Page 121 of Buried in Blood
“It’s clean,” he says. “And warm.”
He pauses at the base of the ladder.
“Tomorrow, I’ll bring more food. Maybe we’ll talk again.”
I don’t say yes.
But I don’t say no.
And as he shuts the door behind him, for the first time in years, I don’t feel like a thing.
I feel like someone.
Someone who might have a purpose.
* * *
I wake up cold, even though the hoodie Dante gave me is still wrapped around my shoulders.
There was a time when waking up alone was terrifying.
Now it just feels like a reminder.
Of what I lost.
Of what I survived.
Of what I still want, even though I shouldn’t.
Damien.
I press my hand to my chest and try to breathe past the ache. The worst part isn’t what he did to me. It’s how he made it feel like love. How I only tasted him once, and it felt real. How I learned to mistake his violence for devotion.
Some nights, I ache for the way his voice dipped when he said my name.
Like I was his favorite thing. I was the new Harmony.
Like I was his. I was his new queen.
Even if it wasn’t real. I wanted it to be.
The lock clicks.
My breath catches.
But it’s not him.
It’s Dante.
He enters the room like he did yesterday, slowly down the ladder. Cautious, calm. Carrying something warm again. Scrambled eggs this time. A soft roll. A bottle of water.
Hecrouches beside me and doesn’t speak right away.
Maybe he knows.
Maybe I wear it too plainly today.
“I didn’t sleep,” I say, voice hoarse.
