Page 89 of Buried in Blood

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And the sickening crackle of fat and bone.

Some of the others flinch. Brooke closes her eyes behind her mask. One ofthe new handlers turns away and vomits behind a tree.

But I don’t move.

I let the fire light my face.

Let it burn the scent of death into my skin.

Because this is what it feels like to be trapped inside someone else’s nightmare.

This is what it feels like to be a tool for a man who thinks he’s a god.

But I know better.

Gods die too.

I glance toward Damien, slow and steady, careful not to be caught.

He’s still watching her.

Good.

I shift the chalk pebble in my pocket between my fingers, counting the grooves I carved earlier—one for each day since he told me I’d be next.

I’m up to six.

Tomorrow makes seven.

And the fire tonight?

It doesn’t just burn her.

It burns the clock down.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Damien—Midas will die screaming.

And I will light the fire myself.

* * *

I strip out of the cloak and toss it into the corner like it’s diseased.

My skin still reeks of smoke. My hair is soaked with it. Even after two showers, I know I’ll smell like fire until morning.

The mattress sinks beneath me as I lie back.

The room is too quiet.

The silence isn’t peace—it’s pressure. It presses against my ribs like someone’s lying on top of me. Holding me still. Daring me to scream.

I close my eyes.

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