Page 96 of Cracked Doll

"You love me?" I breathe out, the word feeling strange and heavy. "You're telling me this while admitting you're the reason some psycho is trying to murder me, and you're playing the 'I love you' card?"

A dark, predatory smirk curls his lips. "I don't play cards, love. I own the deck. Yes, I love you. Which is why I'm going to make sure she never breathes the same air as you again."

I swallow hard, a shiver of both fear and a sick, twisted kind of arousal sliding through me. The danger is intoxicating, but the thought of that woman's hands around my throat makes me want to vomit.

“So she’s a literal green-eyed monster?” I say remembering how those green eyes looked at me as she tried to kill me.

"Is she... is she dead?" I ask, my voice small. "Did you kill her when you shot her?"

Rhys pulls back slightly, his expression returning to that cold, murderous mask. "I hit her, but the current is strong. My men are at the river right now, scouring every inch of that muddy shite. I gave them very clear instructions."

He leans in one last time, his voice a lethal whisper. "They aren't coming back without her body."

I recoil slightly, the brutality of his words hitting me. He isn't just protecting me; he's erasing the threat with a clinical, violent efficiency. I should be horrified. I should be screaming for help. But as I look at him—this beautiful, psychotic monster who just dragged me out of a river and claimed he loves me—all I can feel is a terrifying sense of belonging.

"You're absolutely mental," I whisper, my voice shaking.

"And you're mine," he replies, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into my skin. "Always.”

Chapter 31

The morning light filters through the dusty windows of The Tin Heart, but outside, the street is a sea of black lace, velvet, and pale makeup. It’s Saturday of the goth weekend, and even in the daylight, the town looks like a funeral procession that’s forgotten where the cemetery is.

I’d begged Rhys to let me be alone today. Just for a few hours. I needed to feel the silence of my own shop, to breathe in the scent of old wood and paint without his suffocating presence looming over me. He’d agreed—or so I thought.

I gather the stack of mail from the slot, a thick pile of envelopes that’s been building up while my life has been descending into a psychotic fever dream. I carry them inside, the bell above the door giving a lonely little chime.

I head straight for the landline, my fingers itching to make a call I've been dreading for years. But as I reach the desk, a bright red slip of paper catches my eye in the mail I have. A final notice from the phone company. I rip it open, scanning the cold, formal text. Payment due by yesterday evening or service will be terminated.

"For fuck's sake," I mutter, leaning my forehead against the cool plastic of the phone. Of course. Just my luck. The line is dead. Cut off. I'm completely isolated in my own shop, a fitting metaphor for my entire miserable existence.

Then, I feel it. That sudden shift in the air, the prickle on the back of my neck that tells me I'm no longer alone. A familiar, heavy warmth settles behind me, the scent of expensive cologne and something metallic—something that smells like danger.

I don't even have to turn around to know it's him. I should've known better. There's no way in hell Rhys would leave me alone, not after that mental bitch Mary tried to drown me. Not while his men are still scouring the riverbanks, hunting for a corpse.

I turn slowly, looking up into those dark, obsessive eyes. He doesn't say a word; he just stands there, watching me with that predatory intensity that makes my knees feel like jelly.

"Can I use your phone?" I ask, my voice a bit raspy.

He doesn't ask why. He doesn't question who the hell I'm calling. He just reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone, his fingers brushing mine in a way that sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

"I want to call a number," I whisper, glancing back at the dead landline. "But I think my bill's gone unpaid. It's probably been cut by now."

"Go ahead," he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

I take the device, my hands shaking slightly. I stare at the screen for a second, momentarily lost, before I find the phone icon and press it. I remember the number from the newspaper clipping—the Hansburg residence. I dial the digits slowly, each press feeling like a step toward a cliff.

I pull the phone away from my ear for a second, looking down at the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I'm terrified. I'm fucking petrified.

The line clicks open.

"Hansburg residence, how may I direct your call?" The voice is posh, clipped, and entirely devoid of emotion. A professional butler or a high-end secretary.

I swallow hard, my throat feeling like it's full of glass. "Hello... yes... I'd like to speak to... to Mrs. Hansburg, please?" I don't even know her name. I just know she's the matriarch. I just know she's the woman who birthed the mother who died giving birth to me and my sisters.

"And who is calling, please?" the voice asks, suspicious and cold.

"Someone... someone who has information regarding Marguerite Hansburg," I stammer, my voice sounding small and pathetic.