Page 67 of Cracked Doll

He lunges at me, fist raised, but before he can land a blow, Rhys materialises out of nowhere and grabs him by the collar. Rhys's fists fly, brutal punches and kicks sending Papa sprawling across the floor. Papa doesn't even see who's hitting him until he looks up and his face goes white.

"Mr Castellan!" he wheezes, crawling backwards. "I wasn't abusing her, I swear! I've never hit her, not once!"

Rhys doesn't give a shit. He delivers one final kick that sends Papa flying out the attic door and crashing onto the hallway floor below.

Rhys turns to go after him again, but I grab his arm. "I want the Sandman," I say quickly.

He looks down at me, those dark eyes terrifying—black as pitch, pupils blown wide with murderous intent, veins pulsing at his temples like he's barely holding back from tearing someone apart. The candlelight catches the whites of his eyes, making them gleam with something feral and unhinged.

I pull my hand from behind my back and show him the knife, voice cracking. "I found it hidden here.”

Chapter 21

‎The last twenty-four hours have been a blur of silence and waiting. Rhys took the butcher’s knife from my hands without a word, just a slow nod like he already knew what it meant. Then he said he had to prepare everything, and that I’d get the Sandman tomorrow night. Tomorrow night is now tonight.

‎I’ve been stuck in his chambers since he dragged me out of that attic and back to the carnival. We've been holed up in his chambers inside the carnival castle since he dragged me out of that attic. No looking out the window. No looking at the clock. Just the low thrum of distant carnival music bleeding through the walls and the smell of his cologne on everything.

The castle walls feel like they’re breathing around me. I’ve paced, I’ve smoked half a pack of his cigarettes, and I’ve stared at the same bloody knife he locked away until my eyes went blurry. Every time I asked what he was planning he just told me to wait until midnight.‎

‎Midnight comes like a fucking executioner. Rhys finally steps out of the shadows wearing a long black Victorian coat with silver buttons running down the front, the fabric heavy and old like something dug up from a grave. Underneath he’s got a blood-red shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and black trousers that fit too well. His dark hair’s slicked back, jaw clean-shaven for once, but those ice-blue eyes still look half-feral.

Rhys finally moves. He pulls out a brand new black crop top and black sweatpants from a drawer and hands them to me without ceremony. "Get dressed."

I do. My fingers are clumsy with nerves.

He leads me out of the bedroom, down a corridor I haven't seen before, and stops at a heavy black door.

I stop, heart hammering.‎

‎“Are you the Sandman?” I ask, voice cracking.‎

‎He glances over his shoulder, mouth twitching. “I am.”‎

‎“What exactly are you going to do to me?”‎

‎“I’ll show you.”

When he opens it, my stomach drops.

It's nothing like I would have expected.

It's a circular room. Small. The walls are curved and covered in black quilted velvet, like the inside of a coffin or a womb. Black sand covers the floor, shifting under my bare feet. A single brass lamp hangs from the ceiling, its smoked-glass shade casting a dim amber glow that barely reaches the edges.

In the centre sits a low cushioned platform, like something from an old opium den. Next to it, a small table holds a glass jar with a live scorpion inside—dark, glistening, legs twitching. There's also a ledger, pages filled with handwritten names and dates.

"Why's there a fucking scorpion?" I ask, voice thin.

Rhys steps inside and closes the door behind us. "It's not for letting it run wild. There's a slender silver instrument for precision. The ledger tracks the six-month cooldown. Can't have people dying from overdosing."

The air feels thick, sweet with incense. A low, continuous hum starts somewhere beneath my skin the moment the door shuts—like tinnitus made audible.

Rhys looks different tonight. His dark hair is slicked back, and his eyes—those terrifying black eyes—look even darker in this light. He looks like death dressed for a funeral.

"The room's whole purpose is dissolving the boundary between what's real and what's buried," he says.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm going to use venom from that scorpion. It puts you in a state where you see the world as it really is. Gothic, not happy. It should feel like walking into your own subconscious. Not a pleasant dream."