47. Damien
Damien
“She’s local.”
I slam the heel of my palm into the desk hard enough to send the laptop skidding across it. The screen flashes static before going black.
Reese stands in the corner of the room like a shadow that grew teeth. His jaw ticks. He doesn’t flinch.
“She went to her friends,” I hiss. “She had to.”
He nods once. “Astra.”
“Of course, Astra. Who else would welcome a traitor with open arms and herbal tea?”
Reese says nothing.
I pace the length of the room, eyes flicking from the security feed on the wall to the stack of burner phone data laid out like tarot cards across the table. The motel camera caught nothing. No exit. No movement. She just… vanished.
And now my skin itches like it’s trying to crawl away from my bones.
“She took a coat,” I mutter. “She took her time.”
“She took the gun,” Reese adds, watching me closely.
I snap my head toward him. “You let her keep it.”
“You told me to let her run. ”
I walk toward him slowly. Deliberately. “Did I say arm her?”
“You said protect her.”
“I said make it look real. ” I snarl, grabbing his collar. “You were supposed to let her shoot me. Bleed a little. Fall down. Let her believe she had a chance.”
“I did.”
“Not enough,” I growl. “She’s still out there breathing.”
Reese rips himself free, eyes cold. “And you’re still alive because of me.”
That stalls me. Just a second.
But enough.
I exhale, step back. Smooth my shirt like I didn’t just come inches from fracturing the only loyalty I have left.
“She’ll go quiet soon,” I say. “She’s bleeding. Bruised. Terrified. That kind of fear doesn’t disappear—it festers. It makes mistakes.”
Reese crosses his arms. “You want me to stake out Astra’s place?”
“No.” I tap my temple. “Too obvious. She’ll know we’re watching.”
“Then what?”
I look toward the window. The sun is setting behind the hills, casting long shadows over the lawn. I imagine her in one of them—watching, listening, waiting for a sign.
“She’ll want closure,” I whisper. “That’s what girls like her always want.”
“Closure?”
“She’ll come back. To someone . To confess. To burn a bridge just to make it feel like she had control.”
I turn back to him, eyes wild now. Gleaming.
“When she does—track her. Let her think she’s safe. Then we take her. Quietly. Completely. No blood.”
“And then?”
I smile.
A wide, sharp, unholy thing.
“Then I show her what betrayal really costs.”
* * *
She’s near.
I feel her.
Like a phantom limb—still twitching even after it’s been severed.
She didn’t go far. I knew she wouldn’t. Harmony was always sentimental beneath the bruises. She wants to be seen. Wants someone to recognize her scars and whisper, “ You’re still good.”
But she’s not.
She’s mine.
And I will burn every city block until she remembers that.
The desk in front of me is littered with maps—routes, tunnels, abandoned properties I used to own. A cigarette dangles between my fingers, ash spilling across a handwritten list of names. Girls who might still be loyal. Girls who might still be useful.
Harmony’s name isn’t on it.
She scratched her name out the second she aimed that gun at me. The bullet didn’t kill me, but her audacity nearly did.
Reese’s “save” was messy. Too convincing .
He’s lying to me.
I know it.
He’s always been too quiet where she’s concerned. Too slow to strike. Too soft .
I slam my fist onto the desk, sending papers flying.
“She’s fucking with me ,” I snarl. “Leaving breadcrumbs. Making a goddamn game of it.”
I grab the burner, hit speed dial.
Re ese answers on the second ring, cool and clipped. “Still tracking.”
“Where?”
“A bookstore off Ninth. She’s staying local. But she hasn’t contacted anyone.”
“She will.”
“I’ll grab her tonight.”
“No,” I snap. “ I will.”
I toss the phone onto the bed, pacing. The walls are too close. The air too stale. I can smell bleach and blood and her perfume all at once. My temple pulses. My hands twitch.
She was supposed to be cleansed.
I branded her.
I named her.
I ruined her.
And now?
She walks through my city like it’s hers.
Like she wasn’t reborn in my fire.
I look toward the mirror on the opposite wall.
But the reflection that stares back isn’t mine anymore.
It’s a thing made of wire and smoke, eyes black with betrayal.
“I’ll make her clean again,” I whisper to it. “Even if I have to carve the filth out with my bare hands.”
And when I do—when I put my hands around her throat and see that flicker of fear bloom like a flower—
I’ll know I’ve won.