36. Harmony
Harmony
The door clicks shut behind me.
My breath stays trapped in my throat.
Damien stands at the far end of the office, back turned, his fingers curled around the edge of the desk like he’s trying to stop the room from spinning. Or maybe from collapsing.
I don’t speak.
Not yet.
Not until he tells me to.
He slowly turns. And smiles. It’s not warmth. It’s not comfort.
It’s a warning.
“Sit,” he says softly.
My legs obey before my mind does, knees bending into the velvet chair that still smells like blood and cedar oil. His cologne clings to the walls, thick and poisonous.
He doesn’t sit.
He circles me like a warden checking for cracks in a prisoner’s armor. I stay perfectly still. I’ve learned that movement invites pain.
“You’ve been very quiet lately,” he murmurs, voice dipping low near my ear. “Reflecting?”
“Trying,” I answer.
“Trying,” he echoes. “That’s not a word I associate with you. You either do, or you don’t. You either succeed… or you fail.”
He stops in front of me.
His eyes sweep down my face like they’re trying to peel back layers. He leans down, resting his palms on the arms of the chair, his face only inches from mine.
“I want to believe you still have purpose, Harmony.”
“I do.”
“Do you?” His head tilts slightly. “Because lately, I’ve seen hesitation. Defiance. Even… softness.”
My nails dig into the velvet beneath my palms.
He notices.
“You’re afraid,” he says, smiling wider now. “That’s good. Fear sharpens. It purifies.”
He pushes off the chair and walks to the liquor cart, pouring himself something clear and vile. Vodka, probably. Ice clinks like bones in a glass.
“This is your last chance,” he says, back still turned. “You fail this time…” He lifts the glass to his lips, downs it. “…and you’re no longer an asset.”
My heart slams once.
Then again.
He turns, and I swear the air gets colder.
“I need proof of loyalty. Not silence. Not trembling. Not tears.”
He steps closer.
“I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you’re still mine.”
I raise my head.
“I’m still yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m still yours.”
He kneels in front of me, hands resting on my thighs. “Convince me.”
My voice quivers. “I—I’ll do whatever you ask.”
A cruel glint sparks in his eyes. “Good.”
He rises, walking to his desk, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a black folder. The paper inside is thick. Crisp. Marked with a red wax seal.
He sets it down between us like a sacrament.
“Then let’s begin.”
He opens the folder.
And smiles.
“Here’s what I need you to do—”
* * *
I lean forward as Damien pulls out a single sheet of thick paper. It’s not typed. It’s handwritten. Precise. Clean. Deadly.
He taps the page once. “Read it.”
My eyes scan the list.
Main Hall, under the flowers on the arbor.
Service kitchen, behind fire extinguisher panel.
Garden arbor, right side beam—under floral drape.
Basement fuse box, inside breaker cover.
“Four points,” he says smoothly, pouring himself another drink. “All low-risk entry. All disguised. All placed within twenty minutes.”
I try to nod, but my muscles feel disconnected.
He moves to the cabinet behind his desk, opens it, and pulls out a soft black clutch. It’s elegant. Shiny. Looks like it would belong to any guest at a wedding.
He unzips it.
Four small devices sit inside. Black. Matte. No bigger than a lipstick tube. Each one marked with a tiny strip of color-coded tape.
“They’re triggered remotely,” he says. “You’ll leave the clutch in the reception tent once you’re finished. One of my men will retrieve it.”
I stare at the devices. “Will anyone get hurt?”
His eyes find mine.
Still.
Cold.
Flat.
“That depends,” he says, “on whether they’re in the blast radius.”
I look down at the paper again, my breath caught between denial and inevitability.
He lifts the clutch and walks it over to me, placing it carefully in my lap.
“I chose this job for you,” he says softly. “Because I wanted to believe you were still capable. Still worthy of the trust I gave you.”
I whisper, “And if I am?”
“Then I might reconsider your expiration date.”
I rise slowly, fingers curled around the clutch, heartbeat thundering beneath my ribs.
He moves behind me, opening the door dismissing me, like I’m just another servant leaving after orders. I step forward, mechanical, silent.
But before I reach the threshold—
His hand slams the door shut beside me.
I flinch.
“I didn’t say you could go.”
I turn slowly, pulse skyrocketing, body going cold all over again.
He steps closer. Each footfall deliberate. Controlled.
“There’s more to loyalty than obedience,” he says, brushing a strand of hai r from my face. “And I’m not finished with you yet.”
He leans down, lips near my ear.
“You’ll stay the night. Here. With me. Like old times.”
My stomach drops.
He walks past me toward the bedroom at the back of his office suite, pausing in the doorway without turning around.
“Come,” he says.
And like a puppet on invisible strings, I follow.
The clutch is still anchored to my side.
A ticking promise tucked beside my heart.
* * *
The door shuts behind me with a sound too final to be anything but a sentence.
The light in his private quarters is low—golden and warm, as if pretending this is anything close to intimacy. As if lighting could blur the edges of what’s about to happen.
Damien doesn’t look back as he walks to the chair in the corner. He sits slowly, deliberately, like a king deciding whether to kill or keep.
“Undress,” he says simply.
I don’t move.
Not at first.
My fingers twitch at my sides. My breath stutters.
Then I do what I always do.
I obey.
Because obedience is survival.
Because disobedience… isn’t an option.
I strip with shaking hands, one button at a time, until I stand exposed, bearing nothing but the clutch. He gestures once—just a flick of his wrist—and I place it on the dresser, far from reach. He wat ches me the whole time, unblinking. Unfeeling.
When he finally stands, the shift in the air changes everything.
I know that look.
That gait.
The smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
It’s the smile he wore the first time he reminded me who I belonged to.
“You’ve forgotten your place,” he murmurs, circling me like a vulture. “You’ve let someone else make you believe you had options. That you were more than what I made you.”
His hand lifts, gentle at first—cupping my jaw.
Then it snaps sideways, cracking the sting across my cheek.
I don’t fall. I don’t cry. I just breathe.
Because I know the game.
And he hasn’t even started yet.
“Maybe I was too soft on you,” he says, dragging his thumb across my lip. His nail presses down until I taste blood. “Too merciful.”
I stay silent.
I count.
One… two… three…
Another slap. The other cheek.
He grips my shoulders and shoves me toward the bed. I catch myself against the edge, barely able to stand straight as he closes in behind me. His breath is hot on my neck. His words even hotter.
“Maybe pain is the only language you understand.”
He bites. Hard. My shoulder, then my collarbone.
Not lust. Not passion.
Punishment.
His teeth tear through skin until I cry out.
That’s what he wants.
A reaction.
He spins me around, forces me to my knees.
And spits.
Right in my face.
The saliva slides down my cheek like venom. My chest heaves—but not from rage.
From shame. From resignation. Because part of me—some broken, fractured shard—still wants to survive.
Even like this.
Especially like this.
“You’ll remember who made you,” he hisses, gripping my chin so tightly I see stars. “You’ll remember what it feels like to be owned.”
He forces my chin up, shoving his cock into my throat. I feel the tip jab my throat, and I gag. It burns.
He pumps in and out of my mouth violently. Taking what he wants. Like he always does. Tears sting my eyes as I fight the urge to vomit.
He finishes quickly, removing his erection and spewing warm liquid all over my face.
“You look like a queen when you’re covered in my cum.”
His words sink into my pores, as if I were covered in dirt and filth.
“On your stomach. Face down on the bed,” he commands.
I oblige. My stomach coils in knots. I know what’s coming. He’s going to make me bleed.
He removes his belt from his pants that lie on the floor, lifting up the metal side glistening in the light. It glistens as a threat. Then he delivers a blow of metal into my ass cheek. It stings. One.
Two.
Three.
I feel the prongs puncture my skin. The sting is bearable…for now.
Four.
Five.
I feel warm liquid running down from where the belt hits. Blood.
Si x.
Seven.
Eight.
The sting is gone. I feel numb. Nothing can break me.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
I lose count. My ass is bleeding badly from the impact. Tears roll down my face.
“I love it when you bleed for me.”
He rubs his hand over my ass, coating it in blood. He glides the blood over his cock before he rams it into my pussy. My walls clench, unable to remember the last time he used that hole.
It burns as he glides his blood coated cock in and out of me. I cry. Nothing is worse than this. Nothing.
So tomorrow, I will do what I have to do…
* * *
The rest of the night is a blur of sound, skin, and salt.
When it’s over, I lie curled on the bed, eyes unfocused, the sheets tangled beneath me like ropes. Covered in blood and cum. Fucking gross.
He doesn’t kiss me.
He doesn’t comfort.
He just dresses, walks to the bathroom, and washes the blood from his hands like I’m something he scraped from beneath his boot.
The room is quiet again.
But the silence doesn’t soothe.
It suffocates.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m not here.
Th at Reese is real.
That the key in my bag still leads to something better.
That my body is still mine.
That I didn’t beg for a way out and end up buried deeper.