Page 68 of Cracked Doll

Rhys’s voice drops lower, thick with something colder than hate. “Listen close, Ophelia. Once you see that bastard’s face in the dark and you let me know, he’s finished. Thomas is already a corpse for raising his hand to you. But now? Now I’m going to carve him apart so slowly the devil himself will fucking weep. I’ll peel the skin from his fingers first, make him watch. Then I’ll take his tongue, his eyes, every piece he used to hurt you or your sisters. I’ll keep him breathing while I do it, stitch the wounds just enough to stop him dying too soon. He’ll beg, and I’ll laugh, and when there’s nothing left but screams, I’ll bury what’s left in the same black sand you’re standing on. That’s my promise to you.”

My breath catches. I want to argue, to scream, but the promise in his tone roots me to the spot. He gestures to the platform. “Lay down.”

I do. My body won't stop shivering. The black sand crunches softly beneath the platform's legs.

Nerves making my whole body shiver as I stretch out on the velvet cushions. The air feels thick, sweet with incense that reminds me of the coven’s tent. A low, continuous hum starts somewhere beneath the floor, like tinnitus made audible.

Rhys picks up the jar, unscrews the lid, and turns it upside down. He presses the open end against my exposed stomach. The scorpion drops onto my skin inside the jar. Its legs are cold and prickly, each one tapping against me like tiny needles. Its weight is light but alien, and I can feel every movement—the way its body shifts, the scrape of its pincers against the glass.

I flinch, breath stuttering.

"Try to relax, my cracked doll," Rhys murmurs, his hand steady on my hip. Then, while watching me, he begins to pat the jar repeatedly at the bottom that's now up. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Why are you tapping the jar?" I ask, voice shaking.

"To provoke it, love. Get it to sting."

Before he finishes the sentence, the scorpion strikes.

I squeal. The pain is white-hot, a needle driving straight into my gut. Pain explodes through my belly like a white-hot needle driving straight into muscle. I squeal again, back arching off the cushions.The venom floods my veins instantly—burning, then freezing, then burning again. My limbs go rigid, then slack. Venom floods my system like liquid fire, burning through my veins. My back arches off the platform. My muscles seize, then tremble uncontrollably. Sweat breaks out across my skin. My vision blurs at the edges, colours bleeding into one another.

The hum grows louder, filling my skull until I can’t tell if it’s inside or outside my head. Rhys’s face blurs above me, ice-blue eyes the only fixed point as everything else dissolves into gothic nightmare.

The hum in the room gets louder, vibrating through my bones. My mind starts to drift—slowly at first, like I'm being pulled underwater. The world tilts on its axis. The velvet walls ripple. The black sand on the floor begins to move, swirling like it's alive. Rhys's face above me stretches and warps, his eyes becoming bottomless pits.

Everything is slipping away. Reality is unravelling, thread by thread.

My mind starts to drift, slow and inevitable, pulled under by whatever the venom is showing me next.

I wake up on black sand, the same gritty stuff that covered the floor of Rhys’s ritual room. My fingers sink into it, still warm. Am I dreaming? Awake? My head spins, but the stars above are too sharp, too real. A full moon hangs low, silver light spilling everywhere.

I push up and the fabric around me shifts—heavy, layered, beautiful. A gothic Victorian gown clings to my body, deep blood-red velvet with black lace overlays. The bodice is low-cut, pushing my tits up, the neckline trimmed with delicate onyx beading that catches the moonlight. The sleeves are long and sheer, ending in cuffs of black lace, while the skirt flares wide, split up one side to show flashes of pale thigh. Tiny jet buttons run down the front, and the train trails behind me like spilled ink. My shoes are black leather ankle boots, pointed toes, with tiny silver buckles shaped like tiny scorpions.

I stand, gather the heavy skirt in both hands, and walk. The path ahead turns to grass, rocks rising like jagged teeth on either side. The air smells of wet stone and night-blooming flowers.

A lake opens on my left, its surface black glass except where the moon cuts a perfect silver path across it. Mist clings low, curling around the reeds like ghostly fingers. The water is so still it looks solid, yet something moves beneath—slow, deliberate, as if the lake itself is breathing.

Beyond the lake, the landscape turns even more gothic. Crumbling stone walls rise from the earth like broken teeth. The ruins of a castle stand half-swallowed by ivy and shadow, its towers shattered, windows empty sockets staring at the sky. Moonlight paints the stones bone-white, and the wind whistles through the gaps like a dying choir.

I run toward it, dress trailing, heart hammering. Inside, there’s no roof—only open sky and moonlight pouring down on cracked flagstones. Vines crawl up the remaining walls, and shattered columns lie where they fell centuries ago.

Hands close around my waist from behind. I know those hands—long fingers, callused palms, possessive grip. Rhys. I turn and there he is, dressed in a Victorian frock coat of black brocade shot through with silver thread. The coat hugs his broad shoulders, falls to mid-thigh, open to reveal a blood-red waistcoat and crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Moonlight catches in his dark hair and reflects in his eyes, turning them into mirrors of liquid silver.

I meet his gaze and smile. The shock hits me like cold water—I’m looking him dead in the eye without flinching. How?

Rhys’s mouth curves. “There’s my cracked doll,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my tits through the velvet. “Been waiting for you to look at me like that. Like you finally see who owns you.”

He steps closer, one hand cupping my jaw while the other drops to my hip, fingers digging in. “You’re trembling already. I can feel it through this pretty dress. You want my hands on you, don’t you? Want me to peel every layer off until you’re bare under this moon?”

I nod, breathless. He presses me back against the cold stone wall, mouth crashing onto mine. The kiss is deep, hungry, teeth nipping my lower lip before his tongue slides in. Heat floods my cunt instantly. My nipples tighten against the velvet, my thighs press together as wetness soaks the thin silk beneath. I moan into his mouth, hips rocking forward, feeling the hard length of his cock straining against his trousers.

His hands work fast—buttons pop, laces loosen. The bodice falls open and cool night air kisses my bare tits. He palms one, thumb circling the nipple, while his other hand hikes my skirt up, bunching the heavy fabric at my waist. His fingers find the wet silk between my legs and press, rubbing slow circles over my swollen clit. I gasp, throbbing, dripping onto his hand.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls against my lips. “This pretty cunt’s begging for me already.” He grinds his hard cock against my hip, letting me feel every thick inch. “Gonna fuck you right here against these ruins, Ophelia. Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Rhys’s fingers move with purpose. He tugs the sleeves down my arms, the velvet sliding over my skin like a lover’s tongue. The gown pools at my feet in a crimson heap, leaving me in nothing but my black lace bra and knickers. He doesn’t bother with the clasps. He rips the bra away, the delicate fabric tearing with a sharp sound that echoes off the stone. My tits spill free, nipples stiff in the night air. Then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my knickers and yanks, the lace shredding in his grip until I’m completely bare except for the scorpion-buckled boots.

I reach for him next. My hands shake as I push the frock coat off his shoulders. It hits the ground with a soft thud. The waistcoat follows, buttons popping under my impatient fingers. I drag the white shirt over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that map his skin. My fingers trace down his stomach until I reach his belt. I unbuckle it, pop the button, and shove the trousers down his hips. They catch on his boots for a second before he kicks them off. He’s left in tight black boxer briefs, the fabric stretched obscenely over the thick ridge of his cock.