Page 99 of Buried in Blood

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My steps are slow. Unsteady. My thighs sting.

The brand beneath my ribs throbs in time with my heartbeat—each pulse a cruel reminder.

His name is on me. Inside of me. Burned and inked and sewn into the skin he never deserved to touch.

Imake it to my room and close the door behind me. It doesn’t make a sound. The silence is a scream.

I sink to the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped around my knees.

I’m still wearing the black cloak from the ritual.

It’s too heavy.

It smells like fire.

I tear it off and press my palms to my face, trying to muffle the sob that claws its way up my throat.

I want to call Reese. I want him to ask me if I’m okay, even though we both know I’m not. I want him to be angry. To tell me it wasn’t supposed to go this far.

To say he didn’t know.

But he does know.

They all do.

I press my forehead to the floor. It’s cold. It helps. Barely. I think of Evelyn.

The way she laughed when she braided my hair.

The way she said my name like it mattered.

I think of Astra.

Sharp tongue. Wild eyes. Brave even when she was broken.

I wonder if she feels free.

I wonder if she made it out and loves Lucien.

I wonder if she still thinks of me.

The pain isn’t just physical. It’s in the echo of every room I walk into alone. It’s in the silence where my friends used to be. It’s in the ghosts I’ve been forced to become.

I touch the place beneath my ribs, fingers hovering over the brand.

Then lower—hesitantly—toward my thigh.

I don’t need a mirror.

I can feel it. His name.His claim.

His reminder that I am not mine.

I curl up tighter. The walls feel smaller. The dark feels deeper.

And for the first time since I got here, I don’t pray for rescue.

I pray for war.

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