Page 133 of Buried in Blood
The dress fits like a lie.
Soft. White. Laced in threads shimmering like innocence—but every thread feels like a noose around my ribs.
I stare at myself in the mirror, watching a stranger smooth down the bodice. She has my face. My eyes. But none of my fire. Her hair’s curled just the way Damien likes it—loose waves, pinned behind one ear, soft enough to touch but not pull. Her makeup is perfect. Lips tinted berry-red. Eyes ringed in gold shadow. No bruises. No cracks. No blood.
Just polish.
Just obedience.
The reflection smiles.
I don’t.
Because what can I do?
Reese is stationed outside the door.
I reach for the clutch on the vanity.
The weight of it is deceptive—small, dainty. Inside: four carefully labeled bombs and the end of someone’s world.
I breathe in.
Then out.
The perfume on my wrist smells like lavender and smoke. Damien picked it. Said it reminded him of when I was his.
Was.
I sit on the edge of the bed, gripping the clutch with both hands. My thighs still ache from last night. My lips are cracked. My heart feels like it’s been hollowed out with a spoon.
But I smile anyway.
Because today, I play the part.
Today, I am lovely. Loyal. Useful.
Today, I am a weapon in white.
I rise.
The mirror doesn’t shatter.
But God, I wish it would.
* * *
The venue looks like something out of a dream.
Soft lights dangle from the treetops like stars fallen low enough to touch. White roses wrap around the arbor in delicate spirals. The breeze smells like champagne and lilacs.
And blood.
Even if no one else can smell it… I can.
The clutch digs into my fingers as I step through the gate.
I’m wearing cream. Not white. Not blue. Somewhere in between—like a ghost of a bride who never made it to the altar. My heels crunch against the gravel path as I move toward the crowd.
