Page 127 of Buried in Blood
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.”
