PART ONE: THE SEVENTH LIFE
NEW YORK CITY, 2030
Rhys Castor couldn't sleep.
Tomorrow was supposed to be the happiest day of his life—marrying Kai Morrison, his college sweetheart, the man who'd stuck with him through therapy and panic attacks and his "imaginary friend" issues.
But tonight, something felt wrong.
Rhys sat up in his king-sized bed, looking around his penthouse.
Everything was still. Too still. The kind of silence that feels like it's listening.
"Stop being paranoid," he muttered to himself. "It's just pre-wedding jitters."
But he'd felt him around more lately. Pryce. The ghost—hallucination—whatever he was—that Rhys had seen since he was five years old. The beautiful, terrifying man in old-fashioned clothes who watched him from shadows, who whispered things in the dark.
Who'd been getting more solid, more real, the closer the wedding got.
Rhys swung his legs out of bed. 2:47 AM. Kai was sleeping in the guest room—they'd decided to do the traditional "not seeing each other before the wedding" thing. Kai thought it was romantic.
Rhys just wanted to check that he was okay.
Because you're being crazy, he told himself, padding barefoot down the hallway. Kai is fine. Nothing is wrong.
The guest room door was open.
That was the first sign.
Rhys's heart started to hammer. "Kai?"
No answer.
The lights were off, but—wait. They were flickering. On-off, on-off, like something was draining the power.
"Kai, this isn't funny—"
Rhys reached for the light switch.
His hand came away wet.
Red.
Blood.
"No." The word came out strangled.
"No, no, no—"
He turned on the lights.
And screamed.
Kai's body was suspended against the far wall, arms spread like a crucifixion, held there by—nothing. No ropes. No hooks. Just suspended in midair by invisible force.
His throat had been cut, ear to ear, blood still dripping in a steady stream down his chest, soaking his white t-shirt, pooling on the floor.
And on the wall, written in Kai's blood, still wet and dripping:
"MINE"
"Oh God," Rhys choked. "Oh God, Kai—KAI—"
He lunged forward, but something slammed him back against the doorframe. Hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
And then he was there.
Pryce.
Solid. Real. Standing right in front of Rhys, dressed in that ridiculous antique clothing—brocade coat, riding boots, like he'd stepped out of a historical drama.
Except he was splattered with blood.
Kai's blood.
"Hello, beloved," Pryce said softly.
His voice was beautiful—smooth, cultured, with an accent Rhys couldn't place. British? Old-fashioned British?
"You—" Rhys couldn't breathe. "You killed him. You killed him—"
"He was going to take you from me." Pryce tilted his head, almost curious. "Did you really think I'd allow that?"
"You're not real!" Rhys was shouting now, hysterical. "You're in my head, you're not real, you can't be real—"
"I'm the only real thing in your life, Rhys." Pryce stepped closer, and Rhys could smell him—old wood, candle wax, something floral and rotten underneath. "Everyone else is temporary. But you and I? We're eternal."
"Get away from me!" Rhys tried to run, but his legs wouldn't move. Paralyzed.
Pryce reached out, cupping Rhys's face with one blood-slick hand. His touch was cold. So cold.
"Seven lives," Pryce whispered, leaning in close. "This is your seventh life, my love. And this time, I'm going to make sure you understand."
"Understand what?" Rhys was crying now, tears streaming down his face.
Pryce smiled—beautiful and terrible.
"That you belong to me. That you've always belonged to me. And that anyone who tries to take you from me..."
He glanced back at Kai's body.
"...ends up just like that."
Then he vanished.
The invisible force holding Rhys released, and he collapsed to the floor, sobbing, surrounded by the smell of blood and death and that strange floral-rot scent that clung to Pryce like a signature.
Behind him, Kai's body finally fell from the wall with a wet, heavy thud.
Rhys screamed until the neighbors called the police.
To be continued..
"AUTHORS NOTE"
"This story explores the difference between obsessive possession and genuine love. It deals with heavy themes including non-consent, murder, and trauma. But it's ultimately about breaking toxic cycles, choosing yourself, and finding healing.
Pryce is not romanticized. His actions have real consequences. This is not a story where love conquers all—it's a story where accountability, growth, and self-love conquer darkness.
If you're looking for a dark paranormal romance that doesn't shy away from the ugliness of obsession while still delivering hope and a healthy romance... welcome to The Ghost King's Obsession.
Prepare to have your heart broken and healed in equal measure."