41. Harmony
Harmony
The door clicks shut behind me.
One lock.
Two.
Three.
My fingers tremble as I slide the chain into place, the metal scraping against itself like a warning. My back presses against the door, and I stand there, breathing too loudly in a room too quiet.
The motel is cheap. Remote. The kind of place where people disappear and no one asks why.
Dante found it.
No—he chose it. Plugged it into his phone with steady fingers while I shook in the backseat like a leaf being pried from its branch. I don’t know what name he used to check me in. I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. My voice was broken glass by then, too sharp to use.
Now I’m here.
Alone.
Alive.
And I don’t know what to do with either of those things.
The room smells like old bleach and motel soap. The comforter is thin a nd scratchy, patterned with paisley and probably stained with stories I don’t want to imagine. A humming mini fridge rests in the corner like a dying animal, and the walls are a sickly shade of tan.
I walk the perimeter twice before I let myself sit. Pulling back the curtain an inch at a time. Peeking out. Just in case.
No SUV.
No black sedan.
No flicker of Damien’s eyes watching from a distance.
Not yet.
I cross the room and check the bathroom. No windows. Just cracked tile and a flickering bulb above the mirror. My reflection stares back at me—blood still dried in the crease beneath my jaw. Mascara smudged like bruises beneath my eyes. I don’t recognize the girl looking back.
I shut the light off.
I check the front door again. Then the windows. Then the side door that leads to nowhere.
Every creak in the hallway outside makes my chest seize.
Every engine rumble makes me reach for the knife Dante tucked into my bag.
I crawl into the bed without undressing, wrapping the motel blanket around me like armor. The television stays off. I can’t handle the noise. Can’t handle the news. If they’re covering the bombing already, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see what I did. Who I killed. Who I failed to save.
My body hurts.
Everywhere.
But it’s not the bruises that ache.
It’s the empty space.
Where trust used to live.
Where Reese’s words still echo .
“You’ll know when the time is right.”
I knew. And I acted. And now…
Now Damien’s probably watching every frame of surveillance he managed to tap into, making a list of every sin I’ve committed.
He’ll come.
Eventually.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’m just a ghost in a roadside motel, too broken to run and too guilty to sleep.
And even now—wrapped in silence, alone in this nowhere town—I swear I still hear him breathing.
* * *
The knock is soft.
Too soft.
I freeze, breath held like a noose is around my throat, one hand gripping the curtain where I’d been peeking outside for the past hour. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I listen .
Another knock. Then silence.
I crawl backward, heart racing, body screaming at me to run—but there’s nowhere to go. I slide behind the bed, curling onto the stained carpet, knees hugged to my chest.
I hear it.
Click.
The door opens.
Slow.
Deliberate.
A single pair of footsteps enters the room—soft but certain. Like they already know I’m here.
My fingers dig into the cheap carpet. I don’t dare look up.
Th e door shuts.
The lock clicks into place.
A pause.
Then, “Harmony.”
My head jerks up.
Reese.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or terrified. Maybe both.
He steps forward into view, his face unreadable, jaw clenched like he’s holding back too much.
“You—” My voice cracks. “How did you—”
“I followed the signal. Dante told me where he dropped you. I’ve been watching since you checked in.” He walks to the edge of the bed but doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t soften. “You can’t leave this room until I say so. You understand?”
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I nod. “Thank you. For—saving me.”
He finally crouches down, pulling something from the inside of his jacket. A small black phone. Cheap. Burnable.
He sets it gently on the floor between us.
“It has five numbers,” he says. “Me. Evelyn. Astra. Dante. Lucien. No one else. You use it only if you’re dying or if Damien is closer than your heartbeat.”
I reach for it slowly, as if it might vanish.
He watches me, gaze sharp, intense. “He’s looking for you, Harmony. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“He’ll kill you.”
I nod again.
“And yet…” His voice lowers. “You stayed long enough to save them.”
I swallow hard. “I couldn’t let him win.”
Re ese exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days. He stands, moves to the window, checks the lock.
Then he draws the blackout curtain tight.
“You stay here,” he says again, tone final. “You sleep. You eat. You don’t open that door for anyone but me.”
“And if you don’t come back?”
“Then you don’t open it at all.”
He walks to the door, opens it halfway, then pauses.
“Harmony.”
I look up, clutching the phone like it’s a lifeline.
“You did the right thing,” he says.
And for the first time since I left The Golden Hollows…
I let myself sob.
He stops, hand lingering on the lock.
“You were the only thing that made that place survivable,” I say.
He turns toward me slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movement will shatter me.
“You don’t need to say that,” he murmurs.
“But I want to.”
His breath hitches, as he walks towards me, standing in front of me. Looming.
“Harmony—”
“I know I’m broken.” My voice cracks. “I know I’m not whole. But I feel like I can breathe when you’re around. Even if it’s just for a second.”
He swears under his breath. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to believe them.”
My heart pounds.
“I want you to believe me.”
Silence stretches between us. Then, slowly, I reach out, fingers trembl ing, and place my hand on his chest. His warmth greets me, soothing my racing thoughts.
“I want to feel something that doesn’t hurt.”
He grabs my wrist. Not to stop me, but like he’s anchoring himself.
“Harmony,” he says again, softer this time.
I lean in before I lose courage. My lips brush his.
He stills.
Then answers.
The kiss starts slow—tentative, testing—but turns desperate fast. His hand slides into my hair, pulling me closer like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. I press against him, mouth parting, and he groans low in his throat like he’s been starving.
Our tongues tangle, and I taste him. He tastes sweet—safe.
We break for air, breathing hard.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine.
“I need this,” I whisper back.
Clothes come off in slow, frantic pieces. His hands shake as they run along my waist, like he’s memorizing me in case it’s the last time. And it very well could be.
He pushes me down on the bed, not out of anger, but out of lust. He removes his pants, letting his erection free.
My eyes scan over his body, memorizing every scar, every tattoo—everything.
My chest rises and falls quickly. I lick my lips as he lowers himself between my legs.
First, his tongue. He guides it up my inner thigh, licking over my tattoo and onto my most sensitive area.
I let out a whimper. It has been too long since I’ve had a man devour me.
His tongue dances around my clit, as he bites and sucks. His dark hair lays messy. He is messy, and I fucking love it. My skin crawls with goosebumps as I stare at this god of a man.
He slowly brings himself over me, rubbing the tip of his cock u p and down my folds. Spreading my wetness. I shudder.
He looks at me with a primal look. He is a predator, too. I just know this predator also protects.
When he enters me, it’s not like before.
It’s not pain.
It’s not control.
It’s home .
He moves slowly at first, watching me like he’s waiting for me to flinch. I don’t. I rise to meet him, hips curling into his rhythm, our mouths crashing again and again until the motel room disappears and I’m floating in something that almost feels like healing.
He goes faster, pumping into me. I let out a moan.
“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he groans as he crashes his lips back down to mine.
The intensity of his stare has my orgasm climbing.
The wave crashes into me like rocks on a shoreline. I convulse beneath him, as I moan his name. “Reese.”
He draws himself in and out slowly, sensually.
“You like it when I tease you, baby?” He asks in a dark tone.
“Mmhmm,” I respond, barely able to keep my eyes open.
Then he pounds back into me. His cock swelling inside of me.
“Oh, fuck,” he moans, as he spills into me.
He collapses down onto me, keeping himself inside me, resting his forehead against my collarbone, breathing me in.
“You’re not broken,” he murmurs.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then I’ll love every fucking piece.”
I don’t reply.
But I think—for the first time—that maybe I’m allowed to hope again.
He slowly stands to get cleaned up. He removes a gun from his cl ip and places it on the nightstand.
“You know how to shoot?” He asks.
I nod. Barely.
“Good. When he shows up… aim for his head.”
My stomach twists into knots at the reminder.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot my fairy tale will come to an end.
Sooner than I am okay with.
And what scares me is that he said when he shows up… not if …
The worst part is—I’ll live my life looking over my shoulder until he’s dead….