12. Damien
Damien
I don’t wipe the blood from my mouth.
I let it drip. I let it stain. I let it prove that he’s still weak enough to swing, but not strong enough to finish. He’d never fucking kill me. Pussy.
I open the door of the car.
“Get in the passenger seat,” I command. Harmony obeys.
I grin as I slide into the suburban, calm as ever.
Harmony’s sitting there stiff as a corpse, hands folded in her lap, eyes forward like a fucking trained dog. Good. She knows better than to speak when I’m vibrating like this.
I only know that because she flinches when I move, speak, or look at her a certain way.
“Your friend’s little protector has a temper,” I say casually, running my tongue over the busted corner of my lip. “Did you see him shaking? Fucking adorable.”
She doesn’t answer.
I don’t need her to.
I put the car in drive, the leather creaking under my grip. My knuckles ache. My heart is still calm. It always is after a little chaos. A litt le truth.
I blast the song, “Genocidal Humanoidz” by System of a Down.
“You know what I love the most?” I murmur, more to myself than her. “Watching men destroy themselves. The ones who think they’re composed—controlled. It only takes one thread. One name. And boom. They blow up.”
Destiny.
I don’t say it aloud. I don’t need to. It’s still echoing in his house. Still clawing through his chest.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. “He didn’t even ask for proof. That’s the best part. He just believed me. You know why?”
I glance at Harmony. She meets my eyes for a split second. That’s brave. Stupid, but brave.
“Because he knows what I’m capable of,” I whisper.
She looks away again. Smart girl.
The air between us feels like it might split open and bleed. I can’t stop smiling.
Everything’s in motion now. Destiny was always the key. Not just her name—what she meant to him. You take the softest piece of a man and you twist it until he can’t breathe. Then you let go.
That’s how you break an empire.
I pull into a gas station. Not because we need fuel—because I want to.
“Harmony,” I say, and she stiffens.
“Go inside. Get me a water.”
She hesitates. “What kind?”
“Surprise me,” I say with a grin.
She gets out fast, almost running. She thinks it’s about the water. It’s not.
I unlock my phone and open a secure folder. I scroll through the videos—old surveillance, storage room clips, auction footage—until I find t he one I’m looking for.
Destiny.
Hair curled. Makeup running. Eyes swollen.
She’s in a white dress, seated in a chair, back arched from the tension in her bound arms. She looks like she wants to die. Fucking beautiful.
She never did go for very much. Pretty, yes. But forgettable. The sweet ones always are.
I watch the video in silence. Not because I care.
Because I want to remember exactly what I’m about to be “killed” for. I laugh to myself at the thought. I’ll never fucking die.
Harmony gets back in the car and hands me a bottle of water. It’s lukewarm. Generic brand. Plastic already bending from the heat of her hands.
“You didn’t run,” I say as I twist the cap open.
She doesn’t answer.
I sip the water and look out the windshield at nothing in particular.
“Maybe I’ll let you see him break,” I whisper. “Maybe I’ll let you hear him scream when he finds out what I did to her. Maybe then you’ll finally understand why I am the way I am.”
I chuckle and start the car.
Because that was just step one.
* * *
Sunday, 8:00 P.M.
They’re all here.
The cloaks. The fire. The silence.
I can feel it before I see it—the fear. It lingers in the trees, curling between the strength of the wind, pressing against the napes of every neck in this fucking clearing.
My clearing.
The firewood crackles like bones under pressure. The flames kiss the base of the stone altar, licking higher, hungrier, like they know what’s coming. And oh, it’s coming.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The scent of gasoline, smoke, and sweat fills my lungs. It’s divine. Cleansing.
I open my eyes to the crowd. They circle like shadows. Black cloaks, hoods up, faces bowed.
My followers. My sheep. My wolves in disguise. They don’t speak. They know better. Only I speak here. Only I decide who lives and who burns.
I raise my hand, and two of them drag her out.
She’s barely conscious—drugged just enough to stay upright, but not enough to spare her from the pain.
I’m not merciful. I’m not a fucking saint.
I’m Midas.
They throw her onto the slab. Her body hits it with a dull thud . She lets out a weak groan. Blonde hair, broken nails, a bruised mouth. Pretty, in a fragile, worthless way. Her wrists are bound with barbed wire—a touch of my personal flair. I like when they bleed while they pray.
One of the cloaked followers hands me the torch. The flames scream as if they were a living thing. I raise it into the black sky.
She turns her head and meets my eyes. Her lips tremble. She doesn’t beg. I respect that. But that won’t save her. Nothing will.
“This soul has been weighed,” I say, my voice carrying over the crackling flames.
“This soul has been found unworthy.”
The crowd responds in unison:
“Cleanse her.”
I light the straw beneath the slab.
It catches instantly, roaring upward like Hell itself opened its mouth.
She screams.
Oh, fuck. That scream. It’s music. It’s agony turned into art.
Her legs kick. Her back arches.
The flames crawl up her thighs, melting her skin like wax.
Her blonde hair sizzles, curling into blackened threads that stick to her face.
I watch her eyes melt, her mouth opening wider and wider as her voice turns to a guttural gargle.
She tries to roll off.
She won’t.
The wire tears into her wrists with every movement, shredding her open like meat through a grinder.
She’s still alive when the fire reaches her chest.
That’s what I like about a slow burn. It teaches them something.
Teaches me something.
I take a breath and feel it—the moment her soul rips free. You can feel it if you know what to look for. The tension in the air breaks. The flames shift.
Silence.
Only fire remains. And ash. I turn to my people. No one moves.
They are mine. They are faithful. They are afraid.
Good.
I nod once. “Cleansing complete.”
They disperse like shadows at dawn.
I walk to the altar. Her body is just a shape now. A pile of charred ruin. Her jaw is fused shut. Her ribs cracked open like burnt sticks.
Still, I lean down and whisper, “You never mattered. But now? Now you’re useful.”
I spit on what’s left of her and turn away.
I have more important things to do than stand around and mourn the de ad. She wasn’t worth mourning, anyway. No one is.