Page 97 of Cracked Doll

"One moment. Please hold."

The line goes quiet. I freeze, my breath hitching. I start biting my fingers, a nervous habit I can't shake, my teeth sinking into the skin. I feel Rhys's presence behind me, a solid wall of muscle and obsession. Without thinking, I reach back and grip his hand, squeezing his fingers hard, anchoring myself to him while I wait to hear from the ghost of my family.

This is it. The source. The woman who knows where the bloodlines started and where they went wrong.

Suddenly, the voice returns. "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Hansburg is not at home at the moment. However, if you leave a message, I shall ensure she receives it."

The adrenaline crashes out of me, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted. "Thank you," I whisper, and I hang up.

I turn and place the phone back into Rhys's palm, looking up at him. The fear is still there, but it's being overtaken by something else—a desperate, aching need to feel something other than anxiety. I need to be grounded. I need to be owned.

Rhys holds out a single black rose, the petals so dark they look dipped in ink. My fingers brush his as I take it. I lift it to my nose and the scent is thick, almost metallic, like old blood and wilted velvet.

I reach up, grabbing the lapel of his coat and pulling him toward the stairs.

"I'm dragging you upstairs," I tell him, my voice growing firmer, more demanding. "To my bedroom."

He follows me without hesitation, his eyes locked on me, a dark smirk playing on his lips. I lead him up the creaky stairs and push open the door to the one room in this house that feels like a sanctuary and a prison all at once.

I stop by the bed—the old, heavy wooden frame with the faded linens. I look at him, my chest heaving.

"I want you to fuck me," I say, the words raw and honest. "Right here. In this bed."

I swallow, my eyes shimmering. "I started staying in this room after my sisters died. I moved out of the room we shared... that door has been locked for years. I've spent every night in this bed since then. Crying. Screaming. Having fucking nightmares that never end."

I step closer to him, pressing my body against his, feeling the hard line of his cock against my thigh.

"I want to overwrite it," I whisper, looking up at him with a mixture of desperation and lust. "I want you to fuck me in this bed. Right now. Make me forget everything but you.”

‎I don't just lead him into the room; I practically drag him, my nails digging into his skin, my breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. The moment the door slams shut behind us, the atmosphere shifts. The air in this room is thick with the ghosts of my childhood—the scent of old dust, dried tears, and the lingering echo of screams that only I can hear.

‎I spin around and shove him toward the bed. This fucking bed. The place where I spent years curling into a ball, shaking with a grief so profound it felt like my bones were turning to ash. I want that memory incinerated. I want the ghost of my sisters’ laughter and the memory of my father’s madness to be drowned out by the sound of Rhys fucking the soul right out of my body.

‎"Do it," I hiss, my voice cracking. "Right fucking now, Rhys. Destroy it. Destroy everything in this room that isn't you."

‎He doesn't need to be told twice. His eyes are void-black, swirling with a psychotic hunger that mirrors my own. He lunges, his hands slamming into my waist with enough force to knock the wind out of me, and he throws me back onto the mattress. The old wooden frame groans, a sharp, metallic shriek that sounds like a dying animal.

‎He doesn't waste time with tenderness. He rips my clothes away with a violent urgency, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip that echoes through the silent house. I’m exposed, shivering not from cold, but from a manic, electric anticipation. He looms over me, naked, a dark god of obsession, his presence filling every inch of the room.

‎"You want to overwrite the pain, Ophelia?" he growls, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that rattles my chest. "I'll give you something new to scream about. I'll carve my name into your fucking mind until there's no room left for anyone else."

‎He grabs my ankles and yanks me to the edge of the bed, my hips hitting the wood with a thud. He doesn't use any lubricant; he doesn't need to. I'm already soaking, my pussy aching and dripping for him. He lines himself up and drives into me in one brutal, unrestrained thrust.

‎I scream—a loud, guttural sound that rips through the ceiling—as his thick cock slams into my cervix. It’s not a gentle entry; it’s an invasion. It’s a conquest. The bed jolts violently, the headboard slamming against the wall with a rhythmic, deafening thwack.

‎

‎Bang. Bang. Bang.

‎

‎The bed creaks and moans under the weight of his aggression, the springs screaming in protest. He’s fucking me with a psychotic intensity, his thrusts so deep and hard that I feel my internal organs shifting. Every time he hits the back of my womb, my vision blurs, and I see flashes of white light

‎"Tell me!" he bellows, his hand winding into my hair, pulling my head back until my neck is strained, forcing me to look into his insane eyes. "Tell me who owns this fucking body! Who owns every inch of this beautiful, broken girl?"

‎"You!" I shriek, my fingers clawing at the sheets, ripping the fabric. "You do, you psychotic bastard! Fuck me! Break me! Make me yours!"

‎He grunts, a primal, animalistic sound, and flips me over with a violent jerk. I’m slammed face-down into the mattress, my ass hiked high in the air. He doesn't pause for a second. He enters me from behind, his cock sliding back into my drenched heat with a wet, slapping sound.‎