Page 19

Damiano

I’ve been working for about an hour when I hear her stir, a small sound at first, then shifting on the cot. I glance over, thinking she’s just adjusting in her sleep, but her eyes are open, and she’s watching me.

“Hey,” I say, setting down my clippers. “Thought you’d be out till morning.”

“What time is it?” Her question is thick with sleep, slurred around the edges.

“Almost midnight.”

She blinks slowly, still half under the influence of the herbs. “Did anyone come looking for me at the house?”

“Not yet, but they will.” I sit on the edge of the cot. “They’ll come through the grounds tonight, probably. Viktor doesn’t waste time.”

She struggles to sit up, the herbs making her movements clumsy. “What do we do?”

“Nothing. We stay calm.” I steady her with a hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me. This is important. They’ll come and look around without permission. It’s how things work here.”

“But they can’t just?—”

“They can. They will. But they won’t find anything.” I rest my hand on her arm, steadying her. “They don’t know the maze like I do. The heart of it, where we put him, is nearly impossible to find if you don’t know the path.”

She nods, absorbing this. “The police?”

“Not yet. Maybe never.” I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. “Heathens Hollow likes to handle shit themselves. Always has.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that before they call the mainland police, they’ll exhaust every option here. Search parties. Questioning. Bribes for information.” I watch her face carefully. “Tomorrow, expect people to come asking questions. Viktor, maybe others.”

“What do I tell them?” The fog of the herbs is clearing from her eyes, replaced by fear.

“Nothing useful. You had a party. There were tons of people you didn’t know. The party got bigger than you expected. You were tired, went to bed early.” I squeeze her arm gently. “You’ve never even met Liam Bastian. Not that you remember, anyway.”

“Right.” She nods firmly. “If they ask about him specifically, I was tired. There were so many people. I wouldn’t remember one face in the crowd. ”

“Exactly. And you don’t know anything about him going missing.”

“I don’t know it,” she echoes, nodding slowly. “I had a party. It got out of hand. I went to bed early. I don’t know everyone who was there.”

“Good.” I check my watch. “It’s too late for them to disturb you tonight. The main house is off-limits still. But tomorrow, be ready.”

She nods, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Good.”

I move closer, checking to see if she needs anything. Water, maybe. “How do you feel?”

“Floaty.” She smiles, a drowsy, unguarded expression I’ve never seen on her before. “But cold. Always cold.”

“I’ll turn up the heater.”

“No.” She reaches out to catch my wrist before I can move away. Her fingers are ice against my skin. “Can you... would you just...”

She trails off, suddenly uncertain.

“What?”

“Hold me? Just for a little bit.” She looks embarrassed even asking. “I’m so tired of being cold.”

I should say no, should make some excuse about keeping watch or needing to finish my work. But I don’t.

“Move over,” I say, and she shifts on the narrow cot to make space.

I lie down beside her, awkwardly at first, trying to keep some distance despite the limited space. But she immediately turns toward me, seeking warmth, and I curl my arm around her almost by instinct. She tucks her head against my chest, her cold hands finding their way between us.

“Better?” I ask, sounding strange to my own ears.

“Mmm.” She nods against my shirt. “You’re like a furnace.”

“So I’ve been told.”

We lie there in silence for a while, just breathing. I can feel her gradually warming, her body relaxing against mine. Her hair smells like citrus and something sweeter. It’s not unpleasant.

“Sorry,” she murmurs after a bit. “This is probably weird for you.”

“It’s fine.” And strangely, it is.

“The herbs make me say things I normally wouldn’t.” She sounds more alert now, more herself. “Do things I wouldn’t.”

“Like ask strange men to hold you?”

She laughs softly. “You’re not that strange.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

Her hand moves slightly against my chest, not quite a caress but no longer just seeking warmth either. I should stop this now. Should get up and go back to my pruning. But I don’t move.

“What do you know?” I ask.

“I know you could have left me to deal with Liam alone, but you didn’t.” Her voice is quiet in the dim greenhouse. “I know you’re careful with your plants. Patient. I know you and Flint have a story… a toxic one but you still have a pull to him.”

“That’s not much.”

“It’s enough for now.”

She shifts again, tilting her face up to look at me. In the low light, her eyes are darker, not their usual pale blue. This close, I can see a small scar near her temple, usually hidden by her hair.

“What happened there?” I ask, barely touching the mark with my fingertip.

“IV stand. Fell over once during a treatment. Cut me.”

Her candor surprises me. “Does it hurt? Your condition, I mean.”

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s just... exhausting. Being tired all the time. Being cold.” She studies my face. “What about you? What hurts you?”

The question catches me off guard. No one asks me that kind of thing. Especially not people like her.

“Nothing important,” I say, looking away.

She brings her hand to my jaw and guides my face back to hers. Her fingers are warmer now, almost normal temperature. “Liar.”

Her eyes search mine, questioning. A moment of silence stretches out between us, only our breathing in the quiet greenhouse. I could pull away. Should pull away. This is complicated enough without adding... whatever this is.

She leans forward slightly, then stops, her eyes still on mine like she’s waiting for permission. Or maybe for me to stop her. When I don’t, she closes the distance between us slowly, giving me every chance to back away.

And then she’s kissing me. Softly at first, barely a brush of her lips against mine, so light I could almost pretend it didn’t happen. She pulls back slightly, gauging my reaction, her breath warm against my face.

“Is this okay?” she whispers.

I should say no. Should get up and put some distance between us. Instead, I nod.

She kisses me again, more certain this time but still hesitant, like she’s not sure she remembers how. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe the illness has taken this from her, too, like it’s taken so many other normal experiences.

Instead, I slide my hand into her hair, holding her closer as I kiss her back. She makes a small sound against my mouth, something between relief and want. Her body presses against mine, seeking more contact, more warmth.

This is a bad idea. She’s still under the influence of the herbs. She’s vulnerable. She killed someone last night. None of this is a good foundation for whatever is happening. But knowing doesn’t stop me from deepening the kiss, from letting my hand slide down her back to pull her closer.

Her hands wander, too, slipping under the edge of my T-shirt, her cool fingers exploring the skin of my stomach, my ribs. When she touches the tattoo that curves around my side, she pauses, tracing the outline.

“What is it?” she asks against my lips.

“Nightshade.”

“Poisonous?”

“Very.”

She smiles. “Show me more.”

I sit up enough to pull my shirt over my head, feeling strangely exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being shirtless. She studies the artwork covering my chest and arms, her fingers following the lines of vines and symbols across my skin.

“They’re beautiful,” she says, genuinely interested. “Each one means something?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Another time.” I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. “Too many stories for tonight.”

She nods, accepting this, and then she’s kissing me again, more urgently this time.

Her flannel shirt—my flannel shirt—is too big on her, slipping off one shoulder.

I push it aside further, my mouth finding the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone.

Her skin is warming under my touch, flushing with color.

“Damiano,” she breathes, and hearing my name on her lips does something to me I wasn’t expecting.

I slide my hand under the hem of her shirt, finding the smooth skin of her waist, her ribs. She’ s so thin, but there’s strength in her, too, the kind that comes from fighting battles most people never see.

She pulls back enough to look at me, her eyes clearer now despite the herbs. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Probably.”

Fuck yes it is. She just killed a guy, is no doubt still in shock. I shouldn’t be thinking with my cock right now, and yet...

“Do you want to stop?” she asks.

I consider lying but can’t. I don’t think it’s possible to ever lie to this girl. “No.”

“Good.” She smiles. “Me neither.”

She sits up, straddling me on the narrow cot, and pulls off my flannel shirt.

Underneath, she’s still wearing her cardigan and a simple camisole.

She hesitates for a moment, then slips off the cardigan, too, leaving only the thin camisole.

The blue tracery of her veins is visible beneath the pale fabric, the delicate structure of her shoulders.

“You’re still sure?” I ask, giving her one last chance to reconsider.

In answer, she takes my hands and places them on her waist. “I’m sure.”

I slide my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver, but not from cold this time. When I reach the edge of her camisole, I pause, looking up at her. She nods, lifting her arms so I can pull it over her head.

In the low light of the greenhouse, surrounded by plants and the smell of herbs, we learn each other slowly.

Her body is both stronger and more fragile than I expected, responding eagerly to my touch despite her illness.

My tattoos fascinate her. She traces each one with her fingers, then her lips, like she’s trying to memorize them all.

My cock twitches. Demanding to be inside her.

Every inch of me wants to give in to that demand, but I force myself to go slowly. She deserves more than a rushed fucking on a greenhouse cot. Especially now. Especially with me.

She must sense my restraint because she rocks against me, the friction making us both gasp. Her eyes lock with mine, pupils wide in the dim light.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she whispers.

“Maybe I want to be.”

I kiss my way down her body, lingering at the places that make her breath catch—the hollow of her throat, the curve under her breast, the jut of her hipbone. Her hands tangle in my hair, not guiding, just holding on as if she needs an anchor.

When I reach the waistband of her pants, I look up. She’s watching me, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

“Yes,” she says, before I can ask.

I ease them down her legs, taking her panties with them. She kicks them away impatiently, and then she’s naked beneath me, all pale skin and perfection. My hands tremble slightly as I touch her, and I can’t remember the last time that happened.

She reaches for my belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Too many clothes,” she complains.

I help her, yanking off my remaining clothes until there’s nothing between us. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes me in, and she swallows.

I can’t take it anymore. I pin her beneath me on the narrow cot.

She gasps, but there’s no fear in her eyes—only anticipation, desire.

I capture her mouth with mine as I slide my hand between her legs, finding her pussy wet and ready.

She arches against my touch, a small, needy sound escaping her throat.

“Protection,” I mutter against her skin, somehow managing one last rational thought.

“I’m on the pill,” she pants. “And I’m—I tested?—”

“Me too,” I say, understanding what she’s trying to tell me. “I mean, I’m clean.” Thanks to The Hunt, The Vault and all the extracurricular activities of the island, testing is a norm around here.

She nods, relief in her eyes.

“Then don’t make me wait anymore,” she whispers, wrapping her legs around my hips.

I position myself at her entrance, watching her face as I push forward slowly. Her eyes flutter closed, lips parting on a silent gasp as I fill her. The sensation is almost overwhelming—tight, wet heat enveloping me inch by inch. When I’m fully seated inside her, we both pause, breathing hard.

“Okay?” I manage to ask, strained with the effort of holding still.

She opens her eyes, and the look in them nearly undoes me. “More than okay.”