Page 24 of Porcelain Grave

There’s another man in the room. He’s a lean, focused sort of bloke with ink sleeves covering every inch of his arms, from his wrists up to his shoulders. He’s wearing black nitrile gloves, his expression stone-cold as he grips a tattoo gun that’s buzzing with a steady, hypnotic drone.

I blink, stepping closer. "What the fuck is going on?"

Rhys glances at me, his eyes darkening with that familiar, predatory hunger. "Hello, love. How was your bath?"

I ignore the question, my gaze dropping to his chest. The tattoo artist is positioned right over his heart. "Are you getting your first tattoo, Rhys? Since when do you do ink?"

Rhys lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, his voice vibrating in the quiet room. "I don't care for art, Ophelia. The only mark on my body that really matters is your influence."

He looks at me, his expression turning possessive, almost manic. "I told you I wouldn't let those scratches fade. I refuse to let the memory of you clawing into me vanish."

I look down. There they are—three distinct, jagged lines from my nails, healed into pale scars but still visible. The artist is working right over them. I watch, mesmerized, as the needle plunges into Rhys's skin with rhythmic precision. The artist is using a fine liner, tracing the exact path of my scratches, filling them in with a deep, saturated black that makes the scars pop. He’s not just tattooing a design; he’s immortalizing my violence. He adds subtle shading around the edges, giving the marks a raw, three-dimensional look, as if the skin is still perpetually torn.

Rhys doesn't even flinch. He just watches me, his gaze locked on mine, enjoying the fact that I'm witnessing this permanent claim.

Once the last line is perfected, the artist wipes the excess ink away with a paper towel, revealing the stark, brutal beauty of the marks. He packs his gear in silence, gives a curt nod, and excuses himself, slipping out of the room.

The silence that follows is heavy. Rhys reaches out, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward him. He guides my fingers to his chest, pressing my fingertips directly onto the fresh, stinging ink.

"Do you like it, my little cracked doll?" he whispers, his voice a dangerous caress.

I trace the lines, feeling the slight swelling of the skin, the heat radiating from the wound. It feels like a brand. "It looks fucking mental," I breathe, a thrill running down my spine. "I love it. Now you're marked for life."

"I was marked the moment I saw you," he replies, his grip on my hand tightening. "Every inch of me belongs to your madness."

I pull back slightly, a mischievous glint in my eyes. I lean over him, teasingly. "So, what now? To keep things fair, do I get your handprint tattooed on my arse?"

The shift in the room is instantaneous. Rhys’s hand shoots out, grabbing my waist with bruising force and yanking me down onto him. I land with a gasp, my chest heaving against his. His eyes are wide, flashing with a psychotic, possessive intensity that makes my toes curl.

"Never," he snarls, his voice dropping an octave. "I will never, ever let another man—not even a fucking artist—touch your arse. That skin is mine. Only mine to touch, to mark, and to ruin."

I giggle, feeling the power I have over him, the way I can trigger his instability with a single sentence. "Oh, really? What if I just sneak off and get it when you aren't around? You'll have to work at some point, won't you, Rhysy?"

His expression darkens, a vein pulsing in his neck. He doesn't take that lightly. He rolls me over in one fluid motion, pinning me beneath him, his weight crushing me into the mattress.

"Work?" he hisses, his face inches from mine. "My only fucking job is ensuring you stay exactly where I want you. If you ever even thought about letting another man lay a finger on you for a 'mark,' I'd burn the entire studio to the ground with him locked inside. Do you understand me, you brat?"

I smirk, my breath hitching. "You're such a psycho."

"And you love it," he growls.

He crashes his lips onto mine, the kiss tasting of desperation and dominance. His hands slide down, gripping my cheeks with a possessive intensity, kneading the flesh of my ass like he's trying to mold me to his will. Suddenly, he brings his palm down in a sharp, loud crack—a stinging spank that echoes through the room.

I let out a sharp, loud gasp, my back arching off the bed, the sting sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.

"Mine," he mutters against my lips, his hand landing again, harder this time. "Every fucking inch.”

The darkness doesn't just surround me; it swallows me. One moment I’m drifting in the void of sleep, and the next, the air is thick with the smell of mildew, old sweat, and a metallic tang that makes my stomach churn.

I’m not in my bed. I’m on that fucking mattress. The one from the tapes.

The lighting is flickering, a sickly yellow hue that casts long, distorted shadows against the damp walls. I try to move, but my limbs are lead. I’m pinned, my wrists bound tight with coarse rope that bites into my skin, raw and burning. I look down and I see my mother’s dress—that beautiful, ruined Victorian lace—clinging to my own body.

Then I hear them. The laughter. It’s a guttural, animalistic sound that echoes through the small room.

The door creaks open, and they file in. The men. The monsters my father brought in to break her. They aren't just ghosts; they are vivid, breathing nightmares. I see the hunger in their eyes, the cruel smirks, the way they look at me not as a human being, but as a piece of meat to be torn apart.

No. Please, no. Not me. I’m not her. I’m not here.