by the images of yourself to notice the details in the corners. The things that don't fit."

He leans in, his lips almost touching my ear, his voice becoming a haunting whisper.

"Something happened the night Cordelia and Rosalind died, Ophelia. Something you've spent seven years forgetting. You don't recall, do you? But with me as your Sandman... I will make sure you remember everything."

Before I can scream, before I can demand to know what he means or how he knows about my sisters, he crashes his lips onto mine. It isn't a kiss of affection; it's a claim. It's brutal, hungry, and tastes of obsession.

He hands me the rose across the steam. I smell it; the scent cuts through the boiling water like a blade.‎

‎“When you’re finally mine in every way that matters,” he tells me, “I’ll keep a bouquet of these on the bedside table so the room always reeks of death and cunt.”

He severs the connection as abruptly as he started it, stepping back and glancing toward the window.

With a fluid, predatory grace, he slips out of the room through the open window, vanishing into the shadows of the garden as if he were never there.

I stand there, shaking, my chest heaving, the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin. I can still hear the echo of his voice—Cordelia and Rosalind.

Suddenly, the bedroom door swings open. I quickly tuck the rose in my pocket.

"Ophelia! Lunch is ready!" Amara calls out, beaming at me. "I was just helping my mum set the table. Come on, before the food gets cold!"

I jump, spinning around to face her. I feel like I've just returned from another dimension. I look at Amara, then at the window, then back to her.

"What... what time is it?" I stammer.

Amara looks at me funny, tilting her head. "It's lunch, silly. We've been in the attic all morning. Why are you acting so weird?"

She steps closer, her eyes narrowing as she scans my face. "God, Ophelia, are you okay? You're completely flushed. Your face is bright red. Did you have a moment while I was gone?"

I swallow hard, my mind racing. I can't tell her. I can't tell her that a murderous stalker just broke into her bedroom and told me he was the Sandman of my nightmares.

"I... I just felt a bit faint," I lie, my voice shaky as I clutch the newspaper. "The attic... the ghosts... it just hit me all at once. I think the heat in here is just getting to me."