13. Harmony
Harmony
The fire’s still burning.
I can smell her. Not her perfume. Not her shampoo. Just… her. Her skin. Her hair. The blood. The fear.
At one point, I thought I heard her scream my name. That’s the part I can’t stop hearing. Not “please.” Not “help me.” Just my name. As if she thought I’d save her.
But I was the one who chose her.
The flames cast a warm glow on the trees, but I’m freezing. My teeth chatter, but I’m not shivering. I don’t even think I’m really here. Damien’s voice rings in my ears, “Pick one. Or I’ll pick two.”
And I believed him.
Because he would.
There were three of them lined up—barefoot, trembling, blindfolded. I couldn’t even see their faces. Didn’t ask their names. I just pointed to the one in the middle because she wasn’t crying.
I thought maybe it would hurt less that way.
For me, not her.
After it was over, everyone dispersed like shadows—back into the dark, back into the trees. Not a single word. No screams. No prayers.
Just me, still standing there, watching her body turn to ash.
Damien brushed his lips against my temple before he left, whispering, “You did good, my queen.”
And I wanted to vomit.
I still do.
I stumble into the bathroom. I don’t even remember getting back to the house. My fingers shake as I turn on the faucet. I scrub my hands, even though I never touched her.
Blood gets under your skin anyway. I scrub until the skin turns raw, then I stare at myself in the mirror. My face is blank. But my eyes? They look like hers.
I can’t remember the last time I looked at myself and saw someone human.
Damien says I’m his queen.
But I think I’m just another girl he’s set on fire—I’m just still breathing.
I drop to the bathroom floor and pull my knees to my chest.
The tile is cold, grounding. I need it. I need something.
Because the part that scares me the most?
I didn’t cry.
Not when I chose her.
Not when she screamed.
Not even now.
I’m afraid I’m becoming like…him.
* * *
Sunday, 11:48 P.M.
He doesn’t slam the door when he walks in this time.
That’s how I know it’s bad.
Damien only e nters quietly when he wants to make me bleed slowly.
I’m standing in the middle of the living room, arms folded over my stomach like they might hold something together. But there’s nothing left in me to hold. Just this sinking, sick weight that gets heavier every second Brooke stays gone.
When we got home from Dante’s, he told me nothing. Other than—I better find Brooke… Or else… I don’t want to find out what the “or else” is.
He doesn’t look angry.
That’s worse.
He looks calm. Composed. Clean.
His boots echo softly on the hardwood as he walks toward me. I don’t speak. I’ve learned better than that.
“Where is she?” he asks, voice silk-wrapped steel.
“I—I don’t know.”
“She’s gone, Harmony.”
Two words.
Like a verdict.
He steps closer, and I flinch before I can stop myself. He smiles at that.
“You had one job. One. Project girl, remember? Clean her up. Make her pretty. Make her valuable. And now?” He exhales through his nose, gaze narrowing. “She’s out there fucking up my inventory.”
“I can find her,” I whisper.
“You better.”
His eyes don’t hold rage. They hold certainty.
“You have twenty-four hours.”
I blink. “What?”
He steps so close I can feel his breath against my cheek.
“Twenty-four hours. Find her. Bring her back.”
His fingers trail down my arm—soft, like a lover. They don’t match his wo rds.
“Because if you don’t… if I come home tomorrow and that little stray is still missing…”
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“I’ll sell you instead.”
The words slither into me like poison. My knees almost buckle.
He wouldn’t? But he would. You are property to him.
He steps back and adjusts his cuffs, as if he just told me we were out of fucking milk.
“You always wanted to be useful, right?” he says, smirking. “Now’s your chance.”
He turns and walks out the front door without another word.
And I stand there.
Alone.
Like a broken timer just started ticking under my skin.
How the fuck am I going to find her?
One thing is for certain… I can’t do it by myself. I need help.
* * *
Monday, 10:02 a.m.
I hear the clock before I see it.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It sounds louder today, like it’s laughing at me. I haven’t slept. Not really. I laid there with my eyes open, counting ceiling cracks and trying not to count the hours left instead.
He never said when he’d return.
He never fucking does.
Just, “Find her. Or I’ll sell you instead.”
My bare feet slap softly against the cold wood floors as I leave the hallway and step into the living room. The sun filters through the tall window s, as if trying to make this place look warm and safe.
It’s not.
Not with that clock ticking. Not with Damien’s voice still echoing inside my skull. Not with Reese sitting there, sprawled across the couch like he doesn’t give a single fuck about anything.
He looks up the second I enter.
His eyes sweep over me like a paintbrush, in slow and deliberate strokes.
No smile. Just a gaze that lingers too long on my throat.
“I need your help,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
He arches a brow.
That look of his—the one that makes my skin tighten in all the wrong ways—settles into place.
“With what?” he asks, even though he knows.
He just wants me to say it.
“Brooke,” I breathe. “She’s missing. I need to find her. Before he gets back.”
He shifts on the couch, spreading his legs a little wider like this is just some casual conversation. Like the stakes aren’t my body on a fucking auction block.
“Missing?”
I nod.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I thought she was your little project. Did you fuck it up?”
I flinch.
That earns me a smirk.
“She slipped out sometime yesterday,” I say quickly, heat crawling up my neck. “I’ve looked everywhere. But maybe you’ve seen something? Heard something?”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me like I’m something under glass. Like he’s peeling back layers in his mind, wondering how close to the edge I really am.
“I’ll owe you,” I say before I can stop myself.
His gaze sharpens.
And now we’re in dangerous territory.
“Owe me?”
His voice dips, low and quiet.
He stands. Walks toward me with the same pace Damien uses when he’s deciding whether to kill or kiss. Only Reese… he’s more careful. More calculated.
He stops in front of me, his eyes locked on mine.
“I’m not in the habit of helping girls who belong to someone else.”
I hate the way my breath stutters.
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
That earns me a laugh.
A real one. Deep and mocking.
He leans in, lips close to my ear.
“But you will, if you don’t find her.”
The room feels smaller. My skin feels tighter.
He pulls back just enough to see my face, then lifts a single finger and traces a slow line down my arm.
“I might be able to help,” he says.
Pause.
“But I don’t do shit for free.”
I force myself to hold his stare.
“What do you want?”
His eyes drag down my body. Slow. Starving.
Then flick back to mine.
“I haven’t decided yet.”