Page 143 of Buried in Blood

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From my favorite creation.

The woman I carved into something useful. Something pure. Somethingobedient.

The betrayal burns more than the vodka.

I grip the edge of the monitor.

“I gave you everything,” I hiss. “Sanctuary. Purpose. A fucking crown.”

The driver twitches at the sound of glass shattering—my tumbler cracked in my hand, vodka dripping down my wrist like blood.

“She was supposed to be loyal,” I whisper. “Shepromised.”

I rewind again.

Her face.

Her fucking face.

Tears. Regret. Hope.

Hope is what kills.

And I’m going to kill her for it.

“She thinks this is over,” I say softly, voice steadying into something dangerous. “She thinks she made it out.”

I lean closer to the screen, watching Harmony disappear into the crowd, purse still dangling from her shoulder like a noose waiting to tighten.

“But I saw you, sweetheart. Every frame. Every breath.”

The video flickers.

Goes black.

“Run all you want,” I murmur. “I’m still your god.”

I sit back in the seat, blood drying on my knuckles, the wreckage of my creation still burning on every news channel.

Let them call it a tragedy.

Let them mourn.

Let them try to bury the ashes—

Because I’m not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

But for now?

I savor it.

The stillness.

The grief.

The silence after the storm.

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