Page 85 of Cracked Doll

She glides toward the bar, stopping right next to the stool where my father is slumped. She doesn't look at him at first; she just leans against the mahogany, her hip cocked, exposing a tantalizing stretch of pale thigh through a slit in the dress.

"Two tequilas," she purrs, her voice like velvet dipped in poison.

When the drinks arrive, she doesn't drink hers immediately. Instead, she slides one glass toward Thomas. He looks up, startled, blinking through the alcoholic haze. He looks at her, then at the drink, then back at her. He drinks it in one go, his eyes locking onto hers.

I can't hear their conversation, but I don't need to. I watch, mesmerized and disgusted, as she begins her work.

She earns the name succubus in a matter of seconds. She leans in close, her scent likely filling his head with hallucinations of paradise. She doesn't touch him at first; she just uses her eyes, her gaze heavy and hungry, tracing the lines of his face with a predatory intensity. She sips her own drink slowly, her tongue darting out to lick a drop of tequila from her upper lip, her eyes never leaving his.

Then, she moves. A slow, deliberate touch. She lets her fingertips graze his shoulder, then slides them down his arm, her nails lightly scratching his skin. She leans closer, her breast brushing against his arm, her voice a low, hypnotic murmur that seems to vibrate through the air. She’s unapologetically bad, a siren calling a drowning man deeper into the ocean.

Thomas is completely entranced. He’s leaning toward her, his mouth hanging open, his pupils blown wide. He’s forgotten the whiskey, forgotten the pub, forgotten everything but the woman in front of him. He reaches out, trying to pull her in for a kiss, his movements clumsy and desperate.

She stops him with a single, delicate finger pressed against his lips. She smiles—a cruel, knowing thing—and whispers something in his ear that makes him shiver. She finishes the seduction with a final, lingering look, a promise of things he can't even imagine.

She stands up and begins to walk toward the exit. Without a second thought, Thomas scrambles off his stool and follows her, trailing after her like a dog on a leash, completely oblivious to the world.

Rhys stands up, offering me his hand and pulling me to my feet. We follow them out into the cool night air, staying in the shadows.

I watch as the succubus leads him straight into the waiting arms of Rhys’s men. The transition is brutal. One moment he’s in a trance; the next, the spell snaps. As the men grab him, the reality of the situation hits him. He looks around, panic surging in his eyes, and then he sees us.

He sees Rhys. And he sees me.

"Ophelia!" he screams, his voice raw and terrified. "Stop this! Tell them to let me go! Ophelia!"

He doesn't get another word out. A heavy hand slams over his mouth, a gag is shoved violently into his maw, and his wrists are bound tight with zip-ties. They hoist him up and throw him into the boot of the car like a sack of rotting meat. The door slams shut with a heavy, final thud.

The car peels away, taking him toward his doom. The succubus walks back to us, her expression bored. "Got your Papa," she says simply.

I can't even find the words. I just nod, my heart hammering against my ribs.

She turns to Rhys, a playful glint in her gray eyes. "Have I earned the night off, boss?"

Rhys looks at her, his expression cold. "Go ahead and lure more men into their doom. Have fun."

She rolls her eyes, lets out a soft, mocking chuckle, and saunters away into the darkness.

Rhys turns me to face him, his hands gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him. "Are you ready for what comes, Ophelia?"

My mind flashes immediately to the torture chamber—the smell of iron and old blood, the cold, gleaming blade of the guillotine. I shiver.

"You can have a moment to talk to him," Rhys whispers, his voice dark and reassuring. "You can get whatever answers you want beaten out of him before you kill him."

I lean into him, my voice trembling. "I... I'll wait. I won't see him until I find where he buried my mother and sister. I can't kill him until I know."

"Do you want that information tortured out of him?" Rhys asks.

I nod slowly. "Yes. But... I don't know if he'll tell the truth. Even under torture, he might lie just to fuck with me. We should investigate on our own, too."

Rhys doesn't judge me. He just understands. He pulls me tightly into his arms, wrapping me in his scent and his strength. I bury my face in his chest, taking sharp, jagged breaths, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. I'm terrified, I'm broken, but for the first time in my life, I'm not alone in the dark.

Chapter 27

The morning air is biting, a damp chill that seeps through my coat and settles in my bones. I stand before the weathered wooden doors of The Tin Heart, my breath blooming in small, ghostly clouds. My fingers are numb as I fumble with the keys, the metal freezing against my skin, until finally, the lock clicks.

I step inside, and the silence hits me like a physical weight. It’s a heavy, dusty quiet, smelling of old lacquer, sawdust, and the faint, lingering scent of vanilla. As I walk further in, my eyes drift to the shelves. Rows and rows of vintage dolls stare back at me with glassy, unblinking eyes.

A familiar, suffocating tightness grips my chest. It’s a hollow ache, a void that never truly fills. Looking at them, my mind slips back—back to when the world wasn't a fucking nightmare. I remember the warmth of the workshop, the smell of fresh paint, and the sound of my father’s voice, actually patient for once, teaching me and my sisters how to mold the porcelain, how to stitch the tiny dresses.