Page 80 of Cracked Doll

I freeze. His voice isn't predatory now; it's sharp. Cold. I look up at him and realize his jaw is set, his eyes narrowed.

He's actually mad. At me?

My eyes go wide. "I—I didn't mean it! I was just defending Amara! It was a joke!"

"A joke," he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. "By joking about giving your pussy away to another person's family?"

Before I can even process the jealousy radiating off him in waves, he moves. In one swift, powerful motion, he grabs me around the waist and hoists me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"Rhys! Put me down!" I screech, pounding my fists against his muscular back. "Where the fuck are you taking me?"

"To teach you a lesson," he growls, his grip tightening possessively. "Since you're so fond of talking about other people's beds, I think it's time we reminded you exactly whose bed you belong in.”

Chapter 25

The ride back to The Midnight Menagerie is suffocating. Rhys doesn't say a fucking word. He just grips the steering wheel, his knuckles white, the air in the car thick with a jealousy so potent I can practically taste it. He’s absolutely livid, but he’s doing that thing where he goes stone-cold silent, which is a thousand times worse than him shouting. It’s the silence of a predator deciding exactly where to bite.

Once we're back in his chambers, the psychological warfare continues. He has food brought in for me—lavish, expensive shit that I can barely eat because my stomach is in knots—and then he just... ignores me. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even look at me. He just moves around the room like a ghost, his presence a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I'm on edge, jumping at every sound, wondering when the fuck the hammer is going to drop.

Right before he leaves when the sun goes down, he stops at the door. He doesn't turn around.

"Find me at the carnival. Exactly nine o'clock," he commands, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Don't be late, Ophelia."

Then he's gone.

I collapse onto the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I'm absolutely terrified, but if I'm honest, there's a sick, buzzing excitement humming under my skin. I love it when he's like this—possessive, dark, completely obsessed. It makes me feel like I'm the only thing in his world, even if that world is a fucking nightmare.

I look over and see what he's left for me. A dress. Shoes. Makeup.

I strip off my clothes and slide into the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin, trying to wash away the lingering scent of that bitch Nicole and the chaos of the afternoon. When I get out, I wrap myself in his oversized black silk robe, the fabric cool and heavy against my damp skin. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the offerings.

The dress is a masterpiece of gothic Victorian obsession. It's deep, midnight black, made of heavy silk and intricate lace that looks like frozen spiderwebs. It’s not one of those stifling, high-neck gowns; the neckline is a daring, wide square that exposes the curve of my collarbones and a hint of my chest, trimmed with delicate black velvet. The waist is cinched tight, flowing down into a voluminous skirt with layers of tulle and lace that would make any Victorian widow look like a fucking queen. Beside it sit the shoes: pointed-toe black leather boots with laces that go all the way up to my calves, the heels sharp enough to draw blood.

A black gothic bow to tie my hair.

I start with his moisturizer, the scent of sandalwood and something dark—like rain on old stone—filling my nostrils as I rub it into my pale skin. Then come the undergarments: a sheer, black lace bra that barely hides my nipples and matching thongs that dig into my hips, making me feel exposed and fragile.

I slide into the dress, the fabric hugging my curves before flaring out. I tug the laces tight, feeling the corset-like grip of the bodice squeezing the breath out of me, molding me into something elegant and dangerous. I step into the boots, lacing them up with shaking fingers, the click of the heels on the floor sounding like a countdown.

Then, I see the makeup.

Deep plums, charcoal blacks, and a lipstick so dark it looks like dried blood. To put this on, I need a mirror.

My stomach drops. My breath hitches. Just the thought of seeing my own reflection makes my skin crawl, a cold wave of panic washing over me. I can almost feel the ghosts of my sisters hovering behind me, the memory of my father's bloody knife flashing in my mind. I start to hyperventilate, my chest heaving.

Get a grip, Ophelia. You're not that scared little girl anymore.

I see a small, handheld makeup mirror resting on the duvet. I stare at it like it's a fucking landmine. Slowly, agonizingly, I reach out and pick it up. My hand is trembling so hard the mirror rattles.

I open it a fraction of an inch, raising it just enough to see my lips.

I gasp, jumping back, nearly dropping the glass. My heart is racing, a frantic drumming in my ears. I close my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Just the lips. Just the fucking lips.

I reach for the black lipstick. I open the tube and press the dark pigment against my bottom lip. I force myself to look. I see the dark line forming, the stark contrast against my pale skin. I don't look away. I keep going, my hand shaking, but I focus. I apply it to the top lip, carefully defining the cupid's bow, making it sharp and predatory.

I stare at my reflection—just that small part of me—until the color is perfect, bold and unapologetic.

The moment it's done, I slam the lipstick shut and hurl the mirror across the bed as if it had burned me. I'm shaking, my lungs burning, but a wild, triumphant spark ignites in my gut.