Page 30

Damiano

“Let’s take my car,” I say, grabbing her hand. The weight of her palm against mine feels right, even though it probably shouldn’t.

The rain slicks her hair to her face, and her eyes search mine, like she’s looking for something I don’t have the answers to. All I know is I can’t stay here, caught between the ghost in the maze and whatever mess Flint and I have made.

We need neutral ground.

Or maybe ground zero.

We walk in silence, away from the fancy gardens and the weight of Windward Estates.

The air smells like salt and rain, the sky changing from dark purple to a pale, suffocating grey.

Dawn is awakening over Heathens Hollow, but it feels less like a new beginning and more like everyone’s holding their breath, waiting for something to break.

I lead her to the old Range Rover parked down a back road, hidden from the main drive. Inside, it smells like mildew and like no one’s cared about it in years.

Like me.

Like Flint.

Like everything we touch.

As I pull away from the curb, heading toward the coast road, I grab my phone. I hover over Flint’s contact. This is impulsive. Probably stupid. But burying things hasn’t worked. Running hasn’t worked. Fighting hasn’t worked. Maybe facing it, all of it, is the only way through.

Lighthouse. Meet us.

I send it before I can second-guess myself. No explanation. He’ll know which one. He has to.

Briar looks over, noticing something’s up. “Who was that?”

“Flint,” I say, focusing on the winding road. My tires hum on the wet road. “He needs to be there.”

She doesn’t argue, merely nods slowly, looking out the window, toward the rough sea coming into view. Maybe she understands. Or maybe she’s just getting ready for whatever comes next. I know I am.

The drive takes twenty minutes, going up along the cliffs. The rain stops, replaced by wind that throws sea spray against the windshield. Below us, the ocean is dark gray, waves crashing against sharp black rocks, shooting white foam high into the air.

It’s violent and beautiful, like nothing else matters .

The lighthouse appears through the mist, sitting on the furthest point of the headland.

It’s old, built from rough stone battered by centuries of salt and storms. Its white paint is peeling, stained with rust where the iron railings have bled onto the stone.

It’s not pretty; it’s stark, defiant, standing alone against the vast, indifferent ocean.

Flint and I used to come here… back when we thought we could handle anything together. We’d climb the spiral stairs, watch storms roll in, feel the foghorn shake our bones. It was our place, away from the world, until it wasn’t. Until we became the storm.

I park the car near the stone wall that keeps people from falling off the cliff edge. The wind pulls at the door as I open it, bringing the cries of gulls and the deep, steady rumble of the waves below.

“Why here?” Briar asks, pulling her coat tighter around her as she steps out, her hair flying around her face.

“Because…” I look up at the tower. “Because some things need the light.” Maybe the edge of the island is the only place we can have this conversation.

The first bit of sun breaks through the heavy clouds, making streaks of pale gold across the gray water.

The light hits the wet stone of the lighthouse, making it look like it’s glowing.

It’s kind of beautiful in a way that feels like it won’t last, like it could be swallowed by the sea at any moment .

I lead her toward the heavy wooden door at the base of the tower. It’s unlocked, as always. Inside, it’s cold and damp, smelling of salt and dust and old memories. A narrow, spiraling staircase winds upward into the darkness.

“He and I…” I need to say it, need her to understand why Flint has to be here, too. “We used to come here. A long time ago.”

Her eyes meet mine, full of questions I don’t know how to answer. Everything feels heavy in the confined space. We stand there, listening to crashing waves and everything we’re not saying, waiting. Another engine approaches, growing louder as it climbs the cliff road. Flint. He’s coming.

The engine cuts off outside. Heavy footsteps crunch on the gravel path. The old wooden door groans open, slamming back against the stone wall with a force that echoes up the stairwell.

Flint stands silhouetted against the pale morning light flooding in. He locks gazes with me first, then Briar standing beside me, and something dangerous ignites in his stare.

“What the fuck is this, Damiano?” Everything about his question is tight with fury. “Bringing her here?” He stalks toward us, closing the distance in three angry strides. “This was ours.” The words are bitten off, sharp edges aimed right at me.

“Flint—” Briar starts, but he ignores her, his focus locked on me .

“You don’t get to do this,” he snarls. “You don’t get to drag her into... into this place.”

He’s close now, radiating heat and violence.

I see the punch coming in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

But instead, he shoves me, hard. My back hits the cold, curved stone wall, the impact jarring through me.

I brace myself, expecting the next blow, the familiar explosion of fists and fury that always follows.

But I don’t move.

I merely look at him, at the raw anger twisting his features, and feel... nothing.

No fire to meet his. Just a deep, hollow exhaustion.

I don’t raise my hands. I don’t push back. I stare at him, letting the moment hang there.

The fight drains out of Flint as he registers my lack of response. His chest is still heaving, fists clenched, but the killing intent in his eyes dims, replaced by a glimmer of confusion, then something else.

Hurt.

He sees it—the fight’s gone out of me. We’ve shattered this thing between us maybe one too many times.

“I’m done fighting, Flint.” My declaration is quiet but steady in the enclosed space. “With you. About this. About any of it.”

He searches my face, looking for the trick, the angle. Finding none. He looks lost for a second, leaving him looking almost vulnerable.

“Then what are we doing?” he asks

Briar steps forward hesitantly, her gaze moving between us. “Maybe… maybe we’re figuring it out.”

Flint looks at her, really looks at her, seeing her standing here between us, in this place that holds so much of our wreckage. He runs a hand over his face, breathing hard. “Fuck.” It’s not a curse, more like a surrender.

A fragile truce settles over the small space. The tension hasn’t disappeared, but it’s shifted, become something else. Shared history, shared guilt, shared… desire. It hangs in the air, thick and undeniable.

“Upstairs,” I say. It’s not a question. He knows exactly what that means.

Flint jerks his head in a nod, and Briar looks from me to Flint and back again, understanding—or maybe acceptance—in her eyes.

I lead the way, starting up the narrow, spiraling metal staircase. Each step echoes in the confined shaft. Flint follows close behind me, Briar behind him. The air grows colder, damper as we climb, the smell of salt and metal intensifying.

We don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say down here.

Higher and higher we go, the landings small platforms offering glimpses of the churning sea through narrow slit windows. Eventually, we reach the top, pushing through a small hatch into the lantern room.

Glass surrounds us on all sides, offering a dizzying panorama of the cliffs, the turbulent ocean stretching to the horizon, and the vast, indifferent sky.

The huge lamp mechanism sits in the center, a complex structure of brass and glass, lenses angled to throw light miles out to sea.

The wind rattles the panes, and the cries of gulls are sharp and close.

We stand there for a moment, the three of us, caught in the strange, clear light filtering through the glass.

Flint moves first. He doesn’t look at me, but reaches for Briar, his hand finding hers. She doesn’t pull away. Then, his eyes meet mine over her head, a question there, dark and complicated.

I close the distance, standing beside them. My hand finds Briar’s other hand. We form a triangle, bound by proximity, by shared secrets, by the fucked-up gravity pulling us together.

Briar looks between us, her breath catching. She brings our hands together, linking Flint’s and mine with hers in the middle. A circuit closes. Electricity sparks.

Flint leans in, his mouth finding Briar’s neck, kissing the pulse point just below her ear. She tilts her head, a soft sound escaping her lips. I bring my hand to her waist, pulling her back against me, feeling the warmth of her through her clothes.

She turns her head slightly, her lips finding mine in a kiss that tastes of salt and desperation. It’s hesitant at first, then deepens as Flint circles his arm around her waist, pulling her against him too, pressing her between us.

He slides his hand under her sweater to find skin while I fumble open the buttons of her coat.

The wind whips around the glass enclosure, a wild soundtrack to the heat building between us.

Hastily, we shed clothes, discard them on the cold metal floor grating.

Skin meets skin, cool air raising goosebumps despite the friction.

Flint kisses down Briar’s collarbone, his touch proprietary, possessive. I watch them, watch her response, feeling a surge of something dark and possessive myself. I pull her more firmly against me, sliding my hand down her back and pressing her hips into mine.