44. Harmony
Harmony
The gun is heavier than I thought it would be.
It rests in my lap like a secret I didn’t ask for. Cold. Heavy. Real.
I press my fingers against the grip. Not hard enough to pull—just enough to remember that I can.
The curtains are drawn tight. The lights are off. I sit cross-legged on the bed in total silence, eyes fixed on the door. It’s been over an hour since Reese left. Maybe more. Maybe less. Time doesn’t behave the same in this place. It stretches and coils like a predator in the shadows.
I stare at the lock.
One.
Two.
Three clicks.
I’ve checked them twenty times.
What if Damien paid off the front desk? What if the camera outside is fake? What if Reese never made it back to the car?
What if the knock comes and it’s his voice on the other side?
“Sweetheart. Open up.”
I press the gun to my temple—not to pull the trigger. Just to remind myself that if it comes to that… I won’t let him take me back.
Not again.
My pulse ticks in my ears, steady as a clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The motel groans with every gust of wind. I flinch at the sound of pipes expanding behind the walls. I think I hear footsteps above me, but there’s no second floor. Just an empty roof and a crooked antenna swaying in the storm.
I breathe through my nose.
In.
Out.
Count to four. Hold. Count to seven. Release.
My body doesn’t listen.
The tremble in my hands doesn’t stop.
The metal of the gun is slick from my grip.
I whisper to myself just to hear another voice. “You’re safe.”
The lie tastes like bleach.
I drag the nightstand in front of the door just in case. Balance the lamp so it’ll crash if the handle turns.
But I know it won’t help.
He always finds a way in.
He’s already in my head.
I glance at the phone Reese gave me. Five names. No new calls. No texts. No signal.
What if Reese was wrong?
What if Damien’s been watching this whole time?
My gaze snaps to the window. I inch toward it, crouching low, careful not to disturb the curtain. Just enough space to peek through.
Nothing.
Ju st the parking lot. Just empty cars. Just flickering neon from the diner sign across the highway.
But he doesn’t need headlights.
He doesn’t need noise.
He needs silence.
Like now.
I back away from the window, still holding the gun.
Still shaking.
I crawl into the corner of the bed and press my back to the wall, knees hugged to my chest, finger hovering near the trigger guard.
I know what I need to do if he comes through that door.
I know where to aim.
Reese told me.
“Aim for his fucking head.”
But what if I freeze?
What if I hesitate?
What if part of me still wants to hear him say my name?
I close my eyes and try not to remember the warmth of his hand on my thigh, the whisper of mine against my skin.
The things he took. The things he marked.
The brand still aches when I breathe too deeply.
I open my eyes. Point the gun at the door.
And wait.
There’s no knock.
No footsteps.
Just the quiet hum of a motel fridge and the beat of my own heart threatening to crack my ribs from the inside.
I stay like that for hours—maybe longer—gun in hand, breath shallow, eyes locked on the door.
And I wonder…
If I’m hiding from him.
Or from myself.
* * *
The knock is louder this time.
Not a tap. Not a question.
It’s a warning.
Then comes the bang.
Wood splinters. The door jumps in its frame, and I scream, scrambling backward. My hand flies to the gun, lifting it with both hands—shaking, slippery, useless fingers.
Another bang. The lock gives. The chain snaps.
The door crashes inward like the beginning of a nightmare, and I see him—
Damien. Framed by the broken doorway. Smiling.
Behind him, Reese.
I blink once. Twice.
Reese doesn’t move. He stands to the side, unreadable. Like this was always part of the plan.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
Damien’s eyes go wide with joy. He steps over the threshold, arms out like some unholy messiah returning to his temple.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with reverence and rage. “You redecorated. Motel chic. Classy.”
I don’t lower the gun. Not this time.
He freezes when he sees the bed. The sheets are rumpled. The evidence—small, stupid things. A man’s shirt lies on the floor. The wrapper from the takeout Reese brought earlier.
My body stiffens at the reminder—we were never safe. I was never safe.
Damien stares at it all. And then—he laughs.
Fu ll-bodied. Unhinged. Like something in him has cracked for good.
“Oh,” he says, dragging the word out like a purr. “You let someone fuck you in my bed.”
“It’s not your bed,” I whisper.
He steps forward.
I step back.
Gun still raised.
“You let someone,” Damien growls, smile gone. “You moaned their name with my voice in your head.”
My arms tremble. My finger flinches on the trigger.
“ Do it, ” Damien dares. “Shoot me. Come on. You’re a big girl now, right? You want freedom? Take it.”
Reese doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. He nods.
One small, quiet nod.
Do it.
My heart collapses in on itself.
I pull the trigger.
The sound explodes through the room—too loud, too fast. Damien jerks. Blood splatters. He drops to one knee, clutching his side, screaming through clenched teeth. “You fucking bitch— ”
Reese rushes forward, grabbing Damien like he’s trying to save him—like he’s still loyal .
But his eyes meet mine again.
Run.
I don’t hesitate.
I sprint past the carnage, past the blood, past the twisted grin on Damien’s lips as he crumples against Reese’s chest.
I hit the hallway barefoot. Adrenaline turns the floor into fire beneath me. I hear him screaming after me—screaming my name like a curse, a promise, a prophecy.
I don’t look back.
Not even when Reese yells something I can’t hear.
Not even when I hear another gun cock.
Not even when I realize I don’t know where I’m going.
All I know is that I fired the shot.
And it wasn’t enough.