Page 100 of Buried in Blood
Because someone has to make him bleed.
Even if it has to be me.
29
Harmony
2 Weeks Later
It’s 4:37 p.m.
The sun bleeds through the slats of the blinds, golden and cruel. The auction starts at six. Brooke needs to be perfect.
She sits at the edge of the small vanity, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in her lap like she’s at a tea party.
Except there’s no tea.
No laughter.
No pretending.
Just me. A brush. And the sickening scent of sugar and rosewater that coats her skin like plastic wrap.
“You’re quiet today,” I murmur, running the brush through her tangled curls.
She shrugs. “I’m always quiet on Fridays.”
Right. Fridays mean finality. Fridays mean you’re about to become someone else’s possession.
“You don’t have to talk,” I say gently. “Just sit still.”
She nods, obedient. Too obedient.
Ipull the dress from the hanger. It’s white. Of course, it’s white. Virgin-coded. Delicate. It’s laced at the collar and sheer at the thighs.
Brooke doesn’t blink.
“Arms up,” I instruct.
She lifts them, mechanical. I slide the dress over her head, careful not to disturb the fresh bruises Damien told me not to cover.
“Proof of value,” he said. “Proof of discipline.”
My stomach turns. I keep my face still.
I kneel and help her into the matching heels. Strappy. Delicate. Impossible to run in.
She looks like a doll—one of those vintage ones in glass cases. Pretty, preserved, and permanently silenced.
I apply her make-up next. Soft blush. A kiss of shimmer on her eyelids. Red lips.
Always red.
“Men like the contrast,” Damien once said.
When I finish, I meet her eyes in the mirror.
“Brooke,” I whisper. “You don’t have to smile.”
