25. Harmony
Harmony
The quiet in the main house is unnatural.
Not peaceful. Not still.
Just wrong.
Like the air’s been emptied of oxygen and replaced with the weight of something waiting. Something watching.
I’m trying to move normally. Trying to act like I belong here. Like I’m just another obedient little puppet in Damien’s world. But my hands betray me. They shake when I reach for a glass. My breath is too shallow. My heart, too loud.
I turn on the faucet to drown out the sound of my thoughts.
That’s when I feel it.
The pressure.
Like gravity doubled behind me.
I know it’s him before he speaks.
“Harmony.”
I close my eyes.
The glass slips in my hand but doesn’t fall. I steady it. Steady myself.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, his voice slow and unhurried. “Thinki ng dangerous thoughts?”
My throat tightens. “No.”
He steps closer. I feel the heat of him before I see how close he is to me. His hand comes down gently on the counter beside mine—close enough that I smell the smoke on his skin. His voice is low, coaxing.
“You used to tell me everything.”
I swallow. “Things are different now.”
“Are they?” He tilts his head. “Or are you just forgetting who you belong to?”
He brushes my hair away from my face. The contact is as light as a feather. Too soft. It makes my skin crawl more than if he’d hit me.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He freezes.
Then he smiles.
The slow, cruel smile that always comes before the storm.
“Don’t?” he echoes, as if tasting the word. “You used to beg me to touch you.”
“That was before I knew what you really were.”
His hand moves to my jaw. He holds it—not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to remind me I’m breakable.
“What I am hasn’t changed,” he says. “You have.”
I try to pull back. He doesn’t let me.
“You forgot your place, Harmony.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “I just… I remembered who I was before you.”
His grip tightens.
“There is no before me. Just like there is no after me.”
My back hits the wall with a soft thud. The glass drops to the floor and shatters at our feet, but neither of us looks.
He’s too close.
I can’t breathe.
“You were lost when I found you,” he murmurs. “Rotting in that fuckin g apartment. Wishing for someone to come save you.”
His lips brush my ear.
“I saved you.”
Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Not yet.
“You built me into this,” I whisper. “Piece by piece.”
He laughs softly. “Exactly.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes.
“You’re my greatest creation. And now you think you can run off with Reese?”
I blink, stunned.
He knows.
“I—I didn’t…”
“You did .” His voice sharpens. “You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? The way you hesitate when I touch you?”
He reaches between us, sliding a hand beneath my shirt.
I jerk away.
He slams me back against the wall.
“I made you,” he snarls. “And I can unmake you.”
The tears come now, hot and silent.
He sees them.
And he smiles .
“That’s better,” he breathes. “You look so pretty when you cry.”
His hand trails down my side, fingers pressing bruises into my ribs. My stomach turns.
“Please,” I whisper.
He leans in, lips brushing mine.
“You want to know why I’m keeping you?” he murmurs. “Why I didn’t sell you yet?”
I don’t answer.
He steps back, slow and deliberate.
“I am selli ng you.”
His words hit like ice water.
“What?”
“You’re in the auction,” he says flatly. “You’ll be collared and chained just like the rest. And you’ll smile when they touch you. Because that’s what you’re trained to do.”
“No,” I whisper, but the word has no weight. No sound.
“Yes,” he corrects, cruelly calm. “And I’ll sell Brooke too. And I won’t pick her buyer. I’ll let the highest bidder win. The sickest one. I don’t need anyone.”
I shake my head. “You’re lying.”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me forward, forcing my hand against his chest.
“Does it feel like I’m lying?”
I try to pull away. He grips tighter.
“You think you’re in love with Reese?” he grunts. “You think he’ll come for you? That he’ll save you?”
His face is inches from mine now.
“Let him try.”
He kisses me.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
I don’t kiss back. I stand frozen, tears slipping down my cheeks while his hands roam where they don’t belong.
It’s not sex.
It’s not even power.
It’s ownership.
When he finally pulls away, I’m shaking.
He fixes my shirt. Brushes my hair back into place like I’m one of his dolls again. His tone shifts, honeyed and deceptive.
“I’m giving you purpose, Harmony. A stage. An audience. A future.”
“You’re giving me a coffin,” I breathe.
He smiles.
Then turns and walks away like nothing ever happened.
The door closes behind him.
And I sink to the floor, sobbing into the silence.
Because I know—
It won’t be the last time.
And next time?
He won’t leave me breathing.
* * *
He said it like a promise.
Like he was doing me a favor.
“You’ll be sold with the next lot.”
And then he walked out. Just gone. Like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter. I know I don’t matter. Not how he just gripped my body, kissed me against my will, and then dangled my freedom over my head.
I haven’t moved since the door locked. Not really. Not until now. Not until the rage finally boils over and cracks through the numbness.
My bare feet pace across cold tile. One wall to the next. Back again. I don’t count the steps. I don’t need to. The room isn’t big enough for numbers to matter.
He’s going to sell me.
Like furniture.
Like flesh.
Like I was never anything but an asset to him.
I press my palms into my eyes until stars explode behind my lids. Until the pressure makes me feel real again. I want to scream. I want to dig my nails into my own neck and tear something loose. I want to do something—
No .
I want to kill him.
The thought slithers in slowly. Not wild or frantic or dramatic.
Quiet.
Clean.
Like clarity after a storm.
I spin, pacing faster now. Chest tight. Breaths sharp. The walls feel closer than they were a minute ago. The corners are watching. Judging. Whispering in tongues, I almost remember.
Kill him.
The words echo with every step.
I won’t stab him. That’s too messy. He likes messy. He’d probably laugh through it.
I want him quiet.
I want him weak .
Poison.
I could hide it in his coffee. His water. That overpriced scotch he only drinks when he’s high on power and thinks no one’s watching. I’d watch him sip it slowly—like he always does. I’d watch the smug peel off his face the second he realizes something’s wrong.
And I wouldn’t blink.
Or maybe…
A gun.
Quick. Brutal. Loud.
One shot through the mouth. Or the temple. Or his fucking heart, if he even has one. I’d press the barrel between his eyes and wait for him to beg.
He wouldn’t.
And I wouldn’t give a fuck.
The thought makes my skin crawl in the best way. Like power under my nails. Like blood under my tongue.
I sink to the floor and stare at the door. My wrists still sting from earlier—he gripped me too hard, or maybe I bruise easily. I don’t even know anymore.
But I know this:
I’m done waiting for someone to save me.
I’m done pretending I don’t know what I am.
I’ve survived too much to be broken now.
And if he thinks he’s going to sell me like a fucking product, he’s going to find out exactly what happens when a girl with nothing left decides she’s not going quietly.
He made a mistake.
He left me breathing.
And breathing?
Means planning.
Because the next time he opens that door…
I might be smiling.
But he’ll never see it coming.