Page 32

Briar

The morning light filters through the kitchen windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the polished wooden floor.

I’m sitting at the island counter, watching Mrs. Fletcher stress-bake what must be her third batch of muffins.

The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg fills the air, but there’s tension underneath the domestic comfort.

“I just don’t know what to do,” she says, vigorously whisking batter like it personally offended her. “My sister shouldn’t be alone right now, but I can’t leave you here with no one to?—”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” I interrupt gently, “I’m twenty-eight years old. I can manage on my own for a while.” I take a sip of my coffee, wincing at the heat. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not an invalid.”

She gives me a look that suggests she very much disagrees. “Your father would never forgive me if something happened while I was away. ”

My father. Even when he’s not physically here, his presence lingers in every corner of this house. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“My father put me here to recover, and that’s what I’m doing.

” I gesture to myself. “Look—I’m eating regularly, I’m sleeping better, I’m even getting some color back.

” All true, though none of it has anything to do with the island’s healing properties and everything to do with two men who’ve somehow wormed their way into my life.

Into my body.

Into whatever remains of my heart.

The memory of the previous night in the lighthouse sends heat rushing to my face. I take another sip of coffee to hide it.

“You do have more color in your cheeks,” Mrs. Fletcher says, pouring batter into muffin tins.

“But still, I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone in this big house.

” She glances out the window with a worried frown.

“Especially lately with those men tramping all over the property. It’s not right. ”

A chill runs through me. She doesn’t know the half of it.

Viktor’s men have been less visible this past week, but they’re still out there, watching, searching.

The local police came and went, finding nothing, just as we’d planned, but Viktor isn’t giving up.

Damiano spotted two of his guys at the edge of the property only yesterday.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, remaining steady. “ I promise to keep the doors locked and the alarm set. No one’s getting in here without me knowing.”

She slides the muffin tin into the oven with more force than necessary. “At least call your father. He’s been asking about you, and I’m tired of being the go-between.”

I grimace. Maxwell Waters and I have managed to limit our communication to brief text messages since I arrived on the island—enough to assure him I’m still alive, and not enough to actually connect.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll call him today, if it makes you feel better about going to your sister.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you. That would ease my mind, and I could be back in a week or two, depending on how she’s doing.”

“Take as long as you need,” I tell her, meaning it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

We’re interrupted by the grumble of a lawnmower starting up outside.

I glance out the window and see Damiano pushing the old mower across the side lawn.

He’s wearing a faded black tank top that clings to his frame, and his arms flex with each movement, the tattoos visible from even this distance, dark patterns against his tanned skin.

My mouth goes dry, and I force myself to look away.

“That boy works too hard,” Mrs. Fletcher says, following my gaze. “Always here at dawn, leaves after dark. Never takes a day off.”

I make a noncommittal sound, trying not to think about exactly what kind of “work” Damiano was doing last night.

“I’ve left meals prepared in the freezer,” Mrs. Fletcher continues, evidently oblivious to my wandering thoughts. “Just heat them up when you’re hungry. And there’s a list of emergency numbers on the refrigerator.”

“Perfect,” I say, dragging my attention back to her. “I promise not to burn the house down or throw any more wild parties.”

She gives me a stern look, but there’s fondness beneath it. “See that you don’t. Your father would have my head.”

My father again. Always looming over everything.

“I’ll call him right now.” I pull out my phone. “Get it over with.”

Mrs. Fletcher nods approvingly and busies herself with cleaning the kitchen while I step outside onto the terrace, phone in hand.

I hesitate for a moment before dialing, watching Damiano work his way methodically across the lawn.

When he meets my gaze, even from that distance, I feel it like a physical touch.

My father answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dad.” I lean against the stone balustrade, keeping my eyes on Damiano. “Mrs. Fletcher said you’ve been asking about me.”

“Oh.” There’s a rustling of papers in the background. Always working. “Yes, well. Haven’t heard much from you lately.”

I can hear the distraction in his voice. “I’ve been resting. That was the whole point of sending me here, right?”

He clears his throat. “Of course. I just... worry. Your condition?—”

“Is stable,” I cut him off, watching as Damiano turns off the mower and moves toward the edge of the woods. What’s he doing? “The island air agrees with me. I’m feeling better.”

“Good, good.” He sounds distracted, like his mind is already moving on to his next meeting. I can picture him in his Seattle office, one eye on his computer screen. “Keep up with your medication regimen.”

“Always do,” I say dryly.

“Listen—” A pause as he presumably checks his calendar. “About the wedding plans...”

“How is Melissa?” I ask, more to be polite than out of any real interest in my father’s fiancée.

“She’s fine. Busy with preparations.” He clears his throat again. “The date is set for September. I was hoping you might want to be involved. If you’re feeling up to it.”

Involved in my father’s wedding to a woman barely older than me? Hard pass.

“We’ll see how I’m feeling closer to the date,” I hedge. “I’m taking things one day at a time right now. ”

Damiano has disappeared into the treeline, a flash of movement catching my eye as he slips between the pines. Curiosity prickles at me.

“Right, of course.” Dad sounds relieved I haven’t committed. “Just... keep me posted on how you’re doing. More than just those two-word texts.”

“Sure,” I promise, distracted by Damiano’s disappearance. “Dad, I should go. Mrs. Fletcher’s calling me for breakfast.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yep.” I end the call before he can drag it out any longer.

I slip my phone into my pocket and head back inside, where Mrs. Fletcher is removing muffins from the oven.

“All good?” she asks, setting the hot tin on a cooling rack.

“All good,” I confirm. “Dad says hi.”

She doesn’t look convinced but nods anyway. “I’m going to pack a few things, then call my sister. I’ll leave after lunch if you’re sure you’ll be all right.”

“Positive,” I assure her.

Once she’s gone upstairs, I grab a muffin despite it being too hot to eat, wrap it in a napkin, and head back outside. The lawnmower sits abandoned near the edge of the property, but there’s no sign of Damiano.

I should leave it alone. Should go back inside, be the good little invalid my father and Mrs. Fletcher expect me to be. But curiosity—or something deeper—pulls me toward the trees where I last saw him.

The forest feels different in daylight, less threatening than the night I ran from Liam. Still, I move cautiously, following a narrow trail winding between the pines. The ground is soft under my feet, covered in pine needles that muffle my steps.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Damiano could be anywhere on the sprawling property, but something tells me to keep going, deeper into the woods, away from the manicured gardens and carefully tended lawn.

The trees grow thicker, the light dimmer as the branches overhead create a natural canopy. I’m about to turn back when I hear it—the sound of a shovel striking earth.

My heart jumps into my throat. Instinctively, I duck behind a wide pine tree, peering around it toward the source of the sound.

In a small clearing ahead, Damiano stands in his tank top, his back to me, digging into the forest floor with methodical precision. Sweat darkens the fabric between his shoulder blades as he works. Beside him is a canvas bag, its contents hidden from my view.

My first panicked thought is of Liam—does Damiano want to move the body?

I step forward, a twig snapping beneath my foot, and Damiano whirls around, shovel raised like a weapon .

“Jesus, Briar,” he exhales when he recognizes me, lowering the shovel. “I could have hurt you.”

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, moving closer, eyes on the freshly turned earth.

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of dirt across his forehead. “Harvesting,” he says simply, nodding toward the bag. “Some of my more... specialized plants grow better away from the gardens. Where people don’t accidentally stumble across them.”

I step closer, peering into the half-dug hole. Sure enough, exposed roots of some kind of plant are visible in the soil. Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous, simply Damiano doing what he does best—tending to green, growing things.

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed now. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just... saw you come into the woods and wondered where you were going.”

His expression softens, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stalking me?” There’s no accusation in his tone, only a gentle teasing.

“Maybe,” I admit.

He sets down the shovel and closes the distance between us, hands coming to rest on my waist. “Last night was...” He seems at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It was.”

“No regrets?” He searches my face.

I shake my head. “None.”

Something in his eyes flickers with relief as I say this. “Good. Because I’d like to do it again. All of it.”