Page 48 of Porcelain Grave

Lucien just beams at him, completely unfazed. "I look forward to the critique! I've always wanted to be part of a masterpiece."

Rhys doesn't give him another second of his time. He keeps his eyes on the guards but begins to back away, pulling me firmly against his side, his hand gripping my waist like a vice.

"Bye-bye, Snowdrop!" Lucien calls out as we retreat toward the door. "It was truly a pleasure meeting you! Do come back when you're not being kidnapped!"

I don't answer. I don't even look back. I just cling to Rhys, letting the scent of gunpowder and his familiar, dark cologne wash over me as he leads me out of that gilded cage and back into his chaotic, violent world.

Chapter 14

The huge car door slams shut, cutting off the chaos of the villa, and the silence that follows is heavy and thick. Rhys doesn't even let me sit in my own seat; he hauls me straight onto his lap, his arms locking around me like iron bands. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of gunpowder and that dark, expensive cologne clinging to his skin.

He grabs my face, forcing my forehead against his. His breathing is ragged, his eyes searching mine with a frantic, predatory intensity.

"Did he touch you?" he growls, his voice a low vibration that rattles my bones. "Tell me now, Ophelia. Because if that cunt laid a fucking finger on you, I’m going back in there to peel the skin off his face, and you’re going straight home."

I know exactly what he means. He’s not talking about a handshake or a brush of the shoulder; he’s talking about the kind of touch that leaves a stain. I shake my head immediately, my hair brushing against his cheeks.

"No," I breathe, leaning into him. "He didn't do anything. He was... weirdly friendly, actually. Creepy as fuck. Not the good kind of creepy that I adore from you, but just... wrong."

The moment the words leave my lips, the car jerks forward. The driver and the bodyguard in the front hadn't even put the car in gear; they were waiting for the confirmation. They knew as well as I did that if the answer had been 'yes,' the villa would have become a fucking slaughterhouse.

Rhys lets out a sharp, jagged exhale, burying his face in the crook of my neck for a second. "I fucking hate that you were taken. I hate that someone thought they could just... pluck you away from me."

I shift in his lap, the black halo still resting heavy on my head. "Does it have a tracker?" I ask, my voice small. "The halo. Is that how you found me so fast?"

Rhys pulls back just enough to lock eyes with me. He nods slowly.

I stay still for a moment, my mind racing back to the cold room and the desperation I felt. "Then why the fuck did you tell me to hold it in my hands? To think of you and call for you? If you already knew where I was, why the theatrics?"

A dark, ghost of a smirk touches his lips. "It’s not a simple GPS, darling. The halo contains a hidden emergency transmitter. It is custom-built so it doesn't register as an ordinary tracking device and a hidden emergency beacon. So to anyone who checks it, it's just jewelry. When you hold it with both hands—when you grip it with that shaking, desperate need for me—it triggers a specific sensor. It doesn't just tell me where you are; it tells me you're calling for me."

I blink, staring at him. "So... it's not magic?"

"Technology," he corrects, his voice possessive. "My wealth, my planning, and my absolute refusal to let you slip through my fingers. I don't need spells to find what belongs to me."

I let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking my head. "And you still have the nerve to insist you're not some kind of guardian angel."

Rhys’s grip on my waist tightens, his fingers digging into my skin. His gaze turns obsidian, devoid of any light. "The black halo was for you, Ophelia. Not for me. You are my black angel." He leans in, his lips brushing against mine, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I, on the other hand... I am no fucking angel."

I sigh, the tension finally draining out of me as I melt against his chest. "I missed you so much, you psychotic bastard."

He caresses my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip with a tenderness that contradicts the violence still simmering in his eyes. "I missed you more than I can put into words. And because of that, I am going to make Lucien pay in ways that will make him beg for the mercy of a quick death."

I remember Lucien’s arrogant smirk, the way he looked at me like I was a prize. "He was so sure of himself," I mutter. "He actually believed you'd hand over everything he asked for—entire territories, businesses—just to get me back."

Rhys doesn't even hesitate. He pulls me closer, as if trying to merge our bodies into one. "He wasn't wrong. I would have burned every city I own to the ground and handed him the ashes if it meant you were safe in my arms. I would have given him the world on a silver platter just to ensure he never breathed your air again."

He pulls back, looking at me with a devotion that is as terrifying as it is beautiful. His voice becomes a haunting melody, a vow whispered into the dim light of the car.

I’m about to answer him, my heart still hammering against my ribs from the sheer intensity of his vow, when the sharp ring of his phone cuts through the heavy silence of the car.

Rhys stiffens slightly, pulling back just an inch to glance at the screen. He doesn't say a word for a few seconds, his expression shifting from that raw, obsessive devotion to something colder, more professional. He answers the call, but he barely speaks—just a few clipped words, a grunt of acknowledgement, and then he ends it.

The silence that follows is different; it's purposeful. He doesn't look at me immediately. Instead, he leans forward, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

"Change of plans. Head to the Manor," he tells the driver.

“Yes, Sir.”