Page 36 of Porcelain Grave

I moan into the kiss, my fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer, wanting more. I want him to devour me.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp against my lips, his eyes dark with a psychotic, obsessive lust. "We better get to the bedroom, Ophelia," he growls, his voice raw and shaking. "Right fucking now. Because if we don't, I'm going to take you right here on the gravel for everyone to see.”

Chapter 10

The air in the darkest corner of the graveyard is thick with the smell of damp earth, rotting lilies, and the metallic tang of old blood. It’s fucking oppressive, but I love it. I feel a dark, electric thrill humming under my skin, matching the heartbeat of the man standing beside me.

We look like nightmares brought to life. I’m wearing a tight, black Victorian-inspired ensemble—corset cinching my tiny waist until I can barely breathe, a tattered lace skirt that swirls around my boots. My face is hidden behind a haunting white mask, but the eyes are the kicker; large, doll eyes over my eyelids, making me look like a dead doll brought back from the pits of hell. My weapon of choice, the heavy, blood-stained axe, rests comfortably across my shoulder.

Rhys is a vision of psychotic elegance. He’s dressed in a sharp, dark suit that fits his frame perfectly, but his face is the real masterpiece. He wears his mask that looks like a melting blue face, with streaks of cerulean "tears" running down one cheek, giving him the appearance of a weeping, distorted demon. In his hand, he grips his gun, the cold steel a promise of the violence to come.

This is our third time doing this with the masks and I am loving this.

I shift my weight, glancing around at the mist. "Why the fuck are we just standing here, Rhys? I thought we were hunting the bastard."

He doesn't even look at me, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, a predatory stillness in his posture. "Patience, love," he purrs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Our third target is a massive fan of the carnival. He’s coming to us. He can't resist the lure of the macabre."

I look past him. The graveyard is teeming with people, all of them laughing and screaming in delight as "corpses" crawl out of the dirt and stumble through the fog. It’s a fucking circus of the damned, and the tourists are eating it up, thinking the horror is just a show.

Then, I see him.

He’s about sixty, looking every bit the bloated, entitled prick. He’s got a young girl tucked under his arm, holding her so tight it looks uncomfortable. He’s grinning, his eyes glazed and pupils dilated—the man is clearly high on something, floating in a drug-induced haze of arrogance.

As he wanders deeper into the gloom, his eyes land on me. I’m standing at the edge of a crumbling tomb, the axe resting on my shoulder, my doll mask and cracked mouth, staring him down.

He stops, his gaze raking over my body with a disgusting, hungry intensity. "Well, fuck me," he wheezes, his voice raspy. "Doesn't this one have a sexy little body?"

He steps closer, ignoring the girl he's holding. "Are you part of the act, baby? The prize someone gets when they actually make it to the end of the graveyard?"

I don't say a word. I just tilt my head slowly, the movement mechanical and eerie. He takes it as a yes, a wide, sleazy smile spreading across his face. He roughly shoves the girl away from him.

"Get lost for a second," he snaps. The girl curses at him, looking humiliated and angry, but he just sneers. "Relax and behave, you little slag. You're still going back to the hotel with me."

He walks closer, his eyes locked onto my chest. "You don't look like a zombie," he mumbles, his voice dripping with lust. "And even if you were, I wouldn't give a toss. God, look at those tits. I can't fucking wait to squeeze them."

He’s almost within reach, standing by the last tombstone, when he suddenly freezes. He looks past me and sees Rhys.

"What's going on here?" the man asks, his confidence wavering. "Is she not the prize?"

Rhys steps forward, his melting blue face twisting into a mock-friendly expression. "Come closer, mate. Don't be shy," he says, his voice dripping with a psychotic sweetness. "You want her, right? Come and get her."

I remain silent, my ice-blue eyes watching the man through the slits of my mask. I can see the greed winning over the skepticism. He forgets the danger, his eyes snapping back to my breasts, his hands reaching out, trembling with anticipation to touch me.

The moment his fingers are inches away, Rhys moves with a blur of violent speed. He lunges, grabbing the man by the throat and slamming him face-first into the dirt with a sickening thud.

Around us, people scream and cheer, thinking it's a choreographed fight. They're fucking loving the "realism."

Rhys pins him down, his knee digging into the man's spine. He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper that is absolutely freezing. "Shhh," Rhys breathes into his ear, the sound more terrifying than a scream. "Don't make a sound, you pathetic piece of shit. You're not in a show anymore."

The man panics, struggling beneath him. "What the fuck is this?! I didn't sign up for this! I came here for gothic chicks, not to be part of some fucking street act! Let me go!"

Rhys lets out a low, guttural chuckle that sends shivers down my spine. "You're not an actor, you cunt. You're the sacrifice." Rhys’s voice turns cold, devoid of any humanity. "I'm going to dismantle you piece by piece. I'm going to take everything from you until there's nothing left but a screaming heap of meat."

The man gasps, "I don't know what you're talking about! Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the man who remembers what you did to Marguerite Hansburg," Rhys snarls.

The man freezes. He starts shaking, his voice cracking. "Marguerite? I—I have no idea who that is! You've got the wrong guy! Please, I don't know her!"