Page 94 of Cracked Doll

Amara's already there, waving both arms. She's dressed like a Victorian widow who decided to become a rock star—floor-length black lace dress with a high collar and long train, but the sleeves are torn to show fishnet underneath. Her hair is teased into a wild black cloud with a tiny top hat pinned on one side. Silver crosses dangle from her ears and her lips are painted the same blood-red as mine. When she spots me her mouth drops open.

"Holy shit, Ophelia! You look like you crawled out of a gothic fairy tale and decided to take over the kingdom. That dress is insane. Turn around—fuck, the slit! Rhys chose this, didn't he? Did he also give you that sexy black rose?"

I spin once, the velvet catching the streetlight. "He did. Says I look like a queen."

"You do. A terrifying, fuck-me-and-die queen. I love it." She pulls me into a hug so tight my ribs creak. I hug her back just as hard, breathing in her perfume and the faint smell of clove cigarettes. I compliment her outfit back at her, loving how she looks.

We start walking. The first stop is a stall selling handmade jewellery—tiny silver coffins, bat-wing earrings, rings shaped like screaming faces. Amara buys me a pair of earrings shaped like tiny guillotines and I buy her a choker with a lock that only opens with a tiny key. We laugh like teenagers. Next we hit the music stage near the harbour where a band is playing something slow and heavy with a violin that sounds like it's crying. People dance in slow circles, some with their eyes closed, some grinding against partners in full view of the sea. I dance too. For the first time I don't stand on the edge watching. I let the bass move through my bones and Amara spins me until my skirt flares and strangers cheer.

We grab fish and chips wrapped in paper and eat them on the pier, boots dangling over the water while the tide slaps the posts below. A man in a top hat and monocle offers us absinthe from a silver flask and we take tiny sips that burn like fire and taste like liquorice. My head feels light and warm. No one points. No one whispers "freak." A girl in a shredded wedding dress compliments my boots. A lad with skeleton face paint asks if he can take my photo for his zine and I say yes without panicking.

Later we duck into a pop-up shop selling corsets and I let Amara lace me into a black satin underbust that cinches my waist even tighter. I catch my reflection in the shop mirror and instead of freezing I tilt my chin, liking the way the silver streak in my hair catches the light. Amara whistles.

"You're glowing, babe. Like actually glowing."

We hit the abbey grounds where a fire dancer performs between the graves, flames licking the night sky. I stand close enough to feel the heat on my face and don't look away once. Amara links her arm through mine and we watch until the last spark dies.

By midnight my feet ache but I don't want to stop. The town feels alive and I'm part of it instead of watching from the outside. Rhys's car is parked further up the hill, engine off, but I know he's somewhere in the crowd, eyes on me. The thought makes my stomach flip in the best way.

Amara squeezes my hand. "Best weekend ever?"

I nod, the velvet dress heavy and perfect around my legs. "Yeah. For the first time, it actually feels like mine.”

"Right, we've gotta hit the River Esk," Amara says, her eyes gleaming with a manic sort of energy. She tells me there's a pop-up 'Occult Market' set up along the banks—stalls selling cursed relics, blood-red candles, and some weird ritualistic art that only comes out for the weekend. It sounds like exactly the kind of twisted shite we need.

I pause, glancing over my shoulder. I don't have to look far. There he is. Rhys is leaning against a stone wall a few yards back, half-hidden by the shadow of a gothic arch. He isn't smiling, but his eyes are locked on me, dark and heavy, tracking every curve of my body in this velvet dress. I feel that familiar, electric shiver slide down my spine. I give him a slow, deliberate wink, letting him know I know he's there, and then I turn back to Amara.

As we start walking toward the river, Amara’s mind drifts right back to that succubus.

"Do you reckon she's here tonight?" Amara asks, her voice dropping into this hungry, obsessive tone. "God, Ophelia, I can't stop thinking about her. I need her. I fucking need her to look at me with those gray eyes again."

She starts rambling, and it gets dark fast. She isn't just talking about a crush; she’s talking about total annihilation. "I’d let her do anything. I’d let her drain every single drop of life out of me if it meant she’d keep me, keep me as her little pet. I want her to break me, to pull me into that trance until I forget my own fucking name. I just want to be her plaything, you know? Just a hollow shell for her to use."

I look at her, slightly weirded out but mostly amused. I know a thing or two about being someone's obsession. "Blimey, you're properly gone, aren't you? A total goner." I chuckle, leaning in. "Maybe I could talk to Rhys about her. Get you the necklace. Maybe she'd let you be a regular client. Or maybe I'll just be bringing you to the VIP castle. I'm basically living in Rhys’s room half the time anyway, so why not?"

Amara’s face lights up, her expression almost feral. "Fuck, that would be mental. Every single night. Just her, me, and that suffocating kind of hunger. If I'm there every night, she'll have to start liking me. She'll have to."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Isn't that a bit of an overdose? You'll be a husk in a week."

Amara snorts, glancing down at me with a wicked smirk. She lets her eyes travel down my body, lingering on the way I'm walking. "You're one to talk, darling. Look at you. You're walking like your legs are made of jelly. You're still sore, aren't you? It’s written all over your face—you've been railed raw every single night this week. Rhys hasn't given you a moment's peace, has he?"

I feel the heat rush to my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and a sudden, sharp throb of arousal. "Shut it, you brat," I snap, though I'm grinning. "He's just... thorough."

"Thorough? Please. He's fucking obsessed," she teases, nudging me with her shoulder. "I can practically see the bruises through the velvet."

We reach the River Esk, and the atmosphere is thick with the smell of damp earth and incense. The banks are lined with black-canopied stalls selling everything from obsidian crystals to hand-drawn tarot cards. The crowd is denser here, a sea of black lace and leather. Amara drifts toward a stall selling strange, iridescent vials, her eyes searching the crowd for a glimpse of the succubus.

I stop for a second to look at some silver rings, but suddenly, the air shifts.

A scream—high-pitched, piercing, and filled with pure hatred—rips through the ambient noise. I barely have time to turn around before something slams into me with the force of a freight train.

It's her. The woman from before. The one who looked at me like she wanted to skin me alive. Her face is twisted, eyes wide and bloodshot, completely unhinged. She doesn't say a word; she just screams again and lunges, her fingers clawing at my throat as she shoves me backward.

I lose my footing on the slippery bank and we both go over the edge. The rose falls from my grip and into the water, too.

The water of the Esk is freezing—a shocking, icy plunge that knocks the breath right out of my lungs. I hit the bottom with a heavy thud, and before I can even gasp, she's on me. Her hands are like iron, clamping around my neck and shoulders, shoving my head under the surface.

I panic. Bubbles explode from my mouth as I struggle, my heavy velvet dress dragging me down like a lead weight, pulling me deeper into the murky, dark water. I can't breathe. My lungs are burning, screaming for air, and all I can see is her face—distorted and murderous—above me.