26. Harmony, Buried in Blood (Twisted Trilogy #3)

26. Harmony

Harmony

The cloak is heavier than it used to be.

It drapes over my shoulders like mourning, the fabric cold and damp from the stale air. Black, hooded, floor-length. It swallows my body, and I let it. Maybe if it devours me whole, I won’t have to be here at all.

I fasten the gold clasp at my throat with numb fingers. My hands are shaking. They always shake on ritual nights.

The fire hasn’t even been lit yet, but I can already smell the smoke. It clings to everything in this place. The robes. The stone walls. My hair.

I braid it back with trembling fingers, tighter than I need to, like maybe the tension will keep my thoughts from splintering.

It doesn’t.

The air is still. It feels wrong.

Somewhere outside, I hear the scrape of wood—probably the altar being dragged into position, even though it’s probably half a mile away. They always move it last. Always let it scrape loud enough that every girl in every locked room knows what’s coming. That’s the worst part.

I am a girl locked in a room now. He moved me into the prison tonight, so that I would be close and ready.

This is the first sacrifice at The Golden Hollows. A chilling night in history.

Tonight, it’s someone new.

Someone young.

Someone Damien chose.

Because he likes the new ones. Says it keeps the fear fresh.

I blink back the sting behind my eyes and kneel in front of the small trunk beneath my bed. Inside: Gloves. A gold-trimmed mask. A linen cloth for wiping blood from the blade—though we don’t use blades anymore. That was before the fire.

Now we burn them alive.

I clutch the mask in my palm for a second too long. It’s hard. Cold. Shaped like a saint, but empty behind the eyes.

Like me.

The masks are his newest addition to our uniforms. He wants to make sure we know we are all equals. No one means anything.

I stand.

The cloak shifts as I move, whispering across the floor like something dead dragging behind me.

Brooke’s room is quiet across the hall. She’s probably already dressed. Already waiting.

She doesn’t cry anymore. That’s almost worse.

I reach for the chalk on my desk and write one word on the underside of the dresser.

Run.

No one will ever see it. But it makes me feel… less empty. Less like I’m part of this.

I tie the mask to my hip.

I don’t put it on yet.

Th at part comes last—right before we surround the altar.

Right before the screaming starts.

My boots echo through the corridor.

It’s time.

Not for redemption.

Not for forgiveness.

But for fire.

And I hate myself for walking toward it.

* * *

The fire begins.

The night air tastes of smoke and iron.

He is playing music tonight. “Blood and Tears” by Danzig echoes.

We stand in a circle around the altar, cloaked in black, faceless beneath our masks. The hoods cast shadows like dripping oil. The grass is wet from last night’s storm, but the flames still burn high, towering, hissing—alive.

They always light the outer ring first.

Containment fire, Damien calls it. A purifying perimeter. A warning.

Don’t run.

Don’t scream.

Die still.

The girl on the altar doesn’t stop screaming.

She’s maybe nineteen. Maybe younger. Her wrists are bound with barbed wire—tight enough to draw blood, not enough to kill her before the heat does. Her legs twitch. Her throat is raw. The gag they used earlier is gone now. That’s part of the show. That’s the part Damien likes best—when they beg.

“She is unclean,” someone recites from the left. Probably Reese. His voice is low and controlled, but I hear the smile behind it.

“She is disobedient,” another says.

“She is yours, Midas.”

And then the chant begins.

“Obedience is golden. Sin is cleansed.”

Over and over.

The flames flicker in our eyes.

She’s still screaming.

I want to move. I want to lunge. I want to rip the cords from her wrists and shove her into the woods and tell her run—even if it means the dogs tear her apart before morning.

But I don’t.

I stay still.

Because I’m not done yet.

I’m not finished counting.

I stand in silence while her skin begins to blister, while her screams dissolve into something wet and broken, while the scent of burning hair makes my stomach twist.

I stay still because Damien is watching.

Always watching.

He stands at the head of the altar, arms folded, expression unreadable beneath his mask. But I know what’s beneath it.

He’s hard.

He always is.

He calls it “devotion”.

I call it “sickness”.

The fire climbs higher. She’s stopped moving now. Her mouth is open, but there’s no sound.

Just fire.

And the sickening crackle of fat and bone.

Some of the others flinch. Brooke closes her eyes behind her mask. One of the new handlers turns away and vomits behind a tree.

But I don’t move.

I let the fire light my face.

Let it burn the scent of death into my skin.

Because this is what it feels like to be trapped inside someone else’s nightmare.

This is what it feels like to be a tool for a man who thinks he’s a god.

But I know better.

Gods die too.

I glance toward Damien, slow and steady, careful not to be caught.

He’s still watching her.

Good.

I shift the chalk pebble in my pocket between my fingers, counting the grooves I carved earlier—one for each day since he told me I’d be next.

I’m up to six.

Tomorrow makes seven.

And the fire tonight?

It doesn’t just burn her.

It burns the clock down.

Tick.

Damien—Midas will die screaming.

And I will light the fire myself.

* * *

I strip out of the cloak and toss it into the corner like it’s diseased.

My skin still reeks of smoke. My hair is soaked with it. Even after two showers, I know I’ll smell like fire until morning.

Th e mattress sinks beneath me as I lie back.

The room is too quiet.

The silence isn’t peace—it’s pressure. It presses against my ribs like someone’s lying on top of me. Holding me still. Daring me to scream.

I close my eyes.

And I hear it.