Page 77 of Cracked Doll

I wake up with Amara's name on my lips, the ache between my thighs pulsing like a bruise. "I miss Amara," I mumble, voice thick with sleep. "I want to go see her."

Rhys is already dressed, standing by the window in a black shirt with silver buttons that catch the morning light. He turns, studying me with those dark eyes. "I've got work to do today anyway, doll. My men will drive you. They'll collect you at three."

"Alright," I say, stretching carefully. Every movement reminds me of last night—the ritual, the table, the way he fucked me while the coven chanted around us.

He leaves to make calls, and I slip out of bed. My clothes are waiting on a chair—new ones, still with tags. Black lace knickers, sheer enough to see through. A black corset top with delicate straps and a sweetheart neckline that pushes my tits up just right. Over that, a long black skirt with a slit up one side, showing flashes of thigh when I walk. Black fishnet stockings and heavy combat boots with silver buckles. A black velvet choker with a small silver crescent moon. Everything fits perfectly, like he measured me in my sleep.

After I take a shower using his shampoo and body wash, and clean my teeth, I dress up in everything he gave him.

I walk over to him as though I'm coming for a gun only for my hand to go to his jacket. His wallet is in the inside pocket. I pull it out, open it, and take a handful of notes without counting.

"Thank you," I say sweetly, as I slip them into my bag, put the wallet back, and smile. I put his wallet back in his jacket.

His expression shifts. He pulls the wallet out himself, opens it, and empties every note onto my palm. Stacks of twenties and fifties. I count them quickly in my head—eight hundred pounds. My mouth goes dry.

"Rhys, this is... fuck, this is too much. I just needed a few pounds."

He just shrugs, like money means nothing. "You'll need it."

I don't know what to say, so I just smile nervously and stuff the cash away.

His bodyguards are waiting outside—two men in black, silent as shadows. They drive me to Amara's in a sleek black car. She opens the door in fishnets and a torn band tee, her eyes widening when she sees my outfit.

"Holy shit, you look like you crawled out of a Victorian wet dream," she laughs, pulling me inside.

We spend two hours catching up, sprawled on her bed with music playing low. Eventually I sit up. "Can you take me to get some Plan B?"

Amara's eyebrows shoot up. "You shagged him again?"

"In the coven tent, too," I admit. "We had sex on the table while they bound our souls together."

Her face lights up like Christmas. "No fucking way. Tell me everything. Was it hot? Did they watch? Did you come? Oh my god, I want that. I want someone to bind my soul while I'm getting railed on an altar."

She won't shut up about it the whole walk to the pharmacy. I grab a box of Plan B, then another, then another. Six boxes total. "This should be enough for now," I mutter.

"You thinking about the pill?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Don't know how long this thing with Rhys will last."

"Probably until the afterlife, since your souls are literally bound by a coven," she says matter-of-factly.

I blush and look away. I ask her if she wants anything instead, and she shakes her head.

At the counter, I pay for everything and get a bottle of water. I crack it open right there, pop the first pill, and swallow it while the cashier stares.

"How was the succubus last night?" I ask as we walk out.

Amara groans, but it's a happy sound. "Tried to get her name. Wouldn't tell me. Treated me like a client. Refused a date. By the time she was done with me, I was too fucked out to remember to ask again."

"She's taken me home twice now," I say. "On Rhys's orders."

Amara stops dead in the street. "And you're just telling me this now?" She grabs my arm. "Get him to tell you her name. I want to call her. Maybe she'll say yes to a date if I ask properly using her name. Come on, Ophelia. Do it for me, I need that devilish woman."

I nod, already wondering how I'm going to bring that up with Rhys.

We’re barely a block away from the pharmacy when three of them step out from a side street, blocking our path like they own the fucking pavement. Two lads and a girl, all around twenty, looking like the kind of posh, entitled pricks who think a trip to the local pub is a personality trait.

One of the blokes—a tall, arrogant tosser with a smirk that makes me want to punch him in the throat—locks his eyes on Amara. He doesn't even look at me.