Page 208 of Buried in Blood
To the word.
Damien.
Damien’s claim. His brand. His violation.
“I want you to take it back.”
Her eyes soften. “You already did.”
“Not like this. Let’s bury it.”
She’s quiet. Then she nods.
We shower, dress, and head out. I don’t tell her where. I don’t need to.
She trusts me now.
The tattoo parlor is small. Private. A friend of mine—ex-military—runs it out of a converted warehouse. No questions. No judgment. Just ink and silence.
Harmony sits on the chair, fingers curled around mine. She watches in the mirror as the needle hums to life.
She doesn’t flinch.
Not once.
When it’s done, her skin is red and swollen, but the name is gone.
In its place is a phoenix. Black, gold, crimson.
Wings rising from ash. Head tilted up. Eyes sharp.
She runs her hand over it, tears glimmering but never falling.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers.
“You are.” I kiss the side of her neck. “He doesn’t own you anymore.”
She looks at me. And for the first time in a long, long time—she smiles without pain.
“Good,” she says. “Because I was never his.”
Epilogue: Harmony
One Year Later
The sky looks like smoke tonight.
Heavy and low, streaked with gray and gold, it presses down on the water like it wants to sink into the sea and never resurface. I know the feeling. I used to live there—in that weight, that want. But tonight, I’m on the shore. Dry. Breathing. Warm.
And not alone.
I glance over my shoulder as I step onto the porch, barefoot, the hem of Reese’s oversized sweatshirt brushing my thighs. He’s inside, still shirtless from the morning, pacing the kitchen with a mug of black coffee in one hand and a knife in the other. Not threatening—just a habit. He says it helps him think.
I say he just likes having something sharp near his fingers.
Can’t blame him. I used to be the same.
We live on the edge of nowhere now. A crooked little house in Maine with peeling paint, salt-stained windows, and a backyard that runs straight into the ocean. No neighbors. No threats. Just seagulls, fog, and the occasional scream of a lobster trap slamming shut. It’s peace… our version of it, anyway.
