Page 90 of Cracked Doll

‎

‎“Every time you inhale that flower,” he says, “remember I’m already inside your lungs. You can’t cough me out.”

‎Rhys lifts me from the altar tomb like I weigh nothing, one arm sliding beneath my knees while the other cradles my back. My legs dangle over his forearm as he carries me away from the graveyard, my gothic Victorian dress still bunched around my waist, thighs sticky with his cum. The night air bites at my exposed skin, but his grip is iron, possessive, like he’ll never set me down again.

He holds my gaze the entire walk to the shore. Those dark eyes never waver, burning into mine with that same unhinged devotion. The moonlight catches the sharp lines of his face, making him look half-devil, half-saint. My arms loop around his neck, fingers threading into his unbelievably soft hair as he strides across the damp grass and down the rocky path toward the sea.

The water comes into view, black and endless under the moon. He doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight in, boots splashing through the shallows, then wading deeper. The cold hits me first—freezing, shocking against my bare cunt and thighs. I gasp, but he keeps going, the sea rising around us, soaking the hem of my dress, then my waist. Only when the water reaches his chest does he stop, the tide lapping at my ribs.

"I’d drown us both if it meant keeping you like this forever," he murmurs, voice rough with obsession. "You’re my religion, Ophelia. My reason to breathe. I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to you if you asked."

His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and claiming. The kiss is deep, tongues sliding, teeth nipping. Salt stings my lips as he lowers us both, the icy water swallowing us inch by inch until we’re fully submerged. The cold is brutal, shocking, stealing my breath, but his arms stay locked around me. We sink together, hair floating, clothes billowing in the current.

Then he pushes us back up. We break the surface gasping, water streaming from our faces. Moonlight glimmers on the waves around us. I cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as I pull him back into another kiss. Our mouths move together, desperate and slow, tongues tasting salt and each other while the sea rocks us gently. His hands grip my thighs, keeping me wrapped around his waist, and I hold his face like it’s the only anchor I have left in the freezing dark.

Chapter 29

I’m losing my fucking mind.

I’ve been trapped in this room all day, pacing the floor like a caged animal. I’m wearing nothing but one of Rhys’s oversized black shirts and a pair of socks. The fabric is soft, smelling of him—that dark, expensive scent of sandalwood and something metallic—but it doesn’t stop me from feeling completely stripped bare. I look over at the porcelain doll I managed to save from The Tin Heart, the one that looks exactly like me and my sisters. I stare into its glassy eyes and feel a surge of pure annoyance.

He won’t let me go back to the shop. He won’t let me work. He’s just… kept me here, tucked away in this gilded cage while he spent the day in his office with a bunch of posh, fine-dressed men. I’ve barely seen him. He’s popped in twice just to make sure I haven’t managed to claw my way through the walls, and that’s it. Does he seriously expect me to just sit here and rot?

He gave me a remote, telling me that if I press the first button, the wall opposite the bed slides open to reveal a telly. He’s subscribed to everything for me—Netflix, Disney, Hulu—whatever the fuck those are. I’m so far behind the rest of the world I don’t even know what the current apps are. I feel like a relic. I just want a phone. I’m praying that once I’ve healed enough, I let me have one. At least then I’ll have two numbers to text—Amara… and Rhys.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps in the hall. I rush to the door, peeking out just in time to see those suits leaving, heading down the corridor and toward the stairs. The house is quiet again.

I don’t even think. I bolt out of the room and sprint straight to his office door. I barely have my hand raised to knock when his voice rings out from inside, cold and knowing.

"Come in, Ophelia."

I freeze for a second, then push the door open. He’s sitting behind that massive, dark mahogany desk, leaning back in his chair, watching me with those predatory eyes. He looks like he’s been waiting for me to break.

"How the fuck did you know it was me?" I ask, breathless.

A slow, psychotic smirk curls his lips. "I can hear your heart beating from across the hall, love. It has a very specific rhythm when you're desperate for me. It sounds like a trapped bird hitting its wings against a cage."

I roll my eyes, though my stomach flips. I walk across the room, the shirt riding up my thighs, and I don't hesitate. I climb onto his lap, straddling him, my legs wrapping around his waist. His hands immediately find my hips, his grip tight, almost bruising.

"You look delicious in my shirt," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. He leans in, burying his nose in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. "You have this scent on you... it's intoxicating. I want to devour you. I want to eat you alive until there's nothing left but the memory of you."

I huff a little laugh, leaning back. "Really? I probably just smell like your fancy body wash because I used it this morning."

Rhys pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, his gaze dark and obsessive. "The soap is nothing. I can smell you, Ophelia. I can smell the heat of your skin, the sweetness of your fear, and the way your body is already reacting to me. It’s a scent that belongs only to me. I could find you in a crowd of a thousand women just by the smell of your skin."

I shiver, the intensity of it making my pussy ache. "I missed you stalking me today," I tease, my voice trembling.

"Who says I stopped?"

He doesn't look away from me, but he points a finger toward the monitor on his desk. I turn my head, glancing at the screen, and my heart nearly stops. It’s a live CCTV feed. High definition. And it’s showing my bedroom. My bed. The exact spot where I was sitting with my doll a minute ago.

My mouth drops open. I whip my head back to him, horrified. "You creep! You absolute fucking psycho! What if I wanted to do something private?"

Rhys laughs, a low, dangerous sound. He pulls me closer, his hand sliding up under the shirt to squeeze my breast. "Private? There is nothing about you that is private from me, Ophelia. Every inch of your skin, every tear you shed, every time you touch yourself thinking you're alone... it all belongs to me. I want to see every shudder. I want to know exactly when you miss me so I can come and fuck you for it."

Why would I even touch myself with how sore he keeps me?

"You're insane," I whisper, but I'm already leaning in.